While the English were prosecuting the siege of Calais, and Philip of Valois was preparing to march, when too late, to relieve the town, and while King Edward was rendering his position too strong to be approached even by the boldest of foes, the match between the young Count of Flanders and the Lady Isabel of England continued to excite much interest, and to furnish material for many a dialogue. It was understood that the ideas of the Count of Flanders on the important subject of matrimony had undergone a total change, and that he had become not only reconciled to his fate, but all eagerness for the celebration of a marriage to which he had formerly expressed such a very decided aversion; and preparations were heartily made, on one side at least, for the great event which was to bind Flanders still more closely to her chief commercial ally. No expense was spared. The King of England provided rich gifts of cloths and jewels to distribute on the wedding-day, and the queen was similarly employed, as she was anxious to acquit herself on the occasion with honour and generosity.
In the meantime the Count of Flanders had returned to his own country, and at Ghent he was residing under the eye of his somewhat imperious subjects. But he was no longer a captive, nor even an object of jealousy. Not only had he done what they wished, but he talked in such a way as highly to gratify them. He professed to be much pleased at everything which, at their instance, he had done—pleased with the English match, and also with his prospective bride; and he declared that the alliance with England was perfectly agreeable to him, in such terms that they, believing all he said, refrained fromkeeping any strict watch over him, and left him to pursue his sports without let or hindrance.
Now, as I have before said, the Count of Flanders was marvellously fond of hawking, and seldom allowed a day to pass without indulging in his favourite sport. With him it was not pursued merely as a recreation, as with most princes, but it was a passion. No one was surprised, therefore, when one day in the week in which he was to receive the hand of the English princess, he mounted his horse and fared forth, as usual, with a slight attendance; which was rather a train than a guard, and with a falconer by his side, each with a hawk on his wrist, made for the fields outside the city.
No sooner did the party enter the fields in search of game than a heron rose. The falconer immediately flew his hawk, and the count, having done likewise, pretended to be absorbed in calculating the probable result. Watching the birds attentively as they pursued their game, and shouting "Hoye! hoye!" he followed them at a gallop till he was at some distance from his attendants, and deliberately put in execution a project he had formed for making his escape.
Fortunately for the count, not the slightest suspicion was entertained that he any longer felt discontented with his position, and his attendants ascribed his gallop to his ardour for hawking. No sooner, however, did he gain the open field, than he struck spurs into his horse, went off at a pace which set pursuit at defiance, and pursued his way without stopping till he reached the county of Artois, and knew that all danger of being captured was past.
But the Count of Flanders did not linger in Artois. Forward to the court of France, where his heart had ever been, went he joyfully, and chuckled with glee as he related to Philip of Valois all that had happened.
"You have acted wisely, cousin," said Philip. "As for your betrothal, heed it not. A forced contract is of no avail; and for the rest, I will ally you otherwise, and more to your honour and profit."
So spake Philip of Valois; but not so spake the warriors of England, when the Flemings, enraged and mortified,came to Calais with tidings of their count's escape, and with befitting excuses to the English king.
"Shame upon the dog of a Fleming!" cried every one; "he has deceived and betrayed us."
"It is true," said the king, more calmly than might have been expected. "Nevertheless," added he, "we must not blame the Flemings, who are our friends; but we are bound to cultivate their friendship in spite of what has happened on this occasion; for what has happened has not been with their consent or connivance. On the contrary, they are much, and justly, enraged with their count's conduct."
And so King Edward accepted the excuses of the Flemings, and the matter ended; and, ere twelve months passed over, the Lady Isabel learned that her runaway bridegroom had espoused the daughter of the Duke of Brabant.
Melancholy, I must confess, it was on that memorable August day, even in the eyes of the conquerors of Calais, to see the citizens expelled from the homes which hitherto they had called their own, and compelled to wander forth, not knowing whither they went. Nor with them did they carry aught to aid them in forming new settlements. Everything they possessed was left behind; and, atoning for their fidelity to Philip of Valois by the loss of wealth and goods, as well as houses and heritage, men, women, and children, of various ages and conditions, passed, weeping, through the opened gates, to seek among strangers for new abodes and new friends.
All who witnessed their departure commiserated their hard fate. Even King Edward, albeit exasperated at the Calesians, must, in his heart, have deplored the stern necessity under the influence of which he acted. But, as I have said, the king had expressed his determination to repeople Calais with English, and so thoroughly was his mind made up on the subject, that nothing could haveturned him from the plan he had formed for securing his conquest to England, and making it advantageous to Englishmen.
In order to contribute to the result which he contemplated, the king gave to Sir Walter Manny and the Earl of Warwick, and other lords and knights, very handsome houses in Calais, that they might aid him in the work, and intimated his resolution to lose no time in doing his part.
"Immediately on reaching England," said the king, "I will hasten to send hither a number of substantial citizens, with all their wealth, and exert myself in such a manner that the inhabitants shall be wholly English. Not even a dog not of English breed should remain in the city if I could help it."
At the same time the king gave orders for dismantling the temporary town and fortifications which he had raised during the siege, and also the great castle which he had erected in the harbour. Having done this, and repaired the gates and walls, he took such measures for guarding the gates and defending the walls as he deemed essential to the security of the town, and then flattered himself that he had nothing more to fear.
"Nothing," said he, "save treachery from within, could now deprive me of this town, which has cost me so much time and money to gain; and to provide at once against treachery, I intend to appoint as its governor a man in whose perception and fidelity I have full confidence."
Accordingly, the king appointed to the important post of Governor of Calais a Lombard, named Aymery de Pavie, whom he had brought up from youth, whom he had greatly befriended, whom he had highly promoted, and who was destined to requite so many favours with the very blackest ingratitude.
It was a grave mistake on the king's part, I must admit, to appoint an avaricious Lombard to such a post; and he well-nigh atoned for his misplaced confidence by the loss of a conquest which he was so proud to have made, and which any king might have been proud to make. But in the meantime everything seemed fair, and Aymery de Pavie received the keys of Calais from the royal conquerorwith the air of a man who was incapable of thinking a dishonourable thought. However, there were then Englishmen and warriors of fame in Calais who had little faith in the Lombard's honesty, and who murmured that, in trusting a foreigner so much, the king was showing less than his wonted sagacity. None, however, ventured to speak, save in a whisper, on a subject so delicate, and not an echo of what was said ever reached the king's ears.
Meanwhile, many men—both English and French—were tired of the war, and talking about "peace;" and Pope Clement, in the exercise of his discretion, deemed it a fitting time to interfere. Before the surrender of Calais, indeed, and ere yet Philip of Valois had left the Calesians to their hard fate, the Pope had sent two cardinals to make an effort atnegociatinga peace. But Edward would listen to no terms likely to interfere with his gaining possession of Calais; and the cardinals, after wasting three days in a fruitless attempt atnegociation, gave up the business in despair, and returned to Avignon.
But Clement did not abandon his design. No sooner, indeed, did the Pope learn that Edward had gained his object—in so far as Calais was concerned—than he resolved on renewing his attempt to terminate the war. With this object he sent into France, as his ambassador, the Cardinal Guy of Boulogne, who, meeting Philip of Valois at Amiens, exercised all his tact and skill to induce the vanquished prince to agree to a peace on practicable terms, and then appeared at Calais to try his powers of persuasion on the King of England.
At first the cardinal had not much reason to congratulate himself on the success of hisnegociations. His mission, in fact, was one of great difficulty; for Philip hated Edward's name as death, and Edward's contempt for Philip was by no means so slight as to be easily concealed. But the cardinal comprehended his own position and theirs, and felt sure that he would succeed in the end.
And so, indeed, it came to pass. Both parties, after reflecting deliberately, arrived at the conclusion that, for the time being, at least, they had had enough of the war. The English were—as well they might be—contentedwith the victories they had won, and anxious to return to their homes; the French, depressed and disheartened with defeat and disaster, were the reverse of eager to continue a struggle in which they instinctively felt they were almost certain to have the worst.
Such being the circumstances in his favour, the cardinal persevered, and, with so skilful a mediator as Guy of Boulogne whispering into their ears, both Philip of Valois and King Edward began gradually to listen more earnestly to his representations and his counsels.
At length the cardinal's endeavours were, in some degree, rewarded, and he had the gratification of bringing the rivals to consent to a truce for two years. On the 28th of September, 1347, the truce was signed with all due form, and the King and Queen of England, with the Prince of Wales and the Lady Isabel, embarked for England. The squires and pages of the prince prepared to follow more leisurely.
And on reaching England, where he met with a boisterous welcome, King Edward did not forget to neglect his scheme of repeopling Calais. Forthwith he adopted measures for putting it into execution. Thirty-six citizens of worth and substance, with their wives and families, were sent, in all haste, to inhabit the conquered town, and others speedily followed in large numbers, so that in manners, and customs, and language, Calais differed little from any town in England.
And, as time passed on, the temptation to cross the narrow seas became every year stronger. In fact, King Edward was all anxiety to see Calais prosper and grow rich under his rule; and he, to stimulate its trade, so multiplied the privileges of the English colonists, that adventurous Englishmen flocked eagerly to it as the place where, of all others in Europe, industry was best rewarded, and where fortunes were most easily gained.
It was the evening of Saturday, the 16th of October, 1347—the day preceding that which was the anniversary of the battle of Neville's Cross—and Calais was about to be left to the keeping of Aymery de Pavie and the garrison with which he had been furnished to guard the town against any attempt to recover it by force or stratagem.
Next day the squires and pages of the Prince of Wales were to embark; and I, by no means sorry to exchange the dulness of the conquered town for Westminster and Windsor, was seated, in solitude, in one of the chambers of the castle appropriated to the prince's household, reflecting on the events of a twelvemonth which, assuredly, had been somewhat eventful, and endeavouring, with juvenile enthusiasm, to anticipate what the coming year would bring forth, when I was suddenly aroused from my reverie by the sound of light footsteps, and, looking up with a start, I found that a woman of tall and elegant form was before me.
I rose mechanically, and, as in duty bound, bent my head with all the respect which an apprentice of chivalry owes to the sex which he has solemnly sworn to serve, and protect, and defend. But I did so with very peculiar feelings. In truth, though my visitor was closely veiled, I had an instinctive belief that the figure was not wholly unknown to me, and that it was associated with memories the reverse of agreeable. I had no time, however, to recall circumstances, or to speculate on probabilities, for, without delay, she raised her veil, and looked me full in the face; and, as she did so, I recognised, with astonishment, the woman whom I had seen on the night of my mysterious adventure at Caen.
I started again, and this time as if an adder had stung me; but I rapidly remembered the resolutions I had formed as to that memorable occasion; and, quickly recovering my serenity, I motioned her to a seat, resumed mine, and spoke first.
"Methinks, madam," said I, in a significant tone, "we have met before."
"It is true," she replied, without evincing the slightest agitation. "But it is not of our having met that I would speak. So far as that meeting is concerned, let bygones be bygones, and let us speak of something of more importance to you—mayhap, also, to me. It is meet that you should know I have on my mind what deeply concerns you, and therefore am I here."
"Gramercy for the interest you show in me, madam," exclaimed I calmly. "I would fain hope, however, that what you have to say may be spoken without my drinking to strengthen my heart against failing during the narrative; for, on my faith, I cannot but deem that wine drunk in your presence becomes wondrously intoxicating."
And I looked at my fair visitor with an air of superiority; for, in truth, I felt, at the moment, that I could not twice be deluded by the same person. Nevertheless, she was utterly unmoved, and, after a pause, resumed.
"A truce to jesting, young sir," said she, "and listen to me with attention, for know that I am in possession of that secret which, of all others, you desire to gain possession of—I mean the secret of your birth."
I felt my heart beat tumultuously, and my blood flow quicker through my veins, as she spoke; but, still remembering Caen, and resolved not to give way to excitement, I restrained myself, as I often in my day have done a too-eager steed, and answered calmly.
"Mayhap," said I, "this secret is, after all, of small value; and to me—as you may suppose—it every day has become, and will become, of less value."
"And wherefore, young sir?"
"It is in obscurity," continued I, "that men ponder and most perplex themselves with such points, and rear castles in imagination. Now, in my case, life is all action and ambition. Boy as I am, I have placed my foot firmly on the ladder of life, and I neither fear to climb nor doubt my strength so to do; and what other inspiration does a man want than the consciousness of brave deeds and duties faithfully performed?"
"It is bravely spoken," said she, without change oftone or countenance; "and yet, could you guess all that my tongue could tell, you would not speak of the consequence so lightly."
"Now, by all the saints!" exclaimed I, losing patience, and with it all command of my temper, "wherefore, woman, tantalise me thus? If you know aught that relates to my birth—be it good or bad—speak, and I will listen; or, if you will not speak frankly, cease to tempt my curiosity with vague hints, which ever elude the grasp of my comprehension, as the rainbow eludes the grasp of the child."
"Be patient," said she, "and, in this far, I will explain. The secret, as I tell you, is in my possession, but as yet it is not mine to tell—it is another's. When my mother was on her death-bed, she committed it to me with her latest breath; but, as it concerns one greater than my mother, it cannot be told till Death has claimed that personage as his prey. Nay, interrupt me not," she continued, as my impatience was on the point of breaking forth in words; "when that event happens—and ere long it must happen—I will seek you out and find you, no matter whether you are in court, or camp, or even in prison; for I also have an interest in the truth being known, and more closely than you fancy are our fates linked together."
"You are mysterious," remarked I with a sneer, for I was greatly disappointed at the result of the communication; and, albeit my curiosity was sharpened, and my imagination excited, I recovered, outwardly at least, my calm demeanour.
"Ha!" exclaimed she, in a tone which indicated that she was offended at my sneer, "it seems that you are somewhat incredulous of my statement. Peradventure, you will give more credit to my words when I give you a token you cannot mistake. I tell you that a mark was set upon you in the cradle, which you are likely to carry to the grave."
I raised my head in silent curiosity.
"Yes," she continued, "it appears on your right shoulder, and is the form of a lion."
Now I could no longer doubt that this woman, whom I had met under circumstances which were assuredly notcalculated to give her a favourable place in my opinion, really knew something, more or less, of the tragedy connected with my birth, and, in some measure, had my fate in her hands; and the idea that my future, as it were, should be in any degree dependent on one who had conspired against my liberty, if not my life, was not only perplexing, but overwhelming. In my agitation, I rose and walked to the casement, hoping to calm my thoughts by looking out upon the clear October night. In this position I rapidly regained my equanimity, and that kind of mental energy which enables us to form resolutions.
"By St. George and St. Cuthbert, under whose patronage I have fought against my country's foes," I exclaimed, with a sudden gleam of hope, "this woman cannot be without a heart. I will appeal to her humanity to tell me as much, at least, of what relates to this secret as may enable me to penetrate the rest. Nor do we now part till I have proved whether or not prayers and intreaties will open her lips to satisfy me in respect of the rank which my father held."
But in this attempt I was not to have the satisfaction of succeeding. When I turned round, the woman stood facing me, with her veil still raised, and an earnest expression on her countenance.
"Lady," said I imploringly, "I pray you to tell me frankly who you are, and how you happen to know more of my affairs than I myself know."
"Ask not now," replied she, "who I am, or whence I come, or whither I go. In good time you shall learn all. But," continued she, "hearken to what I have to say, and, in whatever light you regard me, disregard not the words I now speak. I am an Englishwoman, I have an English heart, and I would fain impart by your agency a warning to England's king, to whom I and mine have been beholden. Let King Edward, I say, beware! or the prize on which he so highly prides himself will escape his grasp. Already treachery is at work. Calais is sold for French gold; and if the king looks not to its security, and that right early, Calais will, ere long, be in the hands of his foes."
At this startling intelligence I bent my head, and mused for a few moments as to its probability. WhenI again looked up, my visitor was gone. I followed instantly, but still too late; she had disappeared. My curiosity, however, was so highly excited that I rushed on, and meeting Robert Salle—who was then attached as a squire to Aymery de Pavie, and who, being one of the strongest and handsomest Englishmen of his day, afterwards, though merely the son of a mason, acquired great renown for his ability and courage, and took knighthood from King Edward's own hand—arrested his steps.
"Sir squire," asked I hastily, "marked you any woman pass this way?"
"Assuredly," answered he, much marvelling at my excitement, "Eleanor de Gubium did pass—she whom men call the fairest English-woman in Calais."
"And who," inquired I eagerly, "may this Eleanor de Gubium be when in her own country?"
"Beshrew me if I can tell," replied the squire; "only this is certain," added he with a smile, "that she is one of whom my lord the governor is so enamoured that men say she has bewitched him; and he commits to her the innermost secrets of his heart."
"You mean Sir Aymery de Pavie?" said I, more agitated than ever.
"Surely none other," he replied curtly. "Who else than Sir Aymery de Pavie should I mean? I trow there is but one Governor of Calais."
Much marvelling at the unexpected warning I had so strangely received, and attaching the more importance to the communication the longer I considered the matter, I felt, after long reflection, that I should not be by any means justified in locking it up in my own breast and keeping it to myself.
It was true, and I felt strongly, that I could not, under the circumstances, tell a very satisfactory story; for Eleanor de Gubium had been mysterious, and I somewhat dreadedthe ridicule to which my narrative of her visit might expose me, even if it did not involve me in more unfortunate consequences. But from childhood my grandsire had impressed on me the necessity of doing what I perceived to be my duty at all hazards; and no sooner was I in England than I hastened to the palace of Westminster, where the king was then holding his court, and, seeking out the Prince of Wales, told plainly to him what had been told to me.
I quickly perceived that my story made no impression on the mind of the prince, and that he considered I had been fooled by a mad woman or by an impostor. At first, indeed, he was inclined to laugh to scorn the idea of Calais being in danger; but, on second thoughts, he intimated his intention of communicating my statement to the king; and when, without delay, he did so, the result was not what he seemed to expect. Not so lightly did King Edward treat the matter as the prince had done. Far from despising or neglecting the warning, he summoned me to his presence, questioned me closely, though more courteously than was his wont in such cases, as to the particulars of my story, and, by his manner and words, indicated his conviction that there was treachery at work which must be defeated.
"On my faith," said the king, bending his brow and shaking his head, "this must be looked to, and that speedily; and, seeing that no man is so likely as Aymery de Pavie to know what is passing in Calais, he must be ordered to cross the seas and come hither without loss of time."
"Sire," said I, beginning to be alarmed at the serious aspect the affair was assuming, "I crave pardon of your highness when I beg you to bear in mind that I have cast suspicion on no man, but merely related what was said to me."
"You have done what was your duty," replied the king somewhat sternly, "and well will it be for others if they can prove that they have done theirs."
And now not an hour was lost in despatching a messenger to Calais; and, with all possible speed, Aymery de Pavie, in obedience to the king's command, came toEngland, and made his appearance at the palace of Westminster.
Not having the least idea, however, of the nature of the business on which he had been summoned to England, and aware of the high favour which he had hitherto enjoyed at the English court, the Lombard entered the royal presence with perfect confidence, and, having bent his knee, stood calmly awaiting the king's commands.
"Ha, Sir Aymery! Sir Aymery!" said the king, taking the Lombard aside, "wot you what was the response of the oracle of Delphi, when consulted by a king of the olden times, known as Philip of Macedon, on the best way of carrying on war?"
"Sire, I know not," answered the Lombard, with a smile.
"Well, Sir Aymery," continued the king, "it was, if I remember aright, to make gold his weapon, and he would conquer all. Moreover, the advice proved most advantageous to his affairs, and he afterwards owned that he had taken more towns with money than with arms; that he never forced a gate till after having tried to open it with a golden key; and that he did not deem any fortress impregnable into which a mule laden with treasure could find entrance."
"Sire," said the Lombard, slightly colouring, and beginning to give way to agitation, "of all this I was ignorant."
"I doubt it not, Sir Aymery," resumed the king—"I doubt it not; but I imagine that such is not the case with Philip of Valois. In truth, it seems to me that my adversary has bethought him, in his troubles, of the response of the oracle, and determined to try the system pursued with such success by his namesake of Macedon. What say you, Sir Aymery?"
The Lombard was silent with surprise and consternation, and appeared to tremble and gasp for breath.
"Answer me, sir," said the king sternly. "Deem you my words but idle air?"
"Sire," replied the Lombard, with a last desperate effort not to betray himself, "I am in all things yours to command."
"By St. George and my grandsire's sword! and so, methinks, you ought, if you knew more of gratitude than the name, Sir Aymery," exclaimed the king angrily. "I brought you up from a child; I showed you much favour; and I entrusted to you what I hold dearest in the world, save my wife and children—I mean the town and castle of Calais; and, to requite all my kindness, you have sold them to the French. Now for this, I say, you deserve death."
At this stage the Lombard suddenly drew energy from the excess of his despair, and, flinging himself on his knees, raised his hands in supplication.
"Ah, gentle king," cried he, "for God's sake have mercy upon me! All that you have said is very true. I confess that I have entered into a treaty with the French to deliver up Calais for twenty thousand crowns; but, as it was not to be fulfilled till December, and I have not received a single penny, there is still time to break the bargain."
"Mayhap, Sir Aymery," said the king; "nevertheless, no punishment could be too severe for your ingratitude and the treachery you have meditated; and, were Philip of Valois in my place, he would send you straight to the gallows. But do as I bid, and I promise that your life shall be spared. Nay, speak not, but listen. It is my wish that you continue this treaty; that you say nothing of my having discovered your treason; and that you inform me of the day on which you engage to deliver up Calais."
"Sire, I will obey you in all things," cried the Lombard, inspired with feelings similar to those that animate the heart of a man suddenly rescued from the danger of being swallowed up in the sea.
"Well, then," added the king, "on these conditions I promise you my pardon, and, that you may earn it, your first duty is to return to your post at Calais, to keep the nature of our interview secret, even from the wild winds, and, on peril of your life, not again to be false to me for a moment, even in your thoughts."
"Sire," said the Lombard earnestly, "I swear on my soul, to handle the business so that it shall turn out wholly for your advantage."
From the first hour of my arrival at Westminster, after returning from Calais, I had naturally been eager to visit my grandsire's homestead, of which, in the midst of battles and sieges, I had often dreamt pleasant dreams when stretched at rest on a foreign soil. But I felt, in some degree, responsible for the warning I had brought to England as to Calais being in peril; and during the time that elapsed between my communication to the Prince of Wales and the arrival of Aymery de Pavie I did not deem myself quite at liberty to leave the palace. No sooner, however, did I ascertain this much, at least, that the result of the Lombard's interview with the king had justified my intelligence, than I asked, and obtained, permission to repair, for a brief period, to the scene of my childhood.
Resolving to set out betimes next day, I availed myself of the interval to proceed to the Falcon, and hear such tidings of my kinsfolk as Thomelin of Winchester could impart. As I left the courtyard of the palace in a joyous mood, I encountered Lord De Ov, who was entering on horseback and with high feudal pride; and again he eyed me with a display of malice which renewed all the perplexity which his conduct had so frequently created in my mind.
"Why, in the name of all the saints, has this haughty young lord selected me, of all people, as the object of his hatred?" I asked myself for the hundredth time, and continued to question myself in vain, as I strode along the bush-grown Strand, and made for Gracechurch.
On reaching the Falcon, I found, to my disappointment, that Thomelin of Winchester was not at his hostelry, and, on inquiring more closely, I learned, somewhat to my alarm, that he had been summoned by my grandsire some days earlier, that he had set out in haste, and that he had not returned. Musing over this intelligence, and by nomeans in so joyous a mood as that in which I left Westminster, I was issuing from the Falcon, when a small body of horse halted at the door; and, looking up, I, by the twilight, recognised in their leader no less memorable a man than my Northern friend, John Copeland, now a knight banneret, and famous for his adventure with the King of Scots.
I doffed my bonnet as I made the discovery, and held the knight's stirrup as he dismounted from his strong steed.
"Ha, master page!" cried he, recognising me in turn, "you have not come North to try your prowess against the Scots, as I asked you. Nevertheless, we have met again."
"Even so, sir knight," I replied frankly. "And yet, to tell the truth, if I have refrained from coming North, it was not from any expectation of seeing you in the South, considering the high duties you are now called on to perform."
"And wherefore should you see me not in the South, boy?" asked Copeland. "Deem you," added he, not concealing the pride he felt in his elevation, "that the king, when he comes home, hath nothing to say to a man whom he trusts to hold such posts as Warden of Berwick, and Governor of the Castle of Roxburgh?"
"Nay, on my faith," replied I, laughing, "far be it from me to hazard any such assertion. Rather let me give you joy of your prosperous fortunes."
"Thanks, master page; and mayhap—as men, whether young or old, are ever envious—you would like to add that prosperity is not always a proof of merit. But be that as it may, I will, in this hostelry, rest my long limbs for a while ere I proceed to Westminster, and gladly drink a cup with thee for the sake of old acquaintance."
I accepted the invitation, and without delay we were seated and quaffing the wine of Bordeaux in the guest-room of the Falcon.
"Beshrew me, boy!" remarked Copeland, looking at me keenly as he raised his cup to his lips and took a long draught, "it grieves me to perceive that, young as youare, you have the marks of care on your face. What ails you?"
"I can scarce tell," replied I sadly; "but this I know—that, one short hour since, my heart was light and merry as the month of May."
"And what has since happened to sadden your brow?" asked he kindly.
"More than one thing has happened to discompose me; for, in truth, to be frank with you, I met, as I came hither, a young lord, of whom I know little, save that he is mine enemy, and that his hate seems as bitter as it is causeless. Now, as I wish to live in charity with all men, if I could, I own that, had I no other cause for sadness, this alone would vex my spirit."
"Of whom speak you?" asked Copeland, with unveiled curiosity.
"Of the young Lord De Ov," answered I.
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the Northernman.
"What?" asked I; "know you aught of him?"
"Ay," answered Copeland slowly and grimly, "more, by St. John of Beverley! than he would care to hear; but nothing, I own, to enable me to guess why he should bear malice towards such as you."
"But what know you of him?" asked I eagerly.
"This, at least," replied Copeland in a low tone, "that he feels his seat less soft than a bed of down, and that his temper is severely tried at times."
"In what way?" asked I.
"Why, simply because men say—or, at least, whisper, if they dare not say it aloud—that he is not the true heir of the barons whose titles he bears and whose lands he possesses. But you must have heard something of the story?"
"Not a whisper," said I. "I pray you relate it. I am all attention."
"I will relate it," said Copeland; "but understand, master page, that what I say is under the rose: it is not safe to speak freely of the great."
"Credit me, sir knight, you are safe with me," exclaimed I firmly; "I am incapable of betraying any man's confidence."
"Well, then," began Copeland, "you must know that, in the year 1330, soon after King Edward—the second of the name—was cruelly murdered in Berkeley Castle—for a cruel murder it was—Isabel the queen and Roger de Mortimer, with whom Queen Isabel was deemed much too familiar, held sway in the country."
"I have heard that such was the case," said I.
"At that time," continued Copeland, "rumours, which assuredly were false, ran about to the effect that King Edward was still alive, and that he was a prisoner in Corfe Castle; and a conspiracy, in which many good men took part, was formed to restore him to liberty."
"Even so," said I; "of this I have heard vaguely."
"At the head of that conspiracy," continued Copeland, "was Edmund, Earl of Kent, the young king's uncle, who, believing his brother to be still alive, rashly went to Corfe Castle, and asked the governor of the fortress to conduct him to Sire Edward; for which indiscretion he was tried at Winchester and executed."
"I have heard that sad tale," said I, interrupting; "how the earl's sentence caused such indignation that even the headsman declined to do his office; how he remained four hours on the scaffold before any one could be found to enact the part of executioner; and how, finally, a malefactor from the Marshalsea, on being bribed with a promise of pardon, undertook to behead him."
"It was even as you relate it," said Copeland, resuming; "and it happened that one of the men of rank engaged in the conspiracy of which the Earl of Kent was head, was Edward, Lord De Ov, a brave warrior, whose wife was a daughter of the house of Merley. Now, it was generally considered that this Lord De Ov—who, I may mention, was marvellously skilful in those chivalrous tricks which you, and striplings like you, value so highly—might have escaped to France, as the Lord Viscount Beaumont and others did about the same time, and lived, like them, to return to England in happier days; but, unluckily for his chances of escape, he had a younger brother named Roger, who, from base motives, betrayed him. So, instead of getting off, he was taken, while lurkingon the coast, carried to Winchester, and hanged in that city on a high gibbet."
"My curse on the brother who could be guilty of such treachery!" exclaimed I, my blood boiling with indignation.
"But," continued Copeland, heedless of my interruption, "this was not all. Edward, Lord De Ov, had a wife and infant son; and for Roger's purpose it was necessary to make away with them also; and accordingly the widow was decoyed away by Margery, one of the queen's gentlewomen, who pretended that she had been sent for by her husband, and, carrying with her the infant son, left her husband's castle at Winchester. For years neither mother nor son was heard of. At length, however, they were reputed to have died, and corpses, said to be theirs, were brought North, and buried in the chapel of the castle; and Roger De Ov became lord of all. But Roger soon after pined and died; and, when he went the way of all flesh, his son, who is now lord, succeeded to his feudal power. But men still say that, somewhere or other, the widow and son of Edward, Lord De Ov, yet live, and that one day or other there will be an overturn; and now you comprehend wherefore my lord sits less easy in his seat than he might otherwise, do, and how there may be people living whose demands put his temper to the test."
"Assuredly," said I, "the story is sufficiently plain, albeit involving a mystery."
"And, if I mistake not," remarked Copeland significantly, "there are at least two people alive who could clear that mystery up to satisfaction."
"Who may they be?" asked I.
"One," answered he in a whisper, "is no less a personage than Isabel the queen, now residing, in gentle captivity, at Castle Rising."
"And the other?" I inquired eagerly, for my curiosity was by this time excited.
"The other," answered he, "is a person of fewer years and lesser rank than Queen Isabel. She is daughter of a Northern squire who was an honest man, and mine own kinsman, and married the queen's gentlewoman of whomI spake. I cast my eyes by chance on the damsel when in the camp before Calais, and recognised her in an instant. Nay, more, I made enquiries, and learned that her beauty exercised enormous influence over the heart of Aymery de Pavie, and that her threats exercised as much over the conduct of Lord De Ov, insomuch that one did as she liked from love, and the other from fear."
I involuntarily uttered an exclamation of surprise, and my agitation was so great that it well-nigh got the better of my discretion and of all the resolutions I had formed. However, I regained my equanimity, and calmly renewed the conversation.
"And what name bears this wondrous demoiselle, sir knight? by what name is she known?" asked I, with what coolness I could command.
"The demoiselle is known by the name of Eleanor de Gubium," was Copeland's reply.
My imagination, such as it was, completely got the better of what reasoning faculty I possessed as Copeland concluded, and, having accompanied him to Westminster with a brain on fire, I never slept that night. I persuaded myself, in the absence of all evidence, that I was the victim of a monstrous piece of injustice; I walked about my chamber like an enraged lion pacing its cage, and I grew feverish with impatience for the break of day. Early next morning, while the palace was still hushed in repose, I was on horseback, and on the way to my grandsire's homestead.
As I rode along I strove to collect my thoughts and to prepare myself for the anticipated interview with those whose faces I had of late so often and so earnestly longed to behold. But my efforts to recover calmness were in vain. Within twelve short hours my whole ideas had undergone a change. Copeland's Northern voice stillrang in my ears; his tragic story occupied my mind; my imagination ever and anon conjured up the probability of its being a matter in which I had both part and lot, and rapidly converted probability into certainty; and all sentiments of tenderness for home and kindred gave way before my intense desire to penetrate the mystery which I fancied was now illumined by a ray of light.
"Ere sunset," I exclaimed to myself in a tone of exultation, "I shall learn all that concerns me, or know the reason why."
A long journey, as I must have felt, lay before me. But no consideration of the kind influenced me even so far as to make me spare the good steed I bestrode. On I spurred, as if the Furies had been behind, and Paradise before. But, fast as went my steed, faster still flew my thoughts, and faster than either rushed the warm blood through my veins. I scarce noted anything by the way; and the herdsman driving out his cattle, the waggoner with his team of oxen, the charcoal-burner with his cart, the chapman with his pack-horses, the pilgrim leaning on his staff, and carrying the palm branch to deposit on the altar of his church, made way for me, and stared in silent amaze as I passed, probably fancying me one of those spectre huntsmen of whom legends tell.
As I sped on my way, and entered the great forest of Windsor, a hare crossed my path. Of evil omen such a circumstance is generally regarded, and at another time I might have felt some slight alarm. Now, however, one idea possessed my whole heart and mind; I was in a mood to laugh at omens; and, spurring on and on with hot speed, rousing the deer and the wild cattle, I pursued my way, indifferent to the belling of deer and the bellowing of cattle. At length as the day was speeding on towards noon, I reined up my jaded and exhausted horse as I approached the home of my childhood.
But now, for the first time, my heart misgave me. No longer did the homestead seem to present to my eye the same cheerful aspect as of old—all was silent and melancholy. An instinctive feeling that something was wrong flashed through me, and filled me with sudden fear. I sprang from my steed and rushed to the door, shoutingloudly, and, as I did so, Thomelin of Winchester appeared with a face which confirmed all my fears.
"Alas!" said he, shaking his head, "you have come too late."
I had already guessed all, and was at no loss to interpret his words. The Great Destroyer had visited the homestead, as he was ere long to visit almost every house in the kingdom, and demanded his prey, and both the grey-haired warrior and the melancholy widow had fallen victims to his rapacity.
"What mean you, Thomelin?" asked I wildly, for I scarce knew what I said. "Can it be that my grandsire and my mother are no more?"
"Both," replied Thomelin solemnly. "Both have gone to their long home. May God have mercy on their souls!"
I said "Amen" and crossed myself devoutly as Thomelin spoke; but even at that moment, which was sad and bitter, the idea uppermost in my thoughts was that which for hours had been presenting itself in such a variety of forms.
"And the secret of my birth, good Thomelin," said I, taking his hand, "know you anything certain as to that?"
"Nothing certain, as I live," answered he earnestly. "Only of this I am, and have ever been, well assured, that Adam of Greenmead was not your grandsire, nor was your mother kinswoman of mine."
"And who, then, was my mother?" I demanded.
"Nay, that is more than I could tell, if both our lives depended on my so doing," he replied. "Whatever the secret, it has perished with those who kept it so faithfully."
I uttered a groan, and well-nigh sank under my mortification.
"In truth, Thomelin," murmured I, "you were right in saying that I had come too late. But God's will be done!"
At the time when Aymery de Pavie unworthily figured as governor of the town and castle of Calais, Geoffrey de Chargny, a French knight of high distinction, was stationed at St. Omer by Philip of Valois to defend the frontier against the English.
Now, it occurred, not altogether unnaturally, to Geoffrey de Chargny, that, as the Lombards are by nature avaricious, Aymery de Pavie might, with a little art, be bribed to surrender Calais; and when, albeit it was a time of truce, he, without scruple, made the experiment, he succeeded so well in hisnegociationsthat the Lombard executed a secret treaty, whereby, proving false to the King of England, he covenanted to deliver the stronghold into the French knight's hands, on condition of receiving, as a reward for his perfidy, the sum of twenty thousand crowns.
So far the project seemed to prosper; and, even after Aymery de Pavie returned from England, all went so smoothly that De Chargny considered that he had reason to congratulate himself on his skill, and to entertain no doubt of final success. In fact, the Lombard appeared all anxiety to bring the business to a successful issue, and appointed the last day of the year for fulfilling the treaty.
Everything having been thus arranged, at the close of December, Geoffrey de Chargny, dreaming sanguinely of the elevation to which he believed his exploit was to raise him in the eyes of his countrymen and his country's foes, left St. Omer at the head of a formidable force, and, accompanied by Sir Odoart de Renty, Sir Eustace de Ribeaumont, and many other knights of fame, marched towards Calais, and, halting near the bridge of Nieullet just as the old year was expiring, sent forward two squires, on whose sagacity he relied, to confer with the Lombard, and ascertain how matters stood.
"Is it time for Sir Geoffrey to advance?" asked the squires.
"It is," was the answer; and, after this brief conference, the squires hastened back to intimate to their leader that the hour for his grand achievement was come.
On hearing what was the answer of the Lombard, De Chargny lost no time. At once he gave orders to advance; and, leaving a strong force of horse and foot to keep the bridge of Nieullet, and posting the crossbowmen whom he had brought from St. Omer and Aire in the plain between the bridge and the town, he sent forward Odoart de Renty, with a hundred men-at-arms, and a bag containing the twenty thousand crowns, to take possession of the castle, and marched forward cautiously, with his banner displayed, to the gate that leads from Calais to Boulogne.
Meanwhile, onward hastened Odoart de Renty; and no sooner did he and his men-at-arms reach the castle than Aymery de Pavie let down the drawbridge, and opened one of the gates to admit them. Without hesitation they entered, and Odoart handed over the bag containing the crowns.
"I suppose they are all here?" said the Lombard, flinging the bag into a room which he locked; "but to count them I have not now time. We must not lose a moment, for presently it will be day. To make matters safe, I will conduct you at once to the great tower, so that you may make yourself master of the castle."
While speaking, Aymery de Pavie advanced in the direction of the great tower of the castle; and, as he pushed back the bolt, the door flew open; but, as Sir Odoart and his comrades found to their horror, it was not to admit them. In fact, the shout that arose from hundreds of voices immediately convinced the French that the business was not to terminate so satisfactorily as they had anticipated, and they began to comprehend that there was a lion in the way.
Nor is it difficult to account for such having been the case. From the day of his return to Calais, Aymery de Pavie, as if to atone for his perfidy, had maintained the promise he had given to the King of England; and Edward was no sooner informed of the night on which, according to the secret treaty, Calais was to be surrenderedto the French, than he prepared to go thither. Taking with him three hundred men-at-arms and six hundred archers, he embarked at Dover with the Prince of Wales and Sir Walter Manny; and, having landed at Calais so privately that hardly a being in the town knew of his arrival, he placed his men in ambuscade in the rooms and towers of the castle.
"Walter," said the king, addressing the brave Manny, "it is my pleasure that you act as the chief of this enterprise, and I and my son will fight, as simple knights, under your banner."
Now the King of England, attended by his son and Sir Walter Manny, posted himself, with two hundred lances, in the great tower to which the Lombard led the French, and no sooner was the door thrown open than they raised the shout of "Manny! Manny to the rescue!" and rushed upon the intruders. Resistance being quite vain, Sir Odoart and his companions yielded themselves prisoners, while the king turned to his son—
"What!" said he scornfully, "do the French dream of conquering Calais with such a handful of men? Now let us mount our horses, form in order of battle, and complete our work."
It was scarcely yet daybreak; and the morning of the 1st of January was intensely cold, as Geoffrey de Chargny, seated on horseback, with his banner displayed and his friends around him, waited patiently at the Boulogne gate to enter and seize Calais.
"By my faith, gentlemen!" said he angrily, "if this Lombard delays much longer opening the gate, we shall all die of cold."
"True," said another knight; "but, in God's name, let us be patient. These Lombards are a suspicious sort of people, and perhaps he is examining your florins to see if there are any bad ones, and to satisfy himself that they are right in number."
At this moment an unexpected spectacle presented itself. The gate suddenly opened, trumpets loudly sounded, and from the town sallied horseman after horseman, armed with sword and battle-axe, and shouting loudly, "St. George for England!" and "Manny to the onslaught!"
"By Heavens!" cried the French in amazement, as many turned to beat a retreat, "we are betrayed!"
"Gentlemen," cried De Chargny, "do not fly; if we fly we lose all."
"By St. George!" shouted the English, who were now close enough to hear, "you speak truth. Evil befall him who thinks of flying!"
"You hear, gentlemen?" said De Chargny. "It will be more advantageous to us to fight valiantly, and the day may be ours."
And as he spoke, the French, at his orders, retreating a little, and dismounting, drove their horses away from them that they might not be trampled on, and formed in close order, with their pikes shortened and planted before them.
On seeing this movement on the part of the French, King Edward halted the banner under which he was, and dismounting, as did the prince, prepared to attack on foot.
"I would have our men drawn up here in order of battle," said he to Sir Walter Manny, "and let a good detachment be sent towards the bridge of Nieullet; for I believe a large body of French to be posted there."
And, the king's orders being passed on without delay, six banners and three hundred archers left the force and made for the bridge.
And now came the tug of war. Advancing with his men on foot, and his son by his side, the king assaulted his foes battle-axe in hand; and sharp and fierce was the encounter as English and French mingled hand to hand and steel to steel. Many were the brave deeds performed in the grey morning, and on both sides the warriors fought with high courage. But, of all the combatants, none displayed more valour and dexterity than the king himself. Fighting incognito under the banner of Manny, and singling out Eustace de Ribeaumont, he maintained with that strong and hardy knight a desperate conflict. Long they fought, the English king with his battle-axe, the French champion with his mighty sword. Twice the king was beaten to his knee, and twice he sprang to his feet to renew the combat. Even after having been separated in the confusion of the battle, they contrivedagain to meet, and again to close in a fierce and resolute conflict.
But, meanwhile, fortune had gone so decidedly against the French that all their hopes vanished. Many were slain. Geoffrey de Chargny and others were taken prisoners; and, when Sir Eustace paused for an instant to look round, he perceived that he stood almost alone amid a host of foes.
"Yield!" said the king. "You are vanquished, and have done all that a brave man could."
"It is true, sir knight," said Sir Eustace, surrendering his sword. "I see that the honour of the day belongs to the English, and I yield myself your prisoner."
While this struggle was taking place at the Boulogne gate, a fierce fight went on at the bridge of Nieullet. In fact, the party of English detached by the king having first attacked the crossbowmen, drove them from the ground with such force that many of them were drowned in the river, and then rushed on the defenders of the bridge. But the knights of Picardy, who kept the bridge, were less easily dealt with than the crossbowmen; and, for a time, they maintained their post with determination, and performed so many gallant actions as to move the envy of their assailants. Their courage, however, was vain; and at length, hard pressed by the English, they mounted their horses, and, pursued by their foes, fled fast away.
It was now broad day, and King Edward, still maintaining his incognito, returned to the castle of Calais, and gave orders that the prisoners taken in the battle should be brought into his presence. Much marvelled the French knights to find that the King of England was among them in person, and much diverted were the English at the amazement expressed by their vanquished adversaries.
"Gentlemen," said the king, raising his hand for silence, "this being New Year's Day, I purpose in the evening to entertain you all at supper, and I hope you will all do honour to the occasion, and make good cheer."
"Sire," said the French knights, bowing low, "you are a noble prince, who know how to honour your enemies as well as your friends."
Accordingly, when the hour for supper arrived, the tables were spread in the castle hall; and the king, bareheaded, but wearing, by way of ornament, a rich chaplet of pearls, seated himself at table, and gathered the captive Frenchmen around him; while the Prince of Wales and the knights of England served up the first course, and waited on the guests.
But this was not all. When supper was over, and when the tables were drawn, the king remained in the hall, and conversed with the prisoners, each in turn, and, while marking his sense of the unfair conduct of Geoffrey de Chargny, he took care to mark, in a manner not to be mistaken, his appreciation of the valour and prowess of Eustace de Ribeaumont.
"Sir Geoffrey," said the king, looking askance at the baffled knight, "I have little reason to love you, as you must know. You wished to seize from me, last night, by stealth, and in the time of truce, what had given me so much trouble to acquire, and cost me such sums of money. But, with God's assistance, we have disappointed you, and I am rejoiced to have caught you thus in your attempt. As for you, Sir Eustace," continued Edward, turning to his vanquished antagonist with a smile on his countenance, "of all the knights in Christendom whom I have ever seen defend himself, or attack an enemy, you are the most valiant. I never yet met in battle any one who, body to body, gave me so much trouble as you have done this day. And," added he, taking off his chaplet, and placing it on the knight's head, "I present you with this chaplet as being the best combatant of the day, either within or without the walls; and I beg you to wear it this year for love of me. I know that you are lively, and that you love the company of ladies and damsels; therefore, wherever you go, say that I gave it to you. I also grant you your liberty free of ransom, and you may set out to-morrow, if you please, and go whither you will."
Such was the result of Geoffrey de Chargny's project for gratifying Philip of Valois by gaining possession of Calais.
My excitement, which for many hours before I reached the homestead, where I came just in time to hear that I was too late, had been intense, gradually subsided; and such was the reaction which took place that, for days and weeks, my depression was well-nigh intolerable. I had no heart to return to Westminster; and having, on the plea of recruiting my health and spirits in the air I had breathed during childhood, obtained from Sir Thomas Norwich leave to absent myself from my duties as page, I walked and rode about the forest of Windsor, indulging in melancholy musing over the past, and as indifferent to the future as I had previously been enthusiastic and sanguine. In vain I essayed to rouse myself from lethargy. I felt as if nothing could ever again revive my hope, and restore me to that energy which is hope in action. I had already passed weeks in this frame of mind, when fortune threw me in the way of a terrible adventure, in which I won some honour, and nearly lost my life.
It was autumn; and albeit the harvest was gathered in, and the leaves were falling from the trees, the sun shone with sufficient brightness to gladden the heart of man, and to impart to the landscape a cheerful aspect; when, having occasion one day to visit the little town of Windsor, I mounted my black steed and rode through the forest. When, absorbed in reflection, I was wending my way up one of the glades, my horse, while pacing proudly along the grassy path, suddenly shied; and, looking round, I perceived that he had been startled by the green dress and white bow of an archer, who emerged from the wood, closely attended by a black mastiff of prodigious strength, and capable of being a powerful friend or a terrible foe.
I observed that the archer eyed me with a glance of recognition; and, drawing up, I, with a consciousness of having seen him before, gave him "Good day," and, with a slight effort of memory, I called to mind that hewas one of the Englishmen who, stationed in the prince's division, had drawn their bows at Cressy; that I had often observed and praised his dexterity during the expedition into France; and, moreover, that he was one of those who had been since taken into the king's service, by way of rewarding them for their marvellous achievements during the war with Philip of Valois. Remembering such to have been the case, I entered into conversation with him, and while I rode slowly, and he walked at my stirrup, with his mastiff at his heels, through the forest, in the direction of Windsor, he talked of the battles and sieges in which he had taken part.
Now this archer, whose name was Liulph, was of yeoman extraction and Saxon descent; and I have no doubt that, if he had lived in earlier centuries, when a bitter sense of the distinction between the victor and vanquished races kept the kingdom in hot water, he would have figured as an outlaw of Sherwood, and possibly rivalled the exploits which have made the names of Robin Hood and his merry men so famous. But England was no longer what it had been in the days of Robin Hood and his merry men; for the first Edward had succeeded in teaching English archers to draw their bows only against the enemies of their country, and they had not forgotten the lessons of that great king.
It happened, however, that Liulph was not only a stout and handsome young man, but intelligent for a person of his rank, and of an inquiring turn of mind; and being on this occasion anxious to learn something of St. George, under whose patronage he had fought the French, he put several questions, which, I fear, would sadly have perplexed many who shouted the name most loudly in the hour of conflict. Fortunately, however, I was in a position to return satisfactory answers, and related that St. George was a Christian and a native of Cappadocia; that, making an expedition into Libya in quest of adventure, he arrived just in time to save the king's daughter from a terrible dragon which had devoured many of the inhabitants; and that, becoming famous throughout Christendom as a warrior-saint, he was, as time rolled on, acknowledged as patron of the old Dukes of Guienne, from whom, in thefemale line, the Plantagenets derive their descent; and that, therefore, King Edward, when instituting the Order of the Garter, and placing it under the protection of the Trinity and certain saints, recognised St. George as the chief, and in his honour founded, at Windsor, the chapel that bears his name.
As I brought my narrative to a termination, we were approaching the castle of Windsor, and were, indeed, so close that I could see the stronghold through the trees. At the same time I descried, at no great distance from the place we had reached, a party of ladies; and, aware that Queen Philippa and her daughters were residing at the castle, I had no difficulty in recognising the Lady Isabel, who in the previous year had been betrothed to, and then deserted by, the young Count of Flanders. On seeing the princess and her ladies I reined back my steed, and, not wishing to intrude on their privacy, was turning to make for the town by another direction, when an exclamation, expressive of alarm, which broke from Liulph, directed my attention to a circumstance which made my blood run cold, and all but froze every vein in my heart.
I have already alluded to the wild cattle which, jointly with the deer, tenanted the forest, and I may say that, so familiarised were people with their presence, they caused no fear. Generally, indeed, when not wantonly disturbed, they grazed quietly without showing the least inclination to mischief, and so seldom did they exhibit anything resembling mortal antipathy to human beings, that even the weak and timid felt no apprehension from being in their neighbourhood.
But to every rule there are exceptions, and, at times when there was the least likelihood, the ferocious nature of the wild cattle showed itself—and this was especially the case with such of them as were known to, and somewhat dreaded by, the foresters as "banished bulls." In fact, these animals having, as they advanced in years, rendered themselves odious to their comrades by their bad temper, and been in consequence expelled from the herd, became savage while grazing in solitude, and easily excited to sudden frenzy.
Now it happened, on the autumn day of which I write, that when the king's daughter and her ladies were walking in the forest, and so near the castle that they deemed themselves as safe as if they had been on the ramparts, a "banished bull," having ventured closer to the town than was the wont of his kind, was grazing all alone among the trees. White as a swan was this bull, with short legs and thick hams, and a shaggy mane that curled like the sea billows, and a massy neck like the trunk of some old knotted tree; but his hoofs were black, and jet black were the horns that, like two daggers, stood out from his broad and wrinkled front.
And suddenly this bull, disturbed by the sound of voices, raised his head; and, as he caught sight of the scarlet cloak worn by the princess, he gave signs, not to be misunderstood, of being bent on mischief.
Rearing his head, while his eye, a moment earlier dark, glared red as the mantle which arrested his attention and excited his ire, he stretched out his neck, and with a loud bellow moved slowly forward, pawing the sod with his hoof and gradually quickening his pace, till, having lashed himself into a fury, his movement became a violent rush, and, like sheep at the approach of a wolf, the ladies dispersed, screaming with terror and affright. But the princess did not move. Facing the ferocious brute, she folded her arms, and with her eyes raised to Heaven, as if uttering a last prayer, she stood in expectation of immediate destruction. It seemed, indeed, that there was no chance of any obstacle intervening between her and death.
But, meanwhile, neither the archer nor I was an idle spectator of her peril. Quick as thought Liulph's bow was strung, and an arrow in his hand; not less quickly my sword left its sheath and the spur pressed my horse's flank. Almost as I dashed to the rescue, an arrow, aimed at the bull's vital part, just at the junction of the skull and the spine, whistled through the air. But, dexterous as the archer was, his shaft failed to hit his mark, struck the bull within an inch of the eye without inflicting a wound; and while I threw myself in his way, resolute at least to die in staying the rush, the animal, more furiousthan ever, came roaring on, with eyes of fire and tail erect.
I was not, however, daunted. Rising in my stirrups as the bull approached, and feeling as if there was but one blow between me and death, I aimed with all my might at the part which the archer had missed. But I was not more fortunate than he had been; and as my sword, having lighted on bone hard as rock, flew to pieces, my antagonist, stunned but unhurt, drew back to prepare for a more furious rush. Drawing my reins tight, I exerted all my horsemanship to avoid the full shock. But this time he was not to be resisted. Frantic with rage and foaming at the mouth, he charged upon me with terrific violence; and, transfixed with both horns, my horse rolled backward, bearing me to the ground.
My fate now appeared to be sealed; and as the bull, with his horns in the bowels of my fallen steed, stood over me bellowing furiously, I gave myself up for lost. But I had an ally, on whose aid I could not, in my excitement, reckon. With a fierce growl, a loud bark, and a rapid bound, the mastiff came to the rescue, seized the bull's lip, and, the teeth tenaciously retaining their grasp, in spite of desperate struggles, prevented the animal from raising his head to pursue his success.
By this time I breathed anew; and, freeing my limbs from my bleeding horse, I rose on my knee and grasped my dagger to bring the conflict to a close. Nor was there, this time, any mistake. One flash, and my steel, cold and keen, had penetrated my terrible antagonist's neck; one plunge, and, bellowing with pain, my terrible antagonist rolled heavily on the ground. As, covered with blood, I gained my feet, trembling with excitement, side by side lay the black steed and the white bull, their hides smeared with their own and each other's gore, their limbs wet with the death sweat, and quivering convulsively; and beside them, at his master's foot, stood the mastiff, with panting frame and protruding tongue, silently watching their expiring struggles.
Meanwhile, though unwounded, I grew faint with the bruises I had received and the exertion I had undergone; and hardly had the princess, taking courage to approachthe spot, opened her lips to acknowledge the service I had rendered her in the moment of peril, than I became dizzy, lost all consciousness of what was passing, and sank senseless on the ground.