WILLIAM WALLACE.

“At Wallace’ name what Scottish bloodBut boils up in a spring-time flood.”

“At Wallace’ name what Scottish blood

But boils up in a spring-time flood.”

Now let the scene shift to Scotland, where the masterful Edward, having subdued Wales, is seeking to lay his hands upon yet another kingdom. Truly the condition of the land invites him to conquest. The Scottish king, on a night ride along the cliffs of the Fifeshire coast, has fallen over the black rocks, and he is no more. The sceptre passes to a frail little grandchild in far-off Norway; but ere she can tread the soil of her kingdom, she too has gone the way of all flesh. The royal line is extinct, and the throne of Scotland is without an heir.

Forthwith a round dozen of eager aspirants set up their claims to the vacant throne. All save two are men of straw, with hardly the colour of a right to the kingship. But Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, and John Baliol, Lord of Galloway, both come of the royal stock, and both have their clamorous supporters. Who shall judge betwixt them? Edward seizes the opportunity. He—so he declares—is overlord of Scotland, and he and none other will decide. So chronicles and title-deeds and charters are collected from many a muniment chest, and he and his councillors are soon busy examining them. When all is ready, he arrays an army and marches north to the Border castle of Norham, on the Tweed. To this place come the magnates of Scotland to hear his award. But before it is pronounced he claims that they shall recognize him as lord paramount. Some of the Scottish chiefs demur, but the English king cries, “By St. Edward, whose crown I wear, I will maintain my just right or die in the cause.” Might is right in his case, and the Scottish nobles, in the distracted state of the kingdom, are forced to admit his claim.

And now, having secured the first point in the game, Edward gives judgment in favour of John Baliol, a lamb-like person, the least stalwart and the least Scottish of all the claimants. He is a weak creature, and Edward knows that he will be a pliant tool. So Baliol bows to Edward, and receives the crown of Scotland.

Ere long Baliol begins to feel Edward’s bit gall his mouth. He is continually being pulled up and jerked hither and thither by the strong hand of his rider. Baliol submits time after time, but at length even his sluggish spirit is roused, and one day he throws off his allegiance and declares war. Edward has long been waiting for this turn of fortune’s wheel; he has long been working for this fatal outburst. Speedily he marches north with a great army and sweeps through the country, a ruthless conqueror. None can stand against him, and the “puppet king” least of all.

See Baliol now, about to do public penance for his so-called misdeeds. The English barons are assembled in a churchyard, and thither they lead the king of the Scots mounted on a sorry nag. A herald proclaims his treason. His crown is snatched from his head, the sceptre from his hand, the royal robes from his person. A humble penitent, clad only in his body garments and holding a white rod in his hand, he meekly confesses his fault and acknowledges the justice of his punishment. A few days later he gives up his crown to Edward, and is dispatched a prisoner to the Tower of London. So Edward returns to his kingdom, leaving Scotland beaten to the ground, sore and humiliated, but passionately longing for revenge. With him he carries every token and memorial of Scottish independence—the crown and the sceptre, and the Stone of Destiny, on which Scottish kings have been crowned from time immemorial.

Now let the great patriot hero whom Scotland delights to honour, even after the lapse of six centuries, tread the scene. He is William Wallace of Elderslie, a young knight of some twenty-seven years, massive of build and mighty of thew and sinew, fit foe for Edward himself. His face is long and fair, his hair light-brown, his eye clear and piercing, his expression solemn and sad. A foul outrage has driven him to the hills, where he is nursing his wrath and biding his time. An English officer has encountered him and his nine followers in the streets of Lanark and has taunted him with insulting words. His long sword has leaped from its scabbard and the insulter has been laid low. The alarm has been sounded, and armed men have rushed to the spot; but Wallace has fought his way through them, and has found a refuge in the woods, where the news of a dastardly crime speedily reaches him. His young and dearly-loved wife has been seized and slain by his cruel foes. Terrible indeed is his agony of grief, but tears avail nothing. “Cease,” he cries to his followers, “cease this bootless pain. We cannot bring her back to life, but no man shall ever see me rest till I have avenged the wanton slaughter of her so blithe and bright.”

That very night he slays the slayer of his love, and day after day he swoops down on his foes like a hawk on its quarry. The fame of his daring deeds spreads abroad, and patriots seek him in his retreat and array themselves under his banner. Now it is an English convoy that is despoiled, now an English foraging party that is cut up. Every day brings its exploit, and throughout the south-western counties the English are everywhere harassed and harried by a foe who comes and goes mysteriously, and leaves no token but slaughtered men and burning roof-trees.

Now see him, no longer the lurking outlaw, but the leader of an army, marching proudly at the head of his men, and fearlessly displaying the broad banner of Scotland. The best and bravest of the land are with him. Not a fortress north of the Tay save Dundee is in English hands. Only a year has sped since Edward left Scotland, in the vain belief that the northern kingdom is a cowed and tamed land. Now he perceives that the work must be done all over again. He gathers an army of fifty thousand men, and speeds northward for Stirling, where high on its rock sits the ancient fortress, the key to the centre of Scotland. Wallace hears of the English advance, and marches to Stirling with all speed. On and about the Abbey Craig, where his noble memorial tower now stands, he encamps, and awaits the coming of his foes.

Ere long their banners are seen approaching. The Earl of Surrey, an old man broken in health, is in command, but the real leader is “fat and foolish” Sir Hugh Cressingham, Edward’s Lord-Treasurer in Scotland, a haughty and insolent priest, who wears his corselet with a better grace than his cassock. The English halt on the south side of the river, and are eager for an immediate attack, but wiser counsels prevail. So the watch-fires are lighted, and the two armies lie in sight of each other through the silent night, with the deep and sluggish Forth flowing between.

Now the trumpets sound, and Sir Marmaduke Twenge leads his squadron of mail-clad knights to the bridge across the Forth, while Cressingham follows hard behind. The spearmen of Wallace, posted on the high ground, are in no hurry to attack. They make no sign as the knights cross the bridge and form up on the opposite shore, ready to charge the Scots on the hillside. Half the English army has crossed ere you perceive the trap into which it has fallen. Look yonder at that strong force of Scottish spearmen fetching a wide circuit and keeping near to the river. Now they begin to run towards the bridge. They cut through the line of the advancing English and block the bridge-head with a hedge of bristling steel. They drive back in a tumultuous heap the advancing horsemen on the crowded bridge, and now the moment for which Wallace has so long waited arrives. He charges furiously down the hillside, and hurls back the English squadrons in dire confusion. Horse and foot are inextricably mingled; hundreds go down before the Scottish spears, and vast numbers are driven into the river, which is lashed into foam by the drowning struggles of thousands of men and horses.

Surrey, horror-stricken at the sight, now advances the royal standard of England, and his strong reserve of knights charge the bridge with the cry “For God and St. George.” The bridge is carried, but on the opposite shore there is no room to form, and they only increase the confusion and swell the slaughter. Of all that have crossed that fatal bridge only three return. All is over, and Surrey on the farther shore sets spurs to his horse. Keen and fierce is the pursuit, and terrible is the slaughter. Edward’s proud host is scattered like chaff before the wind, and Scotland is free again.

The victorious Wallace is hailed by his countrymen as Governor of Scotland. But he has not done with the implacable Edward yet. The English king has appeased his revolting nobles, he has made a truce with the French, and has marshalled the might of his realm for another invasion of Scotland. A vast English army rolls northward. Eighty thousand men, including a large array of archers armed with the terrible long-bow which the men of South Wales have taught them to use, follow his banners. They enter the Lowlands, but Wallace has made it a desert. The houses are bare and empty; no cattle are in the fields; the crops have been reaped, the hay and corn stacks have been carried off. Edward’s army “marches on its stomach,” but Wallace has taken good care that there shall be nothing to fill it. By the time Edward draws near to Edinburgh symptoms of mutiny begin to appear amongst his soldiers, and he begins to meditate retreat.

Then come traitors from the Scottish camp telling him that Wallace lies in the forest of Falkirk, and is about to attack his foes that very night. Edward is filled with joy at the tidings. “Thanks be to God!” he cries. “They need not wait for me, for I shall go instantly and meet them.” There is no delay. In an hour’s time his army is in motion. Linlithgow is reached, and he bivouacs for the night on the moor. Every man sleeps in his armour, his horse ready harnessed by his side. The king himself lies down on the bare ground and shares discomfort with his men. In the night his frightened charger kicks out, and its hoofs break two of the king’s ribs. But with the dawn Edward mounts bravely, and leads his army to rising ground beyond Linlithgow. Here the fighting Bishop of Durham says mass, and as the sun rises Edward’s keen eye sees its rays reflected from the spears of the Scots, now taking ground on the slope of a small hill not far from Falkirk.

Wallace has drawn up his spearmen in fourschiltronsor circles. Between these schiltrons are his tall, handsome archers from the forests of Selkirk and Ettrick. His small and doubtful force of cavalry is marshalled in the rear. It includes the Scottish knights, many of whom are jealous of Wallace, and only half-hearted in Scotland’s cause. “I have brought you to the ring,” says the Scottish leader, “now dance as you may.”

The trumpets sound, and the English cavalry charge. At the first onset the Scottish horsemen, led by traitor lords, turn bridle and ride from the field. Then the English knights swoop down upon the Scottish archers, and after a terrible struggle slay them to a man. But again and again they recoil from the “dark, impenetrable wood” of the spearmen. The bristling hedge of spears cannot be broken by the shock of horse and man, but there are other and deadlier means available. The English archers are to win the first of those signal victories which will make them the terror of the age. Drawn up in security scarce a hundred paces away, they shoot their cloth-yard shafts with unerring aim. Thick and fast they fall amidst the spearmen, and soon the living walls are breached. The English cavalry charge into the gaps where the dead and dying lie, and an awful slaughter rages. The battle is over; the Scots betake themselves to flight, and Wallace barely escapes into Torwood Forest.

But even this victory has not laid Scotland at Edward’s feet. Everywhere he finds the country devastated, and he must either retreat or starve. Less than a month after the battle of Falkirk he sullenly leads his army, stricken by famine and disease, southward to England. But he withdraws like the panther, only to spring again. Five successive times he leads his army northward, and Scotland, exhausted by her long and heartrending struggles, at length lies at the conqueror’s feet.

Once more Wallace is an outlaw on the hills. Edward has marked him down for death, and there is a price on his head. He lurks in the greenwood, hunted from cover to cover, with scarce a comrade to trust, and none to aid him. His former friend, Sir John Menteith, at length wins the blood-money. Wallace is seized in his sleep, bound with cords, and hurried south. As he enters London the streets swarm with spectators, all eager to see this renowned warrior of the North. His trial is a mockery. Vainly he protests that he is no traitor, for he has never sworn fealty to the English king. But he is doomed already, and all argument is vain. He is condemned of murder, sacrilege, and treason, and suffers the ghastly and revolting death which was meted out to David of Wales twenty-two years before. His head is set up on London Bridge, his right arm at Newcastle, his left at Berwick, one leg at Perth, and the other at Aberdeen.

So perishes the national hero of Scotland, his body dispersed to “every airt” that the wind blows, but his name and fame cherished for ever in the hearts of his countrymen. He rises like a star in the darkness; he sets in gloom, but not before his radiance has rekindled the torch of Scottish patriotism, the flame of which is nevermore to be extinguished. Wallace cannot die; he lives again in every free and unselfish aspiration of unconquered Scotland.

The Trial of Wallace.(From the picture by Daniel Maclise, R.A., in the Guildhall Art Gallery. By Permission of the Corporation of London.)

“They thought to die in the mêlée,Or else to set their country free.”

“They thought to die in the mêlée,

Or else to set their country free.”

Not yet may “our stern alarums change for peaceful meetings, our dreadful marches to delightful measures.” Grim-visaged war must still be our portion, if our pageant is to depict the outstanding landmarks in our nation’s story. The victories of peace are for the future; now we must hear again the clash of arms, and share once more the joy of victory and the anguish of defeat.

We are still in Scotland, where a successor to Wallace has arisen even before his scattered limbs have rotted away. The new champion is the grandson of that Bruce whom Edward set aside in favour of Baliol. His father, in the old days, was a friend of “Longshanks,” and young Robert Bruce has been trained in all the arts of war and the exercises of chivalry under the eye of the man whose mortal enemy he is destined to be. He comes upon the scene in the dark days succeeding the judicial murder of Wallace, in those bitter months when England’s iron grip is on Scotland. He sees with deep indignation the wretched condition of his countrymen, and cautiously and secretly lays his plans for throwing off the English yoke. He makes a compact with his friend Comyn, who too has royal blood in his veins; but Comyn is a traitor, and reveals the plot to the English king. Bruce receives warning, and ere long he settles accounts with Comyn. In the church of the Gray Friars at Dumfries the two meet face to face. Angry words pass, and Bruce strikes down his treacherous friend on the very steps of the altar. He rushes outside to his comrades. “I doubt I have slain Comyn!” he cries. “You doubt!” says one of them, “I mak’ siccar;” and entering the church he dispatches the unhappy man with many fierce blows.

And now the Bruce has taken the plunge. There is no turning back; he must go forward to a crown, or suffer the fate of Wallace wight. A few faithful friends stand by him, and he hastens to Scone, the coronation place of Scottish kings. A friendly bishop lends him robes, the abbot provides a chair, and the statue of some saint is temporarily despoiled of its circlet to provide a crown.

The news of the outbreak speedily reaches Edward, and throws him into ungovernable rage. He swears that he will never rest until he has hanged, drawn, and quartered the presumptuous knave who has forsworn his oaths and seized the crown. Edward’s nut-brown hair is snow-white now, and his once mighty arm is weak with age, but his determined spirit burns as fiercely as of yore. An advance-guard is pushed on with all speed, and near Perth it comes into touch with the Bruce, who barely escapes from it.

The Bruce must now follow in the footsteps of Wallace, and wander, a hunted fugitive, over many a league of forest and hill. How true now seem the words of his wife at their hasty and impromptu coronation: “Alas! we are but king and queen of the May, such as boys crown with flowers and rushes in their summer sports.” Deserted and distressed, he lives the life of an outlaw, shooting his own venison and catching his own fish. But he is not sad and gloomy, as Wallace was wont to be. He cheers his little company by many a good-humoured sally and the recital of heroic deeds. Summer passes, and the pageantry of autumn descends upon the woods; but still he is a king without a throne, a wanderer without a home. The wild life of a hunted fugitive may not be borne during the dread winter by the ladies of his company, so he sends them with many a dark foreboding of evil to the care of his brother, and then takes ship for the remote island of Rathlin, off the north Irish coast, where he winters safe from his foes.

Here, in his island retreat, bitter news reaches him. His wife and daughters have been seized and imprisoned in England. His brother and his relatives have been captured and hanged, his estates have been forfeited and given to others, and the Pope has driven him out of the Church for his sacrilege at Dumfries. No wonder the Bruce sits under his juniper tree “steeped to the lips in misery.”

But with the kindly spring he makes another bid for fortune. He sails to the Isle of Arran, and has hardly landed before he well-nigh walks into a trap laid for him. Then begins a fresh period of difficulty and danger, of hairbreadth escapes and desperate deeds. Slowly but surely the tide turns in his favour. The preachers are with him; a prophecy has been discovered which assures him of victory; stout hearts begin to flock to his side; his cause gains ground every day. By the middle of May he is no longer a hunted fugitive but a leader of forces. He has defeated two English earls in the field, and they are shut up in the castle of Ayr, which he is closely besieging.

Now old Edward begins to move. He is too weak and ill to throw his long limbs across a horse, so they carry him on a litter in front of his army. At Carlisle the prospect of the strife he loves so well gives him a slight renewal of strength. He mounts his horse for the last time, and leads the march in the old way. But it is the final flicker of life’s flame, and at Burgh-on-Sands, within sight of the tossing Solway, he yields him to the power that conquers even kings. To his bedside he calls his vain, pleasure-loving son, and bids him swear a solemn oath never to cease from strife until the Scots are thoroughly subdued. “Boil the flesh off my bones,” he is said to have cried, “and keep them safe, and as oft as the Scots assemble their forces, let my bones lead the van.” So he dies, fierce and implacable to the last, and the breath is hardly out of his body ere his degenerate son sighs for his jugglers and minstrels and the careless pleasures of the court he has left behind.

He advances half-heartedly to Ayr; but the Bruce has retreated before him, knowing well the temper of his foe. At the first decent opportunity Edward hies him southward, and Bruce resumes his work of ridding the land of the English. One by one the castles are captured by storm or stratagem; day by day the English power grows weaker and weaker, and the Bruce grows stronger and stronger. At last the flag of England, once to be seen everywhere, flies only over the castle of Stirling. Its stout-hearted defender is almost starved into submission. He will surrender on midsummer day, unless he is relieved before it dawns by an English army.

The new Edward must leave his elegant trifling and bestir himself, unless Scotland is to be hopelessly lost. Hitherto his reign has been singularly inglorious, and his barons have made him, as he says, no longer master in his own house. But he will show them that the spirit of his sire still lives in him. He will invade Scotland, and the Bruce shall feel the weight of his heavy hand. Stirling shall be relieved; he will take up the wager of battle that Scotland has thrown down.

Forthwith he assembles the most powerful army that has ever yet menaced Scotland. Mindful of the archers’ victory at Falkirk, he scours the country for bowmen, and every man of them boasts that he “carries the lives of four-and-twenty Scotsmen at his belt.” Forty thousand mounted men are with him, and a prouder and more confident array never took the field.

Bruce has chosen his ground well. His front and right are defended by the Bannock burn, which winds through two morasses, and at one place has steep, wooded banks. On the left, where the ground is open, he has honeycombed the field with pits that look firm and level to the eye, but are terrible snares for cavalry. Only one way of approach is open, and that is strewn with caltrops to lame the horses.

It is the Sabbath morning of June 23rd, in the year 1314. On comes the English host, with its countless banners, standards, and pennons waving in the breeze. The sun glints from burnished helmet and spear as the dense battalions draw near. To an observer on the castle walls it would seem that they were about to make an immediate attack. The Bruce is arraying his men, clad in full armour, and carrying a battle-axe in his hand, but riding a light palfrey in place of the heavy charger that is to carry him to-morrow. That panoply of armour which he wears hides the real man from you. Were you to see him out of harness, you would mark his strong and powerful frame, his close, curly hair, his full, broad forehead, his high cheek-bones, and the square and massive jaw that tells of determination and dogged courage.

Now the English army halts, and a vainglorious knight, one Sir Henry Bohun, seeing the Bruce so poorly horsed, thinks to do a deed of valorous renown. So he spurs his charger, and levelling his spear bears down upon the Scottish king. As he comes rushing on at full speed, the Bruce twitches his palfrey’s bridle, and the little creature obediently starts aside. Then, as the knight goes rushing by, Bruce rises in his stirrups and smites him fiercely on the helmet with his battle-axe. It crashes through helmet and skull, and the riderless steed gallops wildly away. The first stroke of the great fight has been struck, and the Bruce has won. As he rides back to his lines his knights take him to task for his adventure, reminding him that an accident would have robbed them of their leader. Bruce listens to their chidings, and only replies, “I have broken my good battle-axe.”

Another misfortune befalls the English. Three hundred young horsemen, eager for the fray, see a clear way lying before them to the castle. On they spur towards it, but find their road blocked by a party of Scottish spearmen, who form a deadly circle of bristling steel. In vain the knights spur their horses to the attack; the schiltron remains unbroken, though hidden from sight by the cloud of dust and heat which rises from the plain. Now the spearmen advance and drive back the weary and disheartened horsemen. Grim foreboding this of the great fight to-morrow.

The short summer night falls on the battlefield, and loud sounds of revelry come from the English camp. The Scots sleep in the open, and when the sun has risen Edward sees them massed in schiltrons beneath their banners. “Will yon Scotsmen fight?” he asks of a veteran by his side. “Yea, siccarly, sire,” he replies, and at the moment the Scots bend the knee as the crucifix is borne along their line. “Yon folk kneel for mercy,” says the king; and again the veteran replies, “Yea, sire, but not of you. Yon men will win or die.” “So be it,” cries Edward, and gives the signal for his trumpeters to sound the charge.

On dash the English horsemen with levelled spears, and now you hear the loud crash as lance clangs on shield. Down go men and horses, only to be trodden under foot by the ranks behind. Nothing can break the Scottish ranks.

But where are the archers who wrought such havoc at Falkirk? Now is their time. Alas, they have been badly posted, and are unsupported by men-at-arms. A few hundred Scots horsemen are sufficient to send them flying hither and thither without the hope of ever rallying again.

Meanwhile a great hand-to-hand contest is raging. You hear the shouts and cries of the warriors, the groans of the wounded and dying, the loud clash of meeting weapons, as the vast, dense mass of the English rises and falls like waves of the sea. It is a mob that fights on the narrow field, and not an army. The ground is cumbered with fallen men and horses. Many a good knight has no room to swing his weapon. He cannot advance, and the pressure behind will not let him retreat. But slowly and surely the throng is pushed back by the Scottish spears, and the day looks black for England.

All discipline is now lost, and the battle is a series of individual struggles. Lifting their eyes, the hard-pressed English see a fresh host marching down a neighbouring hill, and hear their slogans peal out above the din and tumult of battle. They are camp followers who have cut down saplings for banner-poles and spread their blankets for standards; but, in sooth, they look a warlike and formidable band in the distance. The hearts of the English fail them at the sight; they waver, and the Scots press on with redoubled vigour. The retreat has begun; it will soon be an utter rout.

The English king gallops to Dunbar without drawing rein. His followers scatter hither and thither. All is over. The great battle is lost and won. The Bannock burn is choked with the dead bodies of the slain; thirty thousand English lie dead on that fatal field. The great task which Wallace had set himself is accomplished. Scotland has won her independence, thanks to the skill of Bruce, the courage of his men, and the incompetence of King Edward. “From the dust and reek of that burning day Scotland emerges a people, firm in a glorious memory.”

THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.(From the picture by Allan Stewart specially painted for this book.)

“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,—It droppeth as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath: it is twice blest;It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomesThe thronèd monarch better than his crown.”

“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,—

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

The thronèd monarch better than his crown.”

Now let a tableau lend variety to our pageant. On the dais of a royal pavilion outside the walls of Calais you see a warrior king, his noble countenance transfigured with wrath. Around him are his nobles, and before him kneel six notable citizens of the town, gaunt with long fasting and worn with strife and anxiety. Their heads and feet are bare, and the rope of shame is round their necks. The foremost citizen proffers the keys of the fortress. You are witnessing the surrender of Calais, “the open doorway to France.”

The actual scene which is being re-enacted before you took place more than five and a half centuries ago, and thirty-three years after the battle of Bannockburn. In the interval the English king who fled from that fatal field had been deposed in favour of his young son, who grew up to be one of the most remarkable men of his time. The spirit of the first Edward lived again in Edward the Third, and like a new Alexander he was ever seeking fresh worlds to conquer.

He positively thirsted for martial glory, and above all things he coveted the fair land of France. Through his mother he put forth a claim to the French throne; and though it was scouted by the French lawyers, he meant to see what English bills and bows could do to enforce it. In the year 1345 he shot his bolt, and at Crécy his archers won for him one of the most brilliant victories that ever graced English arms. Then he moved on Calais, and laid close siege to it. Outside the walls he reared a temporary village, which he called Newtown the Bold. It had houses and lodgings roofed with reed and broom, streets, and a market-place where flesh and fish, mercery, cloth, bread, and wine were sold.

Eleven long months the siege endured, and many a time and oft the gallant defenders beheld the approach of French armies coming, as they thought, to their succour. But never did the Frenchmen dare to attack King Edward. They came, they saw, they retreated. Lamentable indeed was the state of the besieged; food failed them, starvation gnawed them, and pestilence swept them away. Then came the hour when all hope departed, and they hauled down the standard which had so long floated above their highest tower.

Shortly afterwards news was brought to the king that the governor was on the battlements, and desired a parley with him. Sir Walter de Mauny and Ralph Lord Bisset were sent to confer with the governor. “Sirs,” said he, “ye be right valiant knights in deeds of arms, and ye know well how the king, my master, hath sent me to keep this town in his behoof. We have done all that lieth in our power. Now our succours have failed us, and we be sore strained; we must all die, or else go mad with famine. I therefore entreat that you will beg your king to have compassion on us, and to have the goodness to let us depart in the state we are in; and that he will be satisfied with having possession of the town and castle, with all that is within them.”

Thereupon the two knights returned to the king and told him all that had passed. But the king heeded them not: the men of Calais should surrender, and he would do with them as he listed. Then Sir Walter braved the royal wrath and told his sovereign that he was setting a very bad example by his severity. All the other nobles who were present pleaded with the king, and at length he yielded in some degree. “Sir Walter,” said he, “you will inform the governor that the only grace he must expect from me is, that six of the principal citizens of Calais 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 must yield themselves to my will, and to the rest I will show mercy.”

Sir Walter returned to the battlements and told the governor what grace he had been able to obtain from the king. “I beg of you,” said he, “to remain here a little, while I go into the town and tell the townsmen your king’s conditions.” So he went to the market-place, the bell was sounded, and immediately a multitude of men and women gathered in the town hall to hear what he had to say. When they learnt the sad news they began to weep and to show such distress that the hardest heart would have had compassion on them. Even the governor himself was moved to tears.

At last the richest burgess in the town, by name Eustace de St. Pierre, rose up and said, “Sirs, high and low, it would be grievous for so many people to die of famine when there is a means to save them. I think they who should save them from such a pass would have great merit in the eyes of our Lord God. For my part I have so great a trust in Him that I will be the first to offer myself for the rest.” When he had said this, the people rose up and almost worshipped him, many casting themselves at his feet with tears and groans. Then another rich citizen arose and said, “I will keep company with my comrade Eustace.” His name was John Daire. After him, James Wisant, who was also very rich in merchandise, said he would hold company with his two cousins; as also did Peter Wisant, his brother. Then two others offered themselves, and the six citizens, having apparelled themselves as the King of England desired, marched towards the gate.

When Sir Walter Mauny had presented the citizens to the king they fell on their knees and with uplifted hands cried, “Most gallant king, we bring you the keys of the castle and of the town. We surrender ourselves to your absolute will and pleasure, in order to save the remainder of the people of Calais, who have suffered such great pain. Sir, we beseech your grace to have mercy and pity upon us.”

All the barons, knights, and squires that were assembled around wept at the sight. But the king, remembering their piracies, eyed them with angry looks, for he greatly hated the men of Calais. Then he commanded that their heads should be struck off. All present entreated the king that he would be merciful to them, but he would not listen. At last the good Sir Walter made yet another appeal for grace. “Noble king,” he cried, “let me beseech you to restrain your anger. You are rightly famed for greatness of soul; do not tarnish it by such an act as this. Henceforth every man will speak of your great cruelty, if you put to death these burgesses, who have of their own free will offered their lives for their fellow-citizens.”

At this the king scowled and bade them send for the headsman. “These knaves,” said he, “have slain many of my men, and they shall die for it.”

At this moment the good Queen Philippa, who had been weeping bitterly, cast herself upon her knees before her pitiless lord. “Ah! gentle sir,” she cried, “since I have crossed the sea in great peril I have never asked you one favour; now I humbly beg you, in the name of the Son of the Virgin Mary, and for your love of me, that you be merciful to these six men.”

The king looked upon her in silence for a moment, and then replied, “Lady, I would that you had not been here. You have begged of me so earnestly that I cannot refuse you, though it grieves me sore to yield. I give them to you; do with them as you will.”

Joyous and glad was the queen that she had moved the king to pity. She rose from her knees, and bidding the citizens rise too, ordered the ropes to be taken from their necks, and caused them to be new clothed. Then she took them to her own apartments and gave them a plentiful dinner, after which she presented each of them with six nobles and set them at liberty. The town was surrendered, and the English king fed the starving multitudes liberally.

Merciful queen, your generous pity for the stricken foe shall ever be the brightest jewel in your crown. In ages to come men will cherish the fame of your womanly tenderness, and will tell their children in many a tale and song the glorious story of your gracious clemency.

Edward the Third at the Siege of Calais.(From the painting by Sir John Gilbert, R.A. By permission of the Corporation of London.)

“Witness our too much memorable shame,When Cressy battle fatally was struck,And all our princes captived, by the handOf that black name, Edward, black prince of Wales.”

“Witness our too much memorable shame,

When Cressy battle fatally was struck,

And all our princes captived, by the hand

Of that black name, Edward, black prince of Wales.”

Now you are transported to the streets of fourteenth-century London. You stand at the upper window of a lofty timbered house, and from your coign of vantage see the ancient city donning its festive array. There is an air of rejoicing and there is a buzz of expectation everywhere. The houses of the wealthier citizens are hung with gay carpets, rich silks, and fine tapestry. Streamers are flying, garlanded poles are reared, and here and there you see trophies of arms—shields, helmets, breastplates, lances, swords, sheaves of arrows, maces, and battle-axes. Anon you hear the rattle of drum and the blare of trumpet as the City companies, clad in their liveries, take up the places assigned to them. Now a procession of clergy, habited in their richest vestments, winds by. Gay gallants in their blue or green tunics and hoods, their hose of diverse hues, and theirCracowshoes with long, curving toes laced to the knee with silver chains, come and go, and lend colour and vivacity to the scene. Many a fair maiden in a gay kirtle gazes out of her casement with sparkling eyes, and hard by you see no less interested matrons, in all the bravery of their best attire.

Now, afar off, you hear the huzzas of the crowd, and as you watch and wait nearer and nearer come the salvoes of applause. The cannon of the Tower roar out their welcome, trumpets sound, and bells clash from the steeples. Right royally does London greet those whom she delights to honour to-day.

Ah! here come the archers, the pride of England, a goodly array of stalwart yeomen, bronzed and hardened by long campaigning on French fields. Look at them as they swagger along, conscious of their prowess, the rings of conquered knights on their horny hands, and the jewelled baldrics of French nobles across their shoulders. See how they bandy many a merry jest with the maidens on the causeway, and shout their jovial greetings to the citizens, who wave their caps and cheer wildly in response. There is not a lad in London who does not yearn to be an archer. With his six-foot bow in his hand and a sheaf of arrows at his belt, your archer envies neither knight nor king. He has won great fame, and his pouch is filled with rose nobles; and when these are gone, there are plenty more to be won in Poitou and Gascony. And if the Prince—God bless him!—has no more wars on hand, why, there are always the Free Companies ready and willing to welcome a stalwart bowman who can “clap in the clout” at fourscore yards, and use a bill right yeomanly when it comes to handstrokes.

Behind the rollicking archers come the mail-clad knights, a noble and more sedate company, flashing back the May-day sun from their shining armour and their gleaming lance-points. Yonder is Chandos, the wise and watchful general whose keen eye perceived the critical moment in the great fight—he who cried to the Prince, “Now, sir, ride forward, and the day is yours.” And there is Audley, pale and weak from his wounds, but gallant as ever. Was it not he whom the Prince greeted by the glorious name ofPreux, and dubbed the best knight on the field? Right proud must he feel to-day. And who be these? In sooth, they are the premier nobles of France, rich prizes of war, though they bear, neither by sign nor by look, the semblance of defeat.

And now the air is rent with still louder shouts as a noble figure on a superb white charger rides by. It is the King of France, bearing himself as a conqueror, yet knowing full well that he is a captive gracing a victor’s triumph. But not for him are the shouts. Look at that simple knight in black armour, quietly riding by his side on a palfrey. He is the hero of the day, the cynosure of all eyes, the praise of all tongues. He would seem to be no more than the French king’s squire; yet he is the victor of Poitiers, a name of terror in France, the idol of his knights, the boast of his archers, the pride of his land.

The stately procession moves on to the great hall at Westminster, where Edward the king waits the coming of his noble captive and his gallant son. With knightly courtesy he rises from his throne and embraces his unfortunate brother of France, and gives him gracious welcome to his court. He bids him be of good cheer; and the French king, who has borne the ordeal with manly fortitude, is right glad that the public parade is over. With gracious tact the English king conceals his triumphant joy; he does everything in his power to play the gracious host to the honoured guest; but nothing that he can do will remove the shame and grief that rack the proud heart of the “Fortune of France.”

Now let us turn to the Black Prince and learn why the Londoners so enthusiastically greet him. He is but twenty-seven years of age, yet he has many a hard-fought campaign to his credit. At thirteen years of age he was made Prince of Wales, and invested with the symbols of his office—the coronet of gold, the ring, and the silver wand. In his honour the king, his royal father, then held a Feast of the Round Table, and from every country of Europe came the most renowned knights to commemorate the fame of King Arthur, and to pledge themselves to emulate his chivalry, his courtesy, and his feats of arms. Never before had there been so splendid a pageant seen as that which King Edward arrayed beneath the ancient walls of Windsor Castle. The Black Prince that day yearned for the hour when he, too, might take spear and shield and break a lance in the tourney as a preparation for winning renown on the battlefield. Long before he was out of his teens he made acquaintance with the dangers and rigours of war in real earnest. In his sixteenth year the longed-for moment arrived. He accompanied his father to France, and as he landed at La Hogue he received the honour of knighthood, though he had yet his “spurs to win.” But forthwith, as the chronicler tells us, he “made a right good beginning” by burning and ravaging the neighbouring country, and by fighting valiantly when Godemar du Fay endeavoured to prevent the English army from crossing the Somme. Then came the never-to-be-forgotten battle of Crécy, in which he won his spurs.

When he rode into London after the battle of Crécy, every man, woman, and child in the great city loved him, and prophesied a wondrous future for him. And they were true prophets, for his fame grew with the years; and now they see him among them once more, victor in his own right, and bringing in his train the “Fortune of France.” What stories of his prowess and gallantry and modesty they tell! Listen to yon burly archer now released from duty. “I mind,” says he, “that after yonder king had yielded himself, the prince led him to his own tent, took off his helmet with his own hands, brought him drink, and gave him comfortable words, and served him at table as he had been a base serving-man and not the heir of Merry England. What think ye of that?”

And now, while all England is singing his praises and he is at the very summit of his fame, let us peep into the future and see what fate has in store for him. Again and again he will harry the fair land of France; and, greedy of warfare, will ally himself with Pedro the Cruel, and win a victory for that bloodthirsty tyrant in distant Spain. And when the victory is won he will beseech Pedro to spare the lives of the conquered. Before long, however, the Spanish king will refuse to pay him the price agreed upon, and will send him on wild-goose errands, until he sees his men fall around him stricken by pestilence, and scarce one in five of them will return with him across the Pyrenees. He, too, will be seized with a painful sickness from which he will never recover.

But still he will go on fighting, and every year his heart will harden within him, until one day he will stain his fair fame by a deed of pitiless cruelty. In his rage at the long defence of Limoges he will order no quarter to be given to the gallant defenders. Piteous appeals will be made to him for mercy; but he will not hearken, and three thousand defenceless men, women, and children will be massacred in the streets. “Pity ’tis, ’tis true.”

His sickness will increase, and he will return home to die, but not before he does something for the people of England in a peaceful and more useful sphere. He will drive from his father’s court the greedy, unscrupulous men who are oppressing the land, and he will strive to better the condition of the people in many ways. Knowing his end is nigh, he will give himself to prayer and good works; his sickness will rack him sore, but he will bear his sufferings patiently and will make “a very noble end, remembering God his Creator in his heart,” and bidding his people pray for him. He will die in his forty-sixth year, to the unbounded grief of the nation. And so he passes, a man of war from his youth up, not untainted by cruelty, not unsullied by martial pride, but, in spite of all, the very mirror of the knighthood of his day.

Back to Index Next