[Contents]CHAPTER LX.The Bishop’s Army—Sorrow for the Fate of the Heroic Douglas.The two brothers, the Earls of Dunbar and Moray, were now[460]left to command the Scottish army after the afflicting death of the Earl of Douglas. Deeply as they grieved for him, they had but little leisure for mourning, since every succeeding moment brought them in harassing rumours that the Bishop of Durham was coming against them with a great army. During the whole of the day succeeding the battle, and of the night which followed it, they were so kept on the alert that they could even do but little to succour the wounded or bury the dead. The prisoners, however, among whom were many renowned knights, besides the two Piersies, were treated with all that chivalric courtesy and hospitality for which the age was so remarkable. Sir Rafe was immediately despatched in a litter to Alnwick, that he might have the benefit of such careful treatment as might be most likely to cure the many and severe wounds he had received.After various false alarms, the second morning after the battle brought back the scouts, who had been sent to follow the flying enemy, and to gather what intelligence they might in the neighbourhood of Newcastle. By these men they were informed of the proclamation which had been made in the town, and of the proposed march of the Bishop of Durham’s large army. A council of war was immediately held, and the opinion was unanimous that they should remain where they were to receive the Bishop in their present position, which they had already proved to be so favourable for successful defence against superior numbers, rather than march harassed as they were with a number of wounded and prisoners, and with the risk of being overtaken in unfavourable ground. They accordingly hastened to strengthen themselves in the best way they could; and, as they had but little time for a choice of plans, they piled up an abattis, formed of the dead bodies of the slain, on the top of the broken rampart that stretched across between the flanking marches, and defended the entrance to their position.Before the enemy appeared, a very serious question arose for the consideration of the leaders. Their prisoners amounted to above a thousand, and what was to be done with them? To have put them to death would have been so barbarous that such an idea could not be entertained for a moment in such times; yet, as their number was nearly equal to half their little army, the danger they ran from their breaking loose upon them during the fight, and even turning the tide of battle against them, was sufficiently apparent to every one. At length, after much debate and deliberation, it was generally resolved to trust them. They were accordingly drawn up in the centre of the camp, and an[461]oath administered to them that they should not stir from the spot during the ensuing battle, and that, be the result what it might, they should still consider themselves as prisoners to Scotland. After this solemnity, they left them slenderly guarded by some of the varlets and wainmen, with perfect confidence that they would keep their oath.Then it was that the Earl of Dunbar thus encouraged his soldiers, after having drawn them up behind their lines.“My brave Scots,” said he, “ye who have hardly yet well breathed sith that ye did conquer the renowned Piersies of Northumberland, can have little fear, I trow, to encounter a mitred priest. Verily, though his host be great, it will be but two strokes when both shepherd and sheep will be dispersed, and we shall teach this pastoral knight that it were better for him to be a scourger of schoolboy urchins with birchen rods than to essay thus, with the sword, to do battle against bearded soldiers.”This speech was received with shouts by the little army to which it was addressed, and, “Douglas, Douglas! revenge our brave, our beloved Douglas!” was heard to break from every part of the line. The two Earls had hardly completed their preparations, when the approach of the Bishop of Durham’s army was announced. Orders were immediately issued for each soldier to blow the horn he carried, and the loud and discordant sound of these rude and variously-toned instruments being re-echoed and multiplied from the hills, was distinctly audible at several miles’ distance. It rung in the ears of the Bishop, and very much appalled him. Had it not been for a spice of shame he felt, he would have been disposed to have gone no farther; but the knights and esquires who were with him were still sanguine in their hopes of successfully attacking, with so large a force, the small army of the Scots, wasted as it was by the recent bloody engagement.“Verily, it is a sinful thing to trust in the arm of flesh,” said the Bishop, growing paler and paler. “Who knoweth what may be the issue of the battle? Trust not in numbers.Non salvatur rex per multam virtutem; even the bravery of a Bishop shall not always win the fight.Gigas non salvabitur inmultitudinevirtutis suæ; even the courage of the greatest of Churchmen shall not always prevail.Fallax equus ad salutem; a horse is counted but a vain thing to save a man. St. Cuthbert grant,” ejaculated he in a lower tone—“St. Cuthbert grant that our steeds may be preserved.”The Bishop, however, dissembling his feelings as well as he[462]could, continued to advance in good order until he came within sight of the Scots; when, beholding the strength of their position, and the horrible bulwark of defence they had constructed with the heaps of the dead bodies of the English whom they had already sacrificed, and listening to their wild shrieks of defiance, mingled with the increased sound of their horns, his blood froze within him, and he halted to reason with those who had been so prone to attack the foe. But opinions had been mightily changed in the course of a mile’s march. The knights and esquires, who had been lately so bold, now listened with becoming patience to the prudent arguments of their reverend leader; and when, after a considerable halt, and holding a communication with the Castle of Otterbourne, the Bishop did at last give the word for his army to retreat, there was not a single voice lifted in condemnation of the movement.When it was fully ascertained in the Scottish army that the retrograde march of the English was no manœuvre, but a genuine retreat, a strong guard of observation was planted, and orders were given to proceed with the sad duty, already too long neglected, of collecting such of the wounded as had lain miserably on the plain, without food or attention, ever since they had fallen. Parties were also appointed to bury the dead.The body of the heroic Douglas had never been deserted by the affectionate Lundie, who, though himself grievously wounded, sat watching it by the thicket where he died, until the termination of the battle and the break of day enabled the Saintclaires, the Earl of Moray, and the Hepbornes, to come to his aid. Then was his honoured corpse carried to the camp; but it was not till after the departure of the Bishop of Durham, that the Earls of Moray and Dunbar, accompanied by the whole chivalry of the Scottish army, met together at night in the pavilion of the Douglas. There—sad contrast to the happy night which they had so lately spent in the same place, under the cheering influence of his large, mild, and benignant eye!—they came to behold his body laid out in state. It was attended, even in death, by those who had never abandoned him in life. By the side of his bier lay his brave son Archibald, who had so well fulfilled his last injunctions. At his feet were stretched his two faithful esquires, who had so nobly perished with their master. Near them stood Robert Hop Pringle, leaning on the Douglas’s shield, who, having been separated from him in the thickest press, had fought like a lion, vainly searching for him through the field, and who now looked with an eye of mingled grief and envy on his comrades. Richard Lundie too was there, wounded[463]as he was, to perform a solemn service for that soul with which he had long held the closest and dearest converse. The place was dimly illuminated by the red glare of numerous torches, held by some hardy soldiers, who, though formed of the coarsest human clay, were yet unable to look towards the bier where lay the body of their brave commander, whose fearless heart had so often led them on to glory, without the big tears running down the furrows of their weather-beaten cheeks. Those who were tempered of finer mould, and whose rank had brought them into closer contact with the Douglas, and, above all, those whom strict friendship had bound to him, though they struggled hard to bear up like men, were forced to yield to the feelings that oppressed them. So overpowering indeed was the scene that Harry Piersie himself, who had craved permission to be present, wept tears of unfeigned sorrow over the remains of him who had been so lately his noble rival in the field of fame. “Douglas,” said he with a quivering lip that marked the intensity of his feelings, “what would I not give to see that lofty brow of thine again illumined with the radiant sunshine of thy godlike soul? Accursed be my folly—accursed be my foolish pride! Would that the curtailment of half the future life of Hotspur could be given to restore and eke out thine! God wot how joyously he would now make the willing sacrifice. Thou hast not left thy peer in chivalry, and even Hotspur’s glory must wane for lack of thee to contend with.”This generous speech of the noble Piersie deeply affected all present. Sir Patrick Hepborne stole silently out of the tent to give way to his emotions in private, and to breathe the invigorating breeze of the evening, that sported among the dewy furze and the wild thyme that grew on the side of the hill. The moon was by this time up. Hepborne looked over the lower ground, that was now widely lighted up by her beams, where the furious and deadly strife had so lately raged, and where all was now comparatively still. The only signs of human life—and they spoke volumes for its folly, its frailty, and its insignificance—were the few torches that were here and there seen straggling about, carried by those who were creeping silently to and fro, over the field of the dead, looking for the bodies of their friends.Hepborne’s heart was already sufficiently attuned to sadness; and it led him to descend the slope before him, that he might be a spectator of the melancholy scene. As he wandered about from one busy group to another, he met his esquire, Mortimer Sang, who, so actively engaged at the beginning of[464]the battle, had fortunately escaped, covered indeed with wounds of little importance in themselves. His friend Roger Riddel, who had been a good deal hurt, but who had been also fortunate enough to survive an attack where it appeared almost impossible that a mouse could have escaped with life, was with him. They were employed in the pious duty of looking for some of their friends who had not appeared. After they had turned over many an unknown and nameless corpse, and many a body whose face had been familiar to them, on each of whom Roger Riddel had some short and pithy remark to bestow, they at last discovered the well-set form of Ralpho Proudfoot.“Good fellow, thy pride is laid low, I well wot,” cried Roger Riddel, as he held up the head of the dead man to the light of the torch, and discovered who he was.The same haughty expression that always characterised him still sat upon his forehead in death; his eyebrows were fiercely knit and his lip curled. His battle-axe was firmly grasped with both his hands, and a heap of English dead lay around him. He had fallen across the body of a Scottish man-at-arms, and on turning him up, Hepborne was shocked to behold the features of Robert Lindsay.“Ah me!” cried Roger Riddel; “what will become of thine ould father, Robin.”“Robert Lindsay!” said Sang—“Blessed Virgin!—no—it cannot be—ay—there is indeed that open countenance of truth the which was never moved with human wrath or wickedness. This is indeed a bitter blow to us all; and as for his poor father, as thou sayest, Roger, Heaven indeed knows how the old man may stand it, for poor Robert here was the only hope and comfort of his life. Let me but clip a lock of his hair, and take from his person such little trinkets as may peraunter prove soothing, though sad memorials, to the afflicted Gabriel.”“Alas, poor Robert Lindsay!—alas for poor Gabriel!” was all that Hepborne’s full heart could utter, as recollections of home, and of his boyish days, crowded upon him until his eyes ran over.The position in which their bodies were found sufficiently explained that Lindsay and Proudfoot had been fighting side by side in the midst of a cloud of foes. Lindsay had fallen first, and Proudfoot had stood over him, defending his dying friend, until, overpowered by numbers, he had been stretched across him, covered with mortal wounds. Near him lay the body of an English knight, and some of those who knew him declared him to be Sir Miers de Willoughby.[465]Hepborne saw that a grave was dug to contain the bodies of Lindsay and Proudfoot, and he himself assisted the esquires in depositing them in the earth, locked in each other’s embrace.
[Contents]CHAPTER LX.The Bishop’s Army—Sorrow for the Fate of the Heroic Douglas.The two brothers, the Earls of Dunbar and Moray, were now[460]left to command the Scottish army after the afflicting death of the Earl of Douglas. Deeply as they grieved for him, they had but little leisure for mourning, since every succeeding moment brought them in harassing rumours that the Bishop of Durham was coming against them with a great army. During the whole of the day succeeding the battle, and of the night which followed it, they were so kept on the alert that they could even do but little to succour the wounded or bury the dead. The prisoners, however, among whom were many renowned knights, besides the two Piersies, were treated with all that chivalric courtesy and hospitality for which the age was so remarkable. Sir Rafe was immediately despatched in a litter to Alnwick, that he might have the benefit of such careful treatment as might be most likely to cure the many and severe wounds he had received.After various false alarms, the second morning after the battle brought back the scouts, who had been sent to follow the flying enemy, and to gather what intelligence they might in the neighbourhood of Newcastle. By these men they were informed of the proclamation which had been made in the town, and of the proposed march of the Bishop of Durham’s large army. A council of war was immediately held, and the opinion was unanimous that they should remain where they were to receive the Bishop in their present position, which they had already proved to be so favourable for successful defence against superior numbers, rather than march harassed as they were with a number of wounded and prisoners, and with the risk of being overtaken in unfavourable ground. They accordingly hastened to strengthen themselves in the best way they could; and, as they had but little time for a choice of plans, they piled up an abattis, formed of the dead bodies of the slain, on the top of the broken rampart that stretched across between the flanking marches, and defended the entrance to their position.Before the enemy appeared, a very serious question arose for the consideration of the leaders. Their prisoners amounted to above a thousand, and what was to be done with them? To have put them to death would have been so barbarous that such an idea could not be entertained for a moment in such times; yet, as their number was nearly equal to half their little army, the danger they ran from their breaking loose upon them during the fight, and even turning the tide of battle against them, was sufficiently apparent to every one. At length, after much debate and deliberation, it was generally resolved to trust them. They were accordingly drawn up in the centre of the camp, and an[461]oath administered to them that they should not stir from the spot during the ensuing battle, and that, be the result what it might, they should still consider themselves as prisoners to Scotland. After this solemnity, they left them slenderly guarded by some of the varlets and wainmen, with perfect confidence that they would keep their oath.Then it was that the Earl of Dunbar thus encouraged his soldiers, after having drawn them up behind their lines.“My brave Scots,” said he, “ye who have hardly yet well breathed sith that ye did conquer the renowned Piersies of Northumberland, can have little fear, I trow, to encounter a mitred priest. Verily, though his host be great, it will be but two strokes when both shepherd and sheep will be dispersed, and we shall teach this pastoral knight that it were better for him to be a scourger of schoolboy urchins with birchen rods than to essay thus, with the sword, to do battle against bearded soldiers.”This speech was received with shouts by the little army to which it was addressed, and, “Douglas, Douglas! revenge our brave, our beloved Douglas!” was heard to break from every part of the line. The two Earls had hardly completed their preparations, when the approach of the Bishop of Durham’s army was announced. Orders were immediately issued for each soldier to blow the horn he carried, and the loud and discordant sound of these rude and variously-toned instruments being re-echoed and multiplied from the hills, was distinctly audible at several miles’ distance. It rung in the ears of the Bishop, and very much appalled him. Had it not been for a spice of shame he felt, he would have been disposed to have gone no farther; but the knights and esquires who were with him were still sanguine in their hopes of successfully attacking, with so large a force, the small army of the Scots, wasted as it was by the recent bloody engagement.“Verily, it is a sinful thing to trust in the arm of flesh,” said the Bishop, growing paler and paler. “Who knoweth what may be the issue of the battle? Trust not in numbers.Non salvatur rex per multam virtutem; even the bravery of a Bishop shall not always win the fight.Gigas non salvabitur inmultitudinevirtutis suæ; even the courage of the greatest of Churchmen shall not always prevail.Fallax equus ad salutem; a horse is counted but a vain thing to save a man. St. Cuthbert grant,” ejaculated he in a lower tone—“St. Cuthbert grant that our steeds may be preserved.”The Bishop, however, dissembling his feelings as well as he[462]could, continued to advance in good order until he came within sight of the Scots; when, beholding the strength of their position, and the horrible bulwark of defence they had constructed with the heaps of the dead bodies of the English whom they had already sacrificed, and listening to their wild shrieks of defiance, mingled with the increased sound of their horns, his blood froze within him, and he halted to reason with those who had been so prone to attack the foe. But opinions had been mightily changed in the course of a mile’s march. The knights and esquires, who had been lately so bold, now listened with becoming patience to the prudent arguments of their reverend leader; and when, after a considerable halt, and holding a communication with the Castle of Otterbourne, the Bishop did at last give the word for his army to retreat, there was not a single voice lifted in condemnation of the movement.When it was fully ascertained in the Scottish army that the retrograde march of the English was no manœuvre, but a genuine retreat, a strong guard of observation was planted, and orders were given to proceed with the sad duty, already too long neglected, of collecting such of the wounded as had lain miserably on the plain, without food or attention, ever since they had fallen. Parties were also appointed to bury the dead.The body of the heroic Douglas had never been deserted by the affectionate Lundie, who, though himself grievously wounded, sat watching it by the thicket where he died, until the termination of the battle and the break of day enabled the Saintclaires, the Earl of Moray, and the Hepbornes, to come to his aid. Then was his honoured corpse carried to the camp; but it was not till after the departure of the Bishop of Durham, that the Earls of Moray and Dunbar, accompanied by the whole chivalry of the Scottish army, met together at night in the pavilion of the Douglas. There—sad contrast to the happy night which they had so lately spent in the same place, under the cheering influence of his large, mild, and benignant eye!—they came to behold his body laid out in state. It was attended, even in death, by those who had never abandoned him in life. By the side of his bier lay his brave son Archibald, who had so well fulfilled his last injunctions. At his feet were stretched his two faithful esquires, who had so nobly perished with their master. Near them stood Robert Hop Pringle, leaning on the Douglas’s shield, who, having been separated from him in the thickest press, had fought like a lion, vainly searching for him through the field, and who now looked with an eye of mingled grief and envy on his comrades. Richard Lundie too was there, wounded[463]as he was, to perform a solemn service for that soul with which he had long held the closest and dearest converse. The place was dimly illuminated by the red glare of numerous torches, held by some hardy soldiers, who, though formed of the coarsest human clay, were yet unable to look towards the bier where lay the body of their brave commander, whose fearless heart had so often led them on to glory, without the big tears running down the furrows of their weather-beaten cheeks. Those who were tempered of finer mould, and whose rank had brought them into closer contact with the Douglas, and, above all, those whom strict friendship had bound to him, though they struggled hard to bear up like men, were forced to yield to the feelings that oppressed them. So overpowering indeed was the scene that Harry Piersie himself, who had craved permission to be present, wept tears of unfeigned sorrow over the remains of him who had been so lately his noble rival in the field of fame. “Douglas,” said he with a quivering lip that marked the intensity of his feelings, “what would I not give to see that lofty brow of thine again illumined with the radiant sunshine of thy godlike soul? Accursed be my folly—accursed be my foolish pride! Would that the curtailment of half the future life of Hotspur could be given to restore and eke out thine! God wot how joyously he would now make the willing sacrifice. Thou hast not left thy peer in chivalry, and even Hotspur’s glory must wane for lack of thee to contend with.”This generous speech of the noble Piersie deeply affected all present. Sir Patrick Hepborne stole silently out of the tent to give way to his emotions in private, and to breathe the invigorating breeze of the evening, that sported among the dewy furze and the wild thyme that grew on the side of the hill. The moon was by this time up. Hepborne looked over the lower ground, that was now widely lighted up by her beams, where the furious and deadly strife had so lately raged, and where all was now comparatively still. The only signs of human life—and they spoke volumes for its folly, its frailty, and its insignificance—were the few torches that were here and there seen straggling about, carried by those who were creeping silently to and fro, over the field of the dead, looking for the bodies of their friends.Hepborne’s heart was already sufficiently attuned to sadness; and it led him to descend the slope before him, that he might be a spectator of the melancholy scene. As he wandered about from one busy group to another, he met his esquire, Mortimer Sang, who, so actively engaged at the beginning of[464]the battle, had fortunately escaped, covered indeed with wounds of little importance in themselves. His friend Roger Riddel, who had been a good deal hurt, but who had been also fortunate enough to survive an attack where it appeared almost impossible that a mouse could have escaped with life, was with him. They were employed in the pious duty of looking for some of their friends who had not appeared. After they had turned over many an unknown and nameless corpse, and many a body whose face had been familiar to them, on each of whom Roger Riddel had some short and pithy remark to bestow, they at last discovered the well-set form of Ralpho Proudfoot.“Good fellow, thy pride is laid low, I well wot,” cried Roger Riddel, as he held up the head of the dead man to the light of the torch, and discovered who he was.The same haughty expression that always characterised him still sat upon his forehead in death; his eyebrows were fiercely knit and his lip curled. His battle-axe was firmly grasped with both his hands, and a heap of English dead lay around him. He had fallen across the body of a Scottish man-at-arms, and on turning him up, Hepborne was shocked to behold the features of Robert Lindsay.“Ah me!” cried Roger Riddel; “what will become of thine ould father, Robin.”“Robert Lindsay!” said Sang—“Blessed Virgin!—no—it cannot be—ay—there is indeed that open countenance of truth the which was never moved with human wrath or wickedness. This is indeed a bitter blow to us all; and as for his poor father, as thou sayest, Roger, Heaven indeed knows how the old man may stand it, for poor Robert here was the only hope and comfort of his life. Let me but clip a lock of his hair, and take from his person such little trinkets as may peraunter prove soothing, though sad memorials, to the afflicted Gabriel.”“Alas, poor Robert Lindsay!—alas for poor Gabriel!” was all that Hepborne’s full heart could utter, as recollections of home, and of his boyish days, crowded upon him until his eyes ran over.The position in which their bodies were found sufficiently explained that Lindsay and Proudfoot had been fighting side by side in the midst of a cloud of foes. Lindsay had fallen first, and Proudfoot had stood over him, defending his dying friend, until, overpowered by numbers, he had been stretched across him, covered with mortal wounds. Near him lay the body of an English knight, and some of those who knew him declared him to be Sir Miers de Willoughby.[465]Hepborne saw that a grave was dug to contain the bodies of Lindsay and Proudfoot, and he himself assisted the esquires in depositing them in the earth, locked in each other’s embrace.
CHAPTER LX.The Bishop’s Army—Sorrow for the Fate of the Heroic Douglas.
The Bishop’s Army—Sorrow for the Fate of the Heroic Douglas.
The Bishop’s Army—Sorrow for the Fate of the Heroic Douglas.
The two brothers, the Earls of Dunbar and Moray, were now[460]left to command the Scottish army after the afflicting death of the Earl of Douglas. Deeply as they grieved for him, they had but little leisure for mourning, since every succeeding moment brought them in harassing rumours that the Bishop of Durham was coming against them with a great army. During the whole of the day succeeding the battle, and of the night which followed it, they were so kept on the alert that they could even do but little to succour the wounded or bury the dead. The prisoners, however, among whom were many renowned knights, besides the two Piersies, were treated with all that chivalric courtesy and hospitality for which the age was so remarkable. Sir Rafe was immediately despatched in a litter to Alnwick, that he might have the benefit of such careful treatment as might be most likely to cure the many and severe wounds he had received.After various false alarms, the second morning after the battle brought back the scouts, who had been sent to follow the flying enemy, and to gather what intelligence they might in the neighbourhood of Newcastle. By these men they were informed of the proclamation which had been made in the town, and of the proposed march of the Bishop of Durham’s large army. A council of war was immediately held, and the opinion was unanimous that they should remain where they were to receive the Bishop in their present position, which they had already proved to be so favourable for successful defence against superior numbers, rather than march harassed as they were with a number of wounded and prisoners, and with the risk of being overtaken in unfavourable ground. They accordingly hastened to strengthen themselves in the best way they could; and, as they had but little time for a choice of plans, they piled up an abattis, formed of the dead bodies of the slain, on the top of the broken rampart that stretched across between the flanking marches, and defended the entrance to their position.Before the enemy appeared, a very serious question arose for the consideration of the leaders. Their prisoners amounted to above a thousand, and what was to be done with them? To have put them to death would have been so barbarous that such an idea could not be entertained for a moment in such times; yet, as their number was nearly equal to half their little army, the danger they ran from their breaking loose upon them during the fight, and even turning the tide of battle against them, was sufficiently apparent to every one. At length, after much debate and deliberation, it was generally resolved to trust them. They were accordingly drawn up in the centre of the camp, and an[461]oath administered to them that they should not stir from the spot during the ensuing battle, and that, be the result what it might, they should still consider themselves as prisoners to Scotland. After this solemnity, they left them slenderly guarded by some of the varlets and wainmen, with perfect confidence that they would keep their oath.Then it was that the Earl of Dunbar thus encouraged his soldiers, after having drawn them up behind their lines.“My brave Scots,” said he, “ye who have hardly yet well breathed sith that ye did conquer the renowned Piersies of Northumberland, can have little fear, I trow, to encounter a mitred priest. Verily, though his host be great, it will be but two strokes when both shepherd and sheep will be dispersed, and we shall teach this pastoral knight that it were better for him to be a scourger of schoolboy urchins with birchen rods than to essay thus, with the sword, to do battle against bearded soldiers.”This speech was received with shouts by the little army to which it was addressed, and, “Douglas, Douglas! revenge our brave, our beloved Douglas!” was heard to break from every part of the line. The two Earls had hardly completed their preparations, when the approach of the Bishop of Durham’s army was announced. Orders were immediately issued for each soldier to blow the horn he carried, and the loud and discordant sound of these rude and variously-toned instruments being re-echoed and multiplied from the hills, was distinctly audible at several miles’ distance. It rung in the ears of the Bishop, and very much appalled him. Had it not been for a spice of shame he felt, he would have been disposed to have gone no farther; but the knights and esquires who were with him were still sanguine in their hopes of successfully attacking, with so large a force, the small army of the Scots, wasted as it was by the recent bloody engagement.“Verily, it is a sinful thing to trust in the arm of flesh,” said the Bishop, growing paler and paler. “Who knoweth what may be the issue of the battle? Trust not in numbers.Non salvatur rex per multam virtutem; even the bravery of a Bishop shall not always win the fight.Gigas non salvabitur inmultitudinevirtutis suæ; even the courage of the greatest of Churchmen shall not always prevail.Fallax equus ad salutem; a horse is counted but a vain thing to save a man. St. Cuthbert grant,” ejaculated he in a lower tone—“St. Cuthbert grant that our steeds may be preserved.”The Bishop, however, dissembling his feelings as well as he[462]could, continued to advance in good order until he came within sight of the Scots; when, beholding the strength of their position, and the horrible bulwark of defence they had constructed with the heaps of the dead bodies of the English whom they had already sacrificed, and listening to their wild shrieks of defiance, mingled with the increased sound of their horns, his blood froze within him, and he halted to reason with those who had been so prone to attack the foe. But opinions had been mightily changed in the course of a mile’s march. The knights and esquires, who had been lately so bold, now listened with becoming patience to the prudent arguments of their reverend leader; and when, after a considerable halt, and holding a communication with the Castle of Otterbourne, the Bishop did at last give the word for his army to retreat, there was not a single voice lifted in condemnation of the movement.When it was fully ascertained in the Scottish army that the retrograde march of the English was no manœuvre, but a genuine retreat, a strong guard of observation was planted, and orders were given to proceed with the sad duty, already too long neglected, of collecting such of the wounded as had lain miserably on the plain, without food or attention, ever since they had fallen. Parties were also appointed to bury the dead.The body of the heroic Douglas had never been deserted by the affectionate Lundie, who, though himself grievously wounded, sat watching it by the thicket where he died, until the termination of the battle and the break of day enabled the Saintclaires, the Earl of Moray, and the Hepbornes, to come to his aid. Then was his honoured corpse carried to the camp; but it was not till after the departure of the Bishop of Durham, that the Earls of Moray and Dunbar, accompanied by the whole chivalry of the Scottish army, met together at night in the pavilion of the Douglas. There—sad contrast to the happy night which they had so lately spent in the same place, under the cheering influence of his large, mild, and benignant eye!—they came to behold his body laid out in state. It was attended, even in death, by those who had never abandoned him in life. By the side of his bier lay his brave son Archibald, who had so well fulfilled his last injunctions. At his feet were stretched his two faithful esquires, who had so nobly perished with their master. Near them stood Robert Hop Pringle, leaning on the Douglas’s shield, who, having been separated from him in the thickest press, had fought like a lion, vainly searching for him through the field, and who now looked with an eye of mingled grief and envy on his comrades. Richard Lundie too was there, wounded[463]as he was, to perform a solemn service for that soul with which he had long held the closest and dearest converse. The place was dimly illuminated by the red glare of numerous torches, held by some hardy soldiers, who, though formed of the coarsest human clay, were yet unable to look towards the bier where lay the body of their brave commander, whose fearless heart had so often led them on to glory, without the big tears running down the furrows of their weather-beaten cheeks. Those who were tempered of finer mould, and whose rank had brought them into closer contact with the Douglas, and, above all, those whom strict friendship had bound to him, though they struggled hard to bear up like men, were forced to yield to the feelings that oppressed them. So overpowering indeed was the scene that Harry Piersie himself, who had craved permission to be present, wept tears of unfeigned sorrow over the remains of him who had been so lately his noble rival in the field of fame. “Douglas,” said he with a quivering lip that marked the intensity of his feelings, “what would I not give to see that lofty brow of thine again illumined with the radiant sunshine of thy godlike soul? Accursed be my folly—accursed be my foolish pride! Would that the curtailment of half the future life of Hotspur could be given to restore and eke out thine! God wot how joyously he would now make the willing sacrifice. Thou hast not left thy peer in chivalry, and even Hotspur’s glory must wane for lack of thee to contend with.”This generous speech of the noble Piersie deeply affected all present. Sir Patrick Hepborne stole silently out of the tent to give way to his emotions in private, and to breathe the invigorating breeze of the evening, that sported among the dewy furze and the wild thyme that grew on the side of the hill. The moon was by this time up. Hepborne looked over the lower ground, that was now widely lighted up by her beams, where the furious and deadly strife had so lately raged, and where all was now comparatively still. The only signs of human life—and they spoke volumes for its folly, its frailty, and its insignificance—were the few torches that were here and there seen straggling about, carried by those who were creeping silently to and fro, over the field of the dead, looking for the bodies of their friends.Hepborne’s heart was already sufficiently attuned to sadness; and it led him to descend the slope before him, that he might be a spectator of the melancholy scene. As he wandered about from one busy group to another, he met his esquire, Mortimer Sang, who, so actively engaged at the beginning of[464]the battle, had fortunately escaped, covered indeed with wounds of little importance in themselves. His friend Roger Riddel, who had been a good deal hurt, but who had been also fortunate enough to survive an attack where it appeared almost impossible that a mouse could have escaped with life, was with him. They were employed in the pious duty of looking for some of their friends who had not appeared. After they had turned over many an unknown and nameless corpse, and many a body whose face had been familiar to them, on each of whom Roger Riddel had some short and pithy remark to bestow, they at last discovered the well-set form of Ralpho Proudfoot.“Good fellow, thy pride is laid low, I well wot,” cried Roger Riddel, as he held up the head of the dead man to the light of the torch, and discovered who he was.The same haughty expression that always characterised him still sat upon his forehead in death; his eyebrows were fiercely knit and his lip curled. His battle-axe was firmly grasped with both his hands, and a heap of English dead lay around him. He had fallen across the body of a Scottish man-at-arms, and on turning him up, Hepborne was shocked to behold the features of Robert Lindsay.“Ah me!” cried Roger Riddel; “what will become of thine ould father, Robin.”“Robert Lindsay!” said Sang—“Blessed Virgin!—no—it cannot be—ay—there is indeed that open countenance of truth the which was never moved with human wrath or wickedness. This is indeed a bitter blow to us all; and as for his poor father, as thou sayest, Roger, Heaven indeed knows how the old man may stand it, for poor Robert here was the only hope and comfort of his life. Let me but clip a lock of his hair, and take from his person such little trinkets as may peraunter prove soothing, though sad memorials, to the afflicted Gabriel.”“Alas, poor Robert Lindsay!—alas for poor Gabriel!” was all that Hepborne’s full heart could utter, as recollections of home, and of his boyish days, crowded upon him until his eyes ran over.The position in which their bodies were found sufficiently explained that Lindsay and Proudfoot had been fighting side by side in the midst of a cloud of foes. Lindsay had fallen first, and Proudfoot had stood over him, defending his dying friend, until, overpowered by numbers, he had been stretched across him, covered with mortal wounds. Near him lay the body of an English knight, and some of those who knew him declared him to be Sir Miers de Willoughby.[465]Hepborne saw that a grave was dug to contain the bodies of Lindsay and Proudfoot, and he himself assisted the esquires in depositing them in the earth, locked in each other’s embrace.
The two brothers, the Earls of Dunbar and Moray, were now[460]left to command the Scottish army after the afflicting death of the Earl of Douglas. Deeply as they grieved for him, they had but little leisure for mourning, since every succeeding moment brought them in harassing rumours that the Bishop of Durham was coming against them with a great army. During the whole of the day succeeding the battle, and of the night which followed it, they were so kept on the alert that they could even do but little to succour the wounded or bury the dead. The prisoners, however, among whom were many renowned knights, besides the two Piersies, were treated with all that chivalric courtesy and hospitality for which the age was so remarkable. Sir Rafe was immediately despatched in a litter to Alnwick, that he might have the benefit of such careful treatment as might be most likely to cure the many and severe wounds he had received.
After various false alarms, the second morning after the battle brought back the scouts, who had been sent to follow the flying enemy, and to gather what intelligence they might in the neighbourhood of Newcastle. By these men they were informed of the proclamation which had been made in the town, and of the proposed march of the Bishop of Durham’s large army. A council of war was immediately held, and the opinion was unanimous that they should remain where they were to receive the Bishop in their present position, which they had already proved to be so favourable for successful defence against superior numbers, rather than march harassed as they were with a number of wounded and prisoners, and with the risk of being overtaken in unfavourable ground. They accordingly hastened to strengthen themselves in the best way they could; and, as they had but little time for a choice of plans, they piled up an abattis, formed of the dead bodies of the slain, on the top of the broken rampart that stretched across between the flanking marches, and defended the entrance to their position.
Before the enemy appeared, a very serious question arose for the consideration of the leaders. Their prisoners amounted to above a thousand, and what was to be done with them? To have put them to death would have been so barbarous that such an idea could not be entertained for a moment in such times; yet, as their number was nearly equal to half their little army, the danger they ran from their breaking loose upon them during the fight, and even turning the tide of battle against them, was sufficiently apparent to every one. At length, after much debate and deliberation, it was generally resolved to trust them. They were accordingly drawn up in the centre of the camp, and an[461]oath administered to them that they should not stir from the spot during the ensuing battle, and that, be the result what it might, they should still consider themselves as prisoners to Scotland. After this solemnity, they left them slenderly guarded by some of the varlets and wainmen, with perfect confidence that they would keep their oath.
Then it was that the Earl of Dunbar thus encouraged his soldiers, after having drawn them up behind their lines.
“My brave Scots,” said he, “ye who have hardly yet well breathed sith that ye did conquer the renowned Piersies of Northumberland, can have little fear, I trow, to encounter a mitred priest. Verily, though his host be great, it will be but two strokes when both shepherd and sheep will be dispersed, and we shall teach this pastoral knight that it were better for him to be a scourger of schoolboy urchins with birchen rods than to essay thus, with the sword, to do battle against bearded soldiers.”
This speech was received with shouts by the little army to which it was addressed, and, “Douglas, Douglas! revenge our brave, our beloved Douglas!” was heard to break from every part of the line. The two Earls had hardly completed their preparations, when the approach of the Bishop of Durham’s army was announced. Orders were immediately issued for each soldier to blow the horn he carried, and the loud and discordant sound of these rude and variously-toned instruments being re-echoed and multiplied from the hills, was distinctly audible at several miles’ distance. It rung in the ears of the Bishop, and very much appalled him. Had it not been for a spice of shame he felt, he would have been disposed to have gone no farther; but the knights and esquires who were with him were still sanguine in their hopes of successfully attacking, with so large a force, the small army of the Scots, wasted as it was by the recent bloody engagement.
“Verily, it is a sinful thing to trust in the arm of flesh,” said the Bishop, growing paler and paler. “Who knoweth what may be the issue of the battle? Trust not in numbers.Non salvatur rex per multam virtutem; even the bravery of a Bishop shall not always win the fight.Gigas non salvabitur inmultitudinevirtutis suæ; even the courage of the greatest of Churchmen shall not always prevail.Fallax equus ad salutem; a horse is counted but a vain thing to save a man. St. Cuthbert grant,” ejaculated he in a lower tone—“St. Cuthbert grant that our steeds may be preserved.”
The Bishop, however, dissembling his feelings as well as he[462]could, continued to advance in good order until he came within sight of the Scots; when, beholding the strength of their position, and the horrible bulwark of defence they had constructed with the heaps of the dead bodies of the English whom they had already sacrificed, and listening to their wild shrieks of defiance, mingled with the increased sound of their horns, his blood froze within him, and he halted to reason with those who had been so prone to attack the foe. But opinions had been mightily changed in the course of a mile’s march. The knights and esquires, who had been lately so bold, now listened with becoming patience to the prudent arguments of their reverend leader; and when, after a considerable halt, and holding a communication with the Castle of Otterbourne, the Bishop did at last give the word for his army to retreat, there was not a single voice lifted in condemnation of the movement.
When it was fully ascertained in the Scottish army that the retrograde march of the English was no manœuvre, but a genuine retreat, a strong guard of observation was planted, and orders were given to proceed with the sad duty, already too long neglected, of collecting such of the wounded as had lain miserably on the plain, without food or attention, ever since they had fallen. Parties were also appointed to bury the dead.
The body of the heroic Douglas had never been deserted by the affectionate Lundie, who, though himself grievously wounded, sat watching it by the thicket where he died, until the termination of the battle and the break of day enabled the Saintclaires, the Earl of Moray, and the Hepbornes, to come to his aid. Then was his honoured corpse carried to the camp; but it was not till after the departure of the Bishop of Durham, that the Earls of Moray and Dunbar, accompanied by the whole chivalry of the Scottish army, met together at night in the pavilion of the Douglas. There—sad contrast to the happy night which they had so lately spent in the same place, under the cheering influence of his large, mild, and benignant eye!—they came to behold his body laid out in state. It was attended, even in death, by those who had never abandoned him in life. By the side of his bier lay his brave son Archibald, who had so well fulfilled his last injunctions. At his feet were stretched his two faithful esquires, who had so nobly perished with their master. Near them stood Robert Hop Pringle, leaning on the Douglas’s shield, who, having been separated from him in the thickest press, had fought like a lion, vainly searching for him through the field, and who now looked with an eye of mingled grief and envy on his comrades. Richard Lundie too was there, wounded[463]as he was, to perform a solemn service for that soul with which he had long held the closest and dearest converse. The place was dimly illuminated by the red glare of numerous torches, held by some hardy soldiers, who, though formed of the coarsest human clay, were yet unable to look towards the bier where lay the body of their brave commander, whose fearless heart had so often led them on to glory, without the big tears running down the furrows of their weather-beaten cheeks. Those who were tempered of finer mould, and whose rank had brought them into closer contact with the Douglas, and, above all, those whom strict friendship had bound to him, though they struggled hard to bear up like men, were forced to yield to the feelings that oppressed them. So overpowering indeed was the scene that Harry Piersie himself, who had craved permission to be present, wept tears of unfeigned sorrow over the remains of him who had been so lately his noble rival in the field of fame. “Douglas,” said he with a quivering lip that marked the intensity of his feelings, “what would I not give to see that lofty brow of thine again illumined with the radiant sunshine of thy godlike soul? Accursed be my folly—accursed be my foolish pride! Would that the curtailment of half the future life of Hotspur could be given to restore and eke out thine! God wot how joyously he would now make the willing sacrifice. Thou hast not left thy peer in chivalry, and even Hotspur’s glory must wane for lack of thee to contend with.”
This generous speech of the noble Piersie deeply affected all present. Sir Patrick Hepborne stole silently out of the tent to give way to his emotions in private, and to breathe the invigorating breeze of the evening, that sported among the dewy furze and the wild thyme that grew on the side of the hill. The moon was by this time up. Hepborne looked over the lower ground, that was now widely lighted up by her beams, where the furious and deadly strife had so lately raged, and where all was now comparatively still. The only signs of human life—and they spoke volumes for its folly, its frailty, and its insignificance—were the few torches that were here and there seen straggling about, carried by those who were creeping silently to and fro, over the field of the dead, looking for the bodies of their friends.
Hepborne’s heart was already sufficiently attuned to sadness; and it led him to descend the slope before him, that he might be a spectator of the melancholy scene. As he wandered about from one busy group to another, he met his esquire, Mortimer Sang, who, so actively engaged at the beginning of[464]the battle, had fortunately escaped, covered indeed with wounds of little importance in themselves. His friend Roger Riddel, who had been a good deal hurt, but who had been also fortunate enough to survive an attack where it appeared almost impossible that a mouse could have escaped with life, was with him. They were employed in the pious duty of looking for some of their friends who had not appeared. After they had turned over many an unknown and nameless corpse, and many a body whose face had been familiar to them, on each of whom Roger Riddel had some short and pithy remark to bestow, they at last discovered the well-set form of Ralpho Proudfoot.
“Good fellow, thy pride is laid low, I well wot,” cried Roger Riddel, as he held up the head of the dead man to the light of the torch, and discovered who he was.
The same haughty expression that always characterised him still sat upon his forehead in death; his eyebrows were fiercely knit and his lip curled. His battle-axe was firmly grasped with both his hands, and a heap of English dead lay around him. He had fallen across the body of a Scottish man-at-arms, and on turning him up, Hepborne was shocked to behold the features of Robert Lindsay.
“Ah me!” cried Roger Riddel; “what will become of thine ould father, Robin.”
“Robert Lindsay!” said Sang—“Blessed Virgin!—no—it cannot be—ay—there is indeed that open countenance of truth the which was never moved with human wrath or wickedness. This is indeed a bitter blow to us all; and as for his poor father, as thou sayest, Roger, Heaven indeed knows how the old man may stand it, for poor Robert here was the only hope and comfort of his life. Let me but clip a lock of his hair, and take from his person such little trinkets as may peraunter prove soothing, though sad memorials, to the afflicted Gabriel.”
“Alas, poor Robert Lindsay!—alas for poor Gabriel!” was all that Hepborne’s full heart could utter, as recollections of home, and of his boyish days, crowded upon him until his eyes ran over.
The position in which their bodies were found sufficiently explained that Lindsay and Proudfoot had been fighting side by side in the midst of a cloud of foes. Lindsay had fallen first, and Proudfoot had stood over him, defending his dying friend, until, overpowered by numbers, he had been stretched across him, covered with mortal wounds. Near him lay the body of an English knight, and some of those who knew him declared him to be Sir Miers de Willoughby.[465]
Hepborne saw that a grave was dug to contain the bodies of Lindsay and Proudfoot, and he himself assisted the esquires in depositing them in the earth, locked in each other’s embrace.