Cressy & Poictiers
by John G. Edgar · English · Gutenberg #45819 · 614,325 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Cressy & Poictiers
The story of the Black Prince's page
Author: John G. Edgar
Editor: Ernest Rhys
Release date: May 29, 2014 [eBook #45819]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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Everyman's Library
Edited by Ernest Rhys
Fiction
CRESSY AND POICTIERS
With an Introduction by Ernest Rhys
* * * * * *
THE PUBLISHERS OF _EVERYMAN'S
LIBRARY_ WILL BE PLEASED TO SEND
FREELY TO ALL APPLICANTS A LIST
OF THE PUBLISHED AND PROJECTED
VOLUMES TO BE COMPRISED UNDER
THE FOLLOWING TWELVE HEADINGS:
TRAVEL * SCIENCE * FICTION
THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY
HISTORY * CLASSICAL
CHILDREN'S BOOKS
ESSAYS * ORATORY
POETRY & DRAMA
BIOGRAPHY
ROMANCE
[Illustration]
IN TWO STYLES OF BINDING, CLOTH
FLAT BACK COLOURED TOP AND
LEATHER ROUND CORNERS GILT TOP.
LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO.
* * * * * *
[Illustration]
A TALE
WHICH
HOLDETH
CHILDREN
FROM PLAY
& OLD MEN
FROM THE
CHIMNEY
CORNER
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
* * * * * *
[Illustration]
CRESSY & POICTIERS
The Story of the Black Prince's Page
by
J. G. EDGAR
London: Published
by J. M. Dent & Co
And In New York
by E. P. Dutton & Co
First Edition February 1906
Reprinted April 1906
Plymouth: William Brendon and Son, Ltd.
Printers
Introduction.
"Ivanhoe," picturing the days of Richard Coeur de Lion, leapt over
all but a couple of centuries to draw upon Froissart. The present
romance of Edward the Black Prince's time is well within the barriers
of the best of all the romantic chroniclers, and perhaps its chief
merit is that it is both historically and romantically an avowed
Froissart book. Its author, J. G. Edgar, who was of course not a Walter
Scott, wrote and was content to write for "Beeton's Boys' Own Magazine"
in its palmy days, between forty and fifty years ago, when its editor
had a very distinct idea of bringing English history into holiday
range. Edgar was one of his chief contributors, and wrote some capital
stories and histories, of which three or four are still in favour, and
this story of "Cressy and Poictiers" is the best of them.
Edgar, being a minor and not a major romancer, gave less rein to his
fantasy than Scott, and kept closer to his originals. He conceived
in this story the happy idea of accommodating the Black Prince with
an adventurous and vain-glorious page, whom he calls Arthur Winram,
who is, as a necessity of fiction, bound to be of nobler birth than
that name would seem to say, and to be subject to the wicked designs
of those who would keep him from his birthright. Through the eyes of
this page are viewed the martial events and pageantry in the career
of the Black Prince, leading up to the fields of Creçy and Poictiers,
and so to the Prince's death. Thus there are three chief fortunes at
stake: that of the page and hero, that of the Black Prince, and that of
England herself.
If you turn from the romance to the actual story of the Black Prince,
as it is told by the historians, you will find the details in which
Edgar differs from them are either those that are necessarily
fictitious, or those that are not very essential. And if you compare
his book with Froissart, you will find that once he has got on common
ground with the fourteenth-century chronicler, he keeps pretty well on
terms with him in the succession of events.
Edgar takes 1328 as the year of his page and hero's birth; and that was
a year to "precipitate affairs," as the chroniclers of a later date
than Froissart's used to say. In that year Charles of France died, and
Philip of Valois was elected by the peers and barons of France to the
realm, and so put out the Queen of England, Isabel, daughter of Philip
le Beau, who was the next heir.
"Thus," says Froissart, "passed this realm of France out of her right
lineage, as it hath been deemed by many." And thus came many wars and
dire calamities. And "this is the very foundation of this history, to
recount the great enterprises and feats of arms that have fallen: for
since the time of Charlemagne there never befell so great adventures."
In the same year--that is, 1328--King Edward married Philippa of
Hainault. "The English chronicle saith this marriage and coronation of
the queen was done at York with much honour." In the year following,
their first-born child, Edward, afterwards called the Black Prince,
blessed this union.
This gives us the year of 1344 (when the Black Prince was fifteen, and
his future page a year older) as the natural one for this boyish tale
of adventure to open. It was the year when Philip of Valois murdered
twelve Breton hostages, and Edward vowed revenge; and this was the
time, too, of the revolt in Flanders. In 1345, Jacob von Arteveldt was
the victim of the mob. "Poor men first set him high, and evil men slew
him," says Froissart. One may compare the romance with the chronicle
here to the advantage of the latter. In the eleventh chapter of the
story we are at Caen; and Froissart's chronicles give us one or two
inimitable story-teller's cues of which hardly sufficient account is
made. That little tower at the foot of the bridge, seen at the end of
the street, and the one-eyed knight Sir Thomas, who saved the lives of
many dames and damosels and cloisterers, as he rode through the town,
make one of those medieval pictures, lifelike and minute, which are
like little windows into actual history.
Many such episodes fill in the story before we come to the big
battle-piece of Creçy. In the preamble, good use is made of the guide,
Gobin Agace, who guides the English in the passage of the Somme, at
the passage called Blanche Paque. There is no better account anywhere
in history and romance than that Froissart gives of Cressy at its
most striking moments. It may seem here and there that something of
the confusion of the field itself obscures his story; but his strokes
are sure and tell-tale as can be desired when the climax comes; and
wonderfully he uses the natural effects--the storm, the great rain,
the thunder and lightning; and then the ominous flight of crows over
both battles; and the sudden bright emergence of the sun, to dazzle the
Frenchmen's eyes, and warm the stout backs of the English; and finally
the arrow-shot of the English archers, so thick and so concerted, that
"it seemed to be snow!" The disastrous failure of the Genoese crossbows
in reply we find both in Froissart and in Edgar's pages; and the detail
of the King's post, "on a little windmill hill," where he hears that
his son, the Prince, is hard pressed, and says: "Let them suffer him
this day to win his spurs!" is another famous incident on which the
chronicler and the novelist draw alike.
One or two circumstances of the battle are slightly changed in Edgar's
page. The strength of the English position on the high ground, upon
the right bank of the river, is hardly made so clear as might be. The
English are seated on a large plain when first seen by Philip, in the
romance. Edgar would have gained by comparing Froissart with other
records in picturing this scene. Again, he does not speak of the small
cannon that were used at Creçy, though at the siege of Calais they are
remembered in his account. Froissart says expressly, however, that
small cannon were posted between the archers; and Edward certainly took
cannon with him from England. The cannon used in the siege of Calais
threw balls of three or four ounces weight.
The Black Prince's page is made a prisoner after Creçy; and the
succeeding chain of events is again not quite given its proportionate
effect in the romance. However, we have some compensation--the battle
of Neville's Cross, which Froissart, by the way, reports to have taken
place only three miles from Newcastle-on-Tyne and calls after that
famous old town accordingly. Then succeeds the siege of Calais, and
its surrender on the 3rd August, 1347. One passage here from Froissart
that is not in Edgar is too good for either romance or history to
forget. It is where the French herald Sir John returns into the
beleaguered town with the message of the English King:
"Then Sir John went unto the market place, and sounded the common bell:
then, all incontinent, men and women assembled there, and the captain
made report of all he had done, and said, 'Sirs, it will be none
otherwise, therefore now take advice, and make a short answer.' Then
all the people began to weep and make such sorrow, that there was not
so hard a heart, if they had seen them, but that would have had great
pity of them; the captain himself wept piteously."
At this surrender of Calais, the question whether the six townsmen came
forth with halters round their necks or with ropes in their hands need
not disturb the reader. Tradition favours the former, and plain history
the latter.
It is at the battle of Poictiers that the real value of Edgar's story
as a tributary current leading into the broad stream of history is best
to be discovered. One more illustration from Froissart may be given
here, because it has to do with an incident which gave Edgar one of his
clues. It is that of the scene where the Squire of Picardy, Johan de
Helenes, takes the Lord Berkeley, who had been pursuing him.
"And when he had pursued him the space of a league, the said John
turned again, and laid his sword in rest instead of a spear, and so
came running toward the Lord Berkeley, who lift up his sword to have
stricken the Squire. But when he saw the stroke come, he turned from
it, so that the Englishman lost his stroke; and John struck him as he
passed on the arm, that the Lord Berkeley's sword fell into the field."
This is enough to show how close the martial passes and exchanges in
the story keep to the picture seen by Froissart.
One of the drawbacks of the story as a piece of history, as something
more than a picture, is that it does not make us realise the
daring--the merciless, impressive personal effect of the Prince; or the
tragedy then of the last illness pursuing this man of force all through
the final campaign; for his end in this book is a casual matter,
treated in a postscript or little more than that. But the romance
carries us through an extraordinary and overwhelming series of events,
and serves to stimulate--although Edgar's manner is staid comparatively
with other romancers of history--a new delight in the heroic and
chivalric colours of the time.
Sir John Chandos and the Cardinal of Perigord, as they pass through
Edgar's story, do not leave you at all satisfied to know them only
there. It is of the nature of good romance to suggest and not to
complete, offering an oblique reflection of great affairs and huge
figures; and if Edgar's mirror in this is a fainter one than Scott's,
one is still grateful to him for holding it up to the fourteenth
century as he did. Read him with Froissart in reserve, and you have a
very good idea of that fighting time which was at once so valiant and
so meagre, so adventurous and so mortal for the soldiers and captains,
and often so terrible for the poor folk--men, women, and children, who,
like those of Caen, were massacred because their masters were pleased
to be militant.
One other point remains, which has perplexed the historians and is of
extreme interest in romance, and that has to do with the Black Prince's
proverbial colour. Was it his armour, or the terror he caused, that
made men call him "Black"? Froissart never uses the label at all; but
there is evidence of his black armour, and romance dare not now change
his coat.
THE FOLLOWING ARE THE PUBLISHED WORKS OF JOHN GEORGE EDGAR
1834-1864
_Biography for Boys_, 1853.
_The Boyhood of Great Men_, 1853.
_History for Boys_, 1855.
_Boy Princes_, 1857.
_The Heroes of England_, 1858.
_The Wars of the Roses_, 1859.
_The Crusades and the Crusaders_, 1860.
_Cavaliers and Roundheads_, 1861.
_Sea Kings and Naval Heroes_, 1861.
_Memorable Events of Modern History_, 1862.
_Danes, Saxons, and Normans_, 1863.
_Cressy and Poictiers_ (in Beeton's _Boys' Own Magazine_, 1863), 1865.
_Historical Anecdotes of Animals_, 1865.
_Runnymede and Lincoln Fair_, 1866.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Introduction 1
II. The Falcon in Gracechurch 2
III. Winning the Peacock 6
IV. At my Grandsire's Homestead 10
V. Jack Fletcher 14
VI. War with France 19
VII. Windsor Castle 25
VIII. Edward the Black Prince 29
IX. King Edward's Defiance 36
X. The Voyage 40
XI. March of the Invaders 43
XII. A Snare 45
XIII. The Broken Bridges 49
XIV. A Rush for Liberty 50
XV. Hunting a King 55
XVI. Gobin Agace 58
XVII. How we Forded the Somme 61
XVIII. The Eve of Battle 64
XIX. The Battle of Cressy 66
XX. My Adventures at Cressy 72
XXI. At La Broyes 79
XXII. The Siege of Calais 83
XXIII. My Release 87
XXIV. The Falcon Revisited 90
XXV. The Crisis 98
XXVI. The Eve of Battle 102
XXVII. Face to Face 106
XXVIII. Neville's Cross 109
XXIX. Royalty in a Rage 113
XXX. At Calais 118
XXXI. The Luck of John Copeland 121
XXXII. Arrivals 126
XXXIII. No Road 131
XXXIV. Surrender of Calais 135
XXXV. A Runaway Bridegroom 140
XXXVI. How Calais was Repeopled 142
XXXVII. A Mysterious Visit 146
XXXVIII. Calais in Peril 150
XXXIX. The Lords De Ov 154
XL. Too Late 159
XLI. How Calais was Saved 162
XLII. A Princess in Peril 168
XLIII. The Plague of Florence 173
XLIV. John, King of France 176
XLV. Renewal of the War 180
XLVI. A Town Lost and Won 184
XLVII. "A Douglas!" 189
XLVIII. Burnt Candlemas 194
XLIX. Our Captivity 197
L. Chased by Bloodhounds 204
LI. At Bordeaux 211
LII. The Prince in Black Armour 214
LIII. The Incursion 217
LIV. The Coming Foe 221
LV. An Unwelcome Discovery 224
LVI. Poictiers 227
LVII. Sunday Morning 229
LVIII. The Peace-maker 233
LIX. Chandos and Clermont 236
LX. The Array of the English 239
LXI. Rout of the Marshals 242
LXII. The Prince in the Battle 244
LXIII. Adventures in the Field 248
LXIV. A Royal Captive 251
LXV. How I Rescued my worst Enemy 254
LXVI. The Scots at Poictiers 256
LXVII. The Victors and the Vanquished 259
LXVIII. The March to Bordeaux 261
LXIX. The Prince and his Captive 264
LXX. Death of Queen Isabel 268
LXXI. What Befell Lord De Ov 272
LXXII. Marriage of the Black Prince 274
LXXIII. The Challenge 278
LXXIV. Trial by Battle 281
LXXV. Glory and the Grave 283
CRESSY AND POICTIERS
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
In the fourteenth century, when the population of England was estimated
at two millions--when our railways were bridle-roads and our cornfields
forests, and when the capital was a little town enclosed by an old
Roman fortified wall, with towers and turrets--no festival, save
Christmas and May Day, was regarded with more interest than Midsummer
Eve, or the vigil of St. John the Baptist.
Great was the commotion, much the ceremony, in London on such
occasions; and as the shades of evening fell, young and old, high
and low, rich and poor, participated in the excitement of the hour.
The houses were decorated with branches of green birch, long fennel,
St. John's rush, and orpine; and as night closed over the city the
inhabitants illuminated their dwellings with clusters of lamps, and
made the streets resound with merriment and song.
At the same time, the ceremony of "setting the watch"--a body of armed
guards, instituted in the reign of the third Henry to keep the peace,
and prevent robberies and outrages--was performed with much show and
splendour. On this ceremony, indeed, large sums of money were expended,
and the watchmen, arrayed "in bright harness," marched in procession,
accompanied by the Lord Mayor and aldermen, the city officers, a crowd
of minstrels, giants, and morris-dancers; while blazing cressets and
huge torches, borne on men's shoulders, threw a flood of light over the
scene, and raised the wonder of the thronging populace.
Meanwhile, a large fire was kindled in the street, and stirred to a
blaze, which was intended to typify the patron saint of the day. Around
this fire lads and lasses danced and disported themselves merrily to
the sound of music. Many and gay were the capers they cut as the flames
rose and fell. Sometimes they leaped over the fire amid many shouts,
and at others they looked through garlands at the flame, believing
that, by so doing, they freed themselves from various pains and
diseases, present and prospective.
Not till midnight--sometimes not till dawn--did the dancing cease; and
as soon as day broke, while the dew was still on the grass and flowers,
the young women went forth to practise certain rites, by which they
believed they could assure themselves of the constancy or inconstancy
of their wooers. Collecting garlands of flowers, the nymphs bound them
on their heads, and according as the dew remained a longer or shorter
time on the flowers, they augured more or less favourably of the
fidelity of their lovers. Moreover, they secured a snow-white wether,
decorated it with garlands, and, enclosing it in a hut of heath, danced
and sang around. She who wished to test her fortune stood by the door,
and if the wether remained quiet she considered the omen good; but if
he pushed his horns through the door of the hut, she concluded that her
suitor was to prove false.
Such was the great medieval festival that was being celebrated at the
time when our chronicle opens, when Edward III. was King of England,
and on the point of undertaking the war with France, which resulted
in mighty victories won and splendid conquests achieved against great
odds; and when the hero of this story entered upon the remarkable
adventures which associated his name with that of the young conqueror
of Cressy and Poictiers--Edward, Prince of Wales, popularly known as
"the Black Prince."
CHAPTER II
THE FALCON IN GRACECHURCH
It was Midsummer Eve in the year 1344, and the citizens of London
were celebrating the festival of St. John the Baptist, when I, then
a stripling of fifteen, with a tall figure and a dreamy eye, like
that of one indulging much in internal visions, mounted on a little
black horse of great speed and high mettle, trotted by the side of my
aged grandsire, a tall and still vigorous man, into the capital of
England, and alighted at the hostelry known as the Falcon, situated in
Gracechurch, and kept by Thomelin of Winchester.
I had journeyed with my grandsire from his homestead at Greenmead,
on the border of Windsor Forest, and my eyes were, for the first
time, gladdened with a sight of London. Hitherto I had been reared in
obscurity; and, except on the occasion of a rare visit to the little
town of Windsor, I had seen nothing of life. I was well aware of the
disadvantages of my position; for, though brought up in obscurity, my
ambition was ardent; and, while seeing little of life, I was constantly
regaling my imagination with stirring scenes, in all of which I enacted
a conspicuous part.
My excitement on entering a city I had often longed to behold was
naturally high; and, as we rode along, I was much impressed with the
novelty of the scene. London and the Londoners were that evening in
holiday attire, and everything wore a gay aspect. The houses were
lighted up; the streets were crowded with the populace; and an unwonted
degree of jollity appeared to brighten every face. Even the beggar and
the outcast began to think their condition tolerable, as they watched
the kindling of the great fire which was to typify the saint of the
day, who has been described as "a burning and shining light."
It is not wonderful, indeed, all things considered, that such should
have been the case at the period of which I write. During the long and
prosperous reign of the first Edward, Englishmen, while enjoying the
blessings of freedom and order vigilantly guarded by law, had learned
to speak their minds without fear, and with little hesitation; and,
albeit nearly forty years had elapsed since the great king had been
laid at rest in Westminster Abbey, they had not yet unlearned the
lesson that an Englishman's words should be as free as his thoughts.
Nor, so far, was public order in any danger from the utmost freedom
of speech; for the House of Plantagenet was still so popular, that,
had the reigning sovereign deliberately gone among his subjects in
disguise, to learn what they thought of him, he would probably have
heard nothing more offensive to his ear than complaints as to the
rapacity of the royal purveyors. The day which I have lived to see
was not yet come when a crazy priest, like John Ball, could rouse a
populace to frenzy, or when a rude demagogue, like Wat Tyler, could
lead on a rabble to plunder and bloodshed.
"Adam of Greenmead," said the Thomelin of Winchester, as he rose to
welcome my grandsire and myself; "old kinsman, I am right glad to see
thee and thy grandson too. Body o' me, Arthur, it seems but yesterday
when you were cock-bird height, and now you have grown as tall and
handsome a lad as the girls would wish to set eyes on."
"And how farest thou, Thomelin?" asked my grandsire, as he seated
himself near the host, and I took a place by his side.
"Passing well, kinsman--passing well, the saints be thanked; and it
makes me all the better, methinks, since I see thee so hale and hearty."
"For that matter," said my grandsire, with an expression of discontent
in his face, "I am hale as a man who has seen threescore and ten years
can expect to be, and hearty as a man can hope to be in the days in
which we live."
"You are not pleased with the times we live in, kinsman," remarked
Thomelin.
"In truth, they are not much to my liking," said my grandsire. "As we
rode along, my mind went back to the time when King Edward hammered the
stubborn Scots at Falkirk, and to the day when he entered London, and
the Londoners kept holiday in honour of his victory."
"Grand times, doubtless," said Thomelin.
"Ay, you may well say so," exclaimed my grandsire, with a tear in his
eye. "England was then prosperous and contented. But now King Edward
has been thirty-seven years in his tomb, and the world has well-nigh
gone to ruin."
"No, no, Adam," protested Thomelin. "Matters are not so bad as you
fancy. The world goes on well enough--in fact, as well as ever--in its
way. Men buy and sell, sow and reap, marry and give in marriage; and,
albeit the king whom you serve is in his grave, we have a king who is
bravest among the brave, and wisest among the wise."
"But not so great as his grandfather was," said the old man in a
conclusive tone.
"Nevertheless, kinsman," observed Thomelin, as if anxious to change the
subject, "you have come to see London town once more."
"Even so; and yet, God's truth! I might have gone to my long home
without taking so much trouble; for what is London to me? But Arthur,
hearing that the lads of the town were to try their skill at the
quintain before the Prince of Wales, would come, reason or none."
"To see the display," suggested Thomelin.
"No, to try his own hand; and trust me, if I know anything of such
matters--and I ought--his chance is not small."
"I doubt it not, kinsman--I doubt it not," said Thomelin; "and yet I
know not how he is to get a chance; for the match is, in some measure,
confined to the Londoners, and strangers may not be admitted."
"Tell that not to me," replied my grandsire conclusively, and striking
the table with his clenched fist. "In my younger days I have seen not
only the sons of yeomen, but squires' and knights' sons take part in
such diversions; and if rules were relaxed then they can be relaxed
now."
"Well, kinsman, we must see what can be done," said Thomelin mildly,
but somewhat doubtfully. "Meanwhile, kinsmen, you must eat and drink,
and let me show to you what hospitality my house can afford, for the
sake of Richard Tythering, whose blood we both have in our veins."
"Ay; blood is thicker than water, as they say in the North," responded
my grandsire; "and trust me, Thomelin," he added, "my heart warms to
thee for thine own sake, and for that of thy mother; she was my first
cousin."
"And so, Arthur, my lad," said Thomelin, turning to me, "thou art
determined to win the peacock."
"I know not whether I can win the peacock or not," answered I, trying
not to appear too vain of my skill; "but I hope to do so; and, in any
case, I'll do my best."
CHAPTER III
WINNING THE PEACOCK
On the forenoon of St. John the Baptist's Day the Londoners crowded to
Smithfield to celebrate the festival with sports and diversions; and
thither I, mounting my horse, accompanied my grandsire and Thomelin of
Winchester.
Various were the spectacles there exhibited to please the populace; and
much was I interested with what I beheld. At one place a glee-woman
was dancing round an unmuzzled bear, which endeavoured to seize her,
while the keeper scourged the animal to excite its fury; at another,
two men, in warlike attire, armed with brand and buckler, were playing
at the sword-dance of the Anglo-Saxons to the sound of music, while a
woman danced round them as they combated; at a third, wrestlers were
exercising their skill in various attitudes; in one of which, said
to have been derived from the ancient Greeks, two men, each mounted
on the back of a comrade, encountered like knights on horseback, and
endeavoured to secure victory by pulling his antagonist to the ground.
But the chief point of attraction was a broad space, inclosed with
railings and covered with sawdust, where the youthful Londoners, in
imitation of apprentices to chivalry, were about to display their
dexterity at the quintain. In the courtyards of princes and feudal
magnates, the quintain was a wooden figure, made to resemble Saladin
the Great, or Bibars Bendocdar, or some other famous Saracen, holding a
shield in one hand, and brandishing a sabre in the other. However, that
erected in Smithfield was of a humbler description. In fact, it was
very much like a turnstile with two arms, which revolved on a spindle,
on one of which was a painted board resembling a shield, while from the
other hung a bag filled with sand.
Mounted on horseback, the youth, armed with a long staff or blunt
lance, rode at the quintain, and aimed at the wooden shield. If he
failed to strike it, all the spectators laughed him to scorn; and if he
struck it without making an escape in time, he was exposed, not only to
the ridicule of the spectators, but to the inconvenience of receiving a
severe blow on the neck from the sand-bag.
In other days, when the game of quintain was played at Smithfield,
squires and pages of the king's household had taken part in the
diversion, and added interest to the competition. Such was no longer
the case. On the present occasion, however, the crowd flocked to
witness the contest with more than the ordinary curiosity; for it was
known that John Hammond, Mayor of London, was to be present to award
the prize; and it was rumoured that the mayor was to do so because
the Prince of Wales intended to ride from Westminster to witness the
competition.
As the hour when the competitors were to mount approached, the crowd,
pressing, surging, and swaying, gathered round the inclosed space, and
manifested their interest in the coming contest by shouting the names
of their favourites. My grandsire, whose high head and white hair
commanded so much reverence that the spectators instinctively made
way for him, guided me to a place near the lord mayor's chair, and
was evincing much anxiety to lay before that functionary my claim to
compete for the peacock, when suddenly all attention was withdrawn from
the quintain by a cry of "The prince comes--long live the Prince of
Wales!"
I turned as the shout rose; and as the prince, with a train of young
nobles, and squires, and pages, rode up to the lord mayor, I gazed
for the first time, and earnestly, on the young hero, who, ere long,
was to prove himself the flower of all the chivalry of his age. At
that time Edward was not more than fifteen; but he was tall for his
years, fair to look upon, and distinguished by the manly beauty and
the intellectual air of the great Plantagenet race. Trained to feats
of strength in the tilt-yard and in the forest, his frame was strong
and vigorous, and his face glowed with health; and, as he rode forward
and uncovered his head, his grace and elegance of bearing moved the
admiration of the multitude, who, with one voice, renewed their shouts
of welcome and applause.
And now the business of the day commenced in earnest, and the youths
of London, one after another, mounted and rode at the quintain. The
result was not gratifying to the pride of the citizens. Indeed, fortune
proved adverse to each competitor in turn. Some altogether missed the
mark; others, after hitting the shield, failed to retire in time to
escape the blow of the sand-bag; and several who, in both respects,
were successful in two trials, failed in the third attempt, and were
consequently judged to have forfeited all claim to the prize. The
crowd jeered; the mayor looked gloomy; and the cavaliers surrounding
the prince sneered in contempt of the city chivalry; and many of the
Londoners who had intended to compete, discouraged by the failure of
their compeers, and fearing to tempt fortune, deemed it more discreet
to submit to obscurity than to expose themselves to ridicule, and
declined to try their skill.
It was at this stage of the proceedings that my grandsire, leading my
horse by the rein, drew nigh to the chair of the lord mayor, and raised
his voice.
"Sir," said the old man, "my grandson, who, albeit not a Londoner, is a
lad of mettle, and much given to exercises of this kind, would fain try
his skill, if he had your permission so to do."
"I know not how that may be," replied the mayor, eyeing me with
interest, "seeing that the competition is intended for the youths of
the city; and if a stranger bore off the prize, men might say that----"
"That you had taken the children's bread and given it to dogs,"
interrupted I, with a disdainful toss of the head; "wherefore, my lord
mayor, I will not trespass so far on your courtesy as to ask you to
relax the rules."
"A bold youth, on my faith," said the mayor, starting and colouring.
"However, my lord the prince shall decide."
"By good St. George! my lord mayor," exclaimed the prince, to whom my
display of spirit seemed the reverse of displeasing, "were I in your
place, I should certainly relax the rules, in order to make the sport
more worthy of the occasion."
"If such be your pleasure, my lord, I will strain a point;" and my
grandsire waving his hat in the air, said--
"Now, Arthur, lad, ride; and bear in mind that it is to the prince you
are beholden for the privilege granted thee."
I lost no time in obeying my grandsire; and, a new candidate for the
peacock having been announced, the crowd, with renewed interest,
turned again to the inclosed space, and speculated on my chances
of success. Nor, stranger as I was, did I meet with a discouraging
reception. At first, indeed, my rustic garments evoked remarks not
highly complimentary. But a closer examination disarmed prejudice; and
my firm seat, my equestrian skill, and something of juvenile audacity
with which I handled my blunt lance, created such an impression in
my favour, that the crowd raised an inciting cheer; and the prince,
turning to Roger, Lord De Ov, a young baron of high rank, who rode by
his side, exclaimed--
"A strong and handsome stripling, and one likely to acquit himself with
honour, here and elsewhere."
"A likely lad is Arthur," muttered Thomelin of Winchester to my
grandsire; "and, in the prince's presence, will do credit to his
bringing up."
Nor did mine host of the Falcon speak without prescience. Managing
my steed with perfect facility, and displaying with my weapon a
familiarity that had not characterised the Londoners who had preceded
me, I spurred towards the quintain, struck the shield fairly, and, ere
the spindle could revolve, retreated with seeming ease amid shouts of
applause. Three times I repeated the attempt, and on each occasion
performed the feat with such success, that the crowd shouted louder and
louder in compliment to my skill.
"Gallantly and dexterously done," said the prince, as, flushed with
exertion and excitement, I was brought to the presence of the mayor,
and uncovered my head.
I bowed low to the compliment so sincerely expressed.
"Thy name, youth?" said the prince.
"My lord," I answered, "my name is Arthur."
"And your surname?" continued the prince.
"I have no surname, my lord," replied I; "but since I won the ram at
the wrestling match at Windsor, on May Day, men have called me Arthur
Winram."
"Arthur Winram," said the prince, smiling. "Beshrew me! it sounds well,
and is a name that a ballad-maker would deem worthy to put in verse.
However," continued he, "I trust you will live to make yourself a
name worthy of your skill. Meanwhile," he added, "carry with you this
comfort, that your performance to-day has been marked and appreciated
by your king's son."
"Ha! my lord," interposed the Lord De Ov, "this hardly beseems you. We
have already tarried here long enough. Why waste words on this young
rustic? Let us ride;" and he laid his hand on the prince's rein.
"Roger De Ov, you forget yourself," said the prince haughtily, as
he was led off, after exchanging courtesies with the mayor; while
I, having watched his departure with a flashing eye, turned to my
grandsire, whose brow was bent darkly and sternly.
"Grandsire," asked I, my heart swelling with rage and mortification,
"who is that man?"
"What matters it, Arthur, my lad?" answered my grandsire, recovering
with a start. "Be calm and be silent, and thine hour will come.
Patience is a good palfrey, and will carry thee through many a day's
journey."
"I could feel it in my heart to follow the miscreant, and strike him,
even in the prince's presence," said I.
"And ruin yourself for ever. Nay, nay. Better let us carry the peacock
you have won to the Falcon, and drink a cup with Thomelin, my cousin,
ere we mount and ride homeward."
"Ay," said Thomelin; "let us to the Falcon."
And we went.
CHAPTER IV
AT MY GRANDSIRE'S HOMESTEAD
My grandsire's homestead, as I have already intimated, stood on the
outskirts of the royal forest of Windsor. It was a humble enough
tenement, but not without its comforts, and it occupied a fair spot
of ground, shadowed by ancient trees, and surrounded by green sward
stretching away into meadows by the river side, where flowers grew and
kine grazed, and young maidens sat tending their fathers' flocks and
singing the ballads of their country.
Nobody could deny that the place was fair to look upon and pleasant to
dwell in; and my grandsire, save when in his gloomy moods, was in the
habit, not only of saying that such was the case, but of expressing
contentment with his lot. In this respect I was certainly far from
sharing his sentiments; and every day I experienced a stronger desire
to escape from an obscurity which was ill suited to my aspiring nature.
My existence was surrounded with a mystery which I in vain endeavoured
to penetrate. Of my father I had no recollection, and little knowledge.
I was given to understand that he ceased to live when I was an infant
in the cradle, and that, during the troubles which distracted England
at the opening of King Edward's reign, he perished under cruel, and
somewhat ignominious, circumstances. But I suspected much more than had
ever been told me. In fact, from vague hints and allusions, I gathered
sufficient to inspire me with the conviction that his tragic fate,
though its immediate cause was a political conspiracy, was, in reality,
the result of enmity engendered by a political family feud. That my
mother, a sad, religious, and broken-hearted woman, showed much anxiety
to keep me in ignorance of the facts was evident; and I was given to
understand that my safety--even my life--depended on my name and origin
remaining a profound secret.
I have, however, hinted that my imagination was lively; and, as it
was frequently at work on the subject, I was soon led by it to the
conclusion that I was of different flesh and blood from those among
whom my lot had been cast; that my father was, at least, a man of
knightly rank; and that I was, probably, the heir of a pedigree which
a Montacute or a Merley might have envied. My pride, stimulated by my
imagination, became daily higher; and, buoyed up with some knowledge
of grammar and letters acquired from the tuition of a neighbouring
priest, I early cherished ideas far above my station, and dreamt of
chances and possibilities that might raise my fortunes to a level with
my aspirations.
Either by accident or design, my grandsire fed my ambition by the
kind of conversation in which he indulged, on winter evenings, by the
blazing fire of wood that warmed our little hall. Plain yeoman as the
old man seemed, he had been a good deal in the world; and he knew much
of its ways. In youth he had, as a warrior, served King Edward--the
first of the name--and he delighted to tell of the battles and the
sieges to which he had ridden under the banner of that mighty monarch.
Fired by the countless stories of war and victory, I conceived an
irresistible desire to excel in arms; and, ere reaching my fourteenth
year, I began to despise the sports and athletic exercises of the
young peasants and villagers who deemed themselves my equals, and
to endeavour, as well as I could, to acquire accomplishments which
qualified youths of gentle blood for knighthood and the honours of
chivalry.
My success was greater than might have been anticipated, under the
circumstances. Excluded from the training bestowed in feudal castles
on the sons of nobles and knights, my disadvantages were obvious.
But patience and perseverance always will do much; and I set myself
deliberately to acquire skill and dexterity in the use of the sword,
and riding at the ring and the quintain; and, with instructions from
my grandsire, I soon found my patience and perseverance rewarded. At
the exercise of quintain, especially, I was so perfect a performer, in
my own opinion, that I was all eagerness for an opportunity of proving
my superiority. When, therefore, I learned that, on the day of St.
John the Baptist, the Londoners of my own age, or thereabouts, were
to compete for the peacock, in the presence of the Prince of Wales, I
insisted on my grandsire conducting me to the capital, that I might
display my proficiency in public, and that I might advance my fortune
by exhibiting, under the eye of England's heir, the skill and dexterity
which I had acquired by constant exercise among the trees that
shadowed our quiet grange.
Naturally enough, the result was flattering to my juvenile vanity;
and the events of the day on which I won the peacock made a strong
impression on my mind. It opened up to me views of life with which
I was previously quite unacquainted, and quickened my desire to
begin my career in earnest. My life of obscurity became more and
more distasteful. Even the lot of forest outlaws seemed infinitely
preferable to mine; and while I essayed to look cheerful as I drove
out the cows to the meadows, and talked to the hinds as they gathered
the harvest into the barns, I was bitterly cursing the Lord De Ov for
cutting short my interview with the prince, and, in melancholy mood,
tasking my ingenuity to discover some way of again bringing myself
under his notice.
At this season, Thomelin of Winchester happened to visit our homestead,
and was welcomed with the hospitality due to a friend and kinsman.
"And what news bringest thou, Thomelin?" asked my grandsire.
"None likely to cheer thy heart," answered the host of the Falcon.
"Thou knowest the Vipseys, in Yorkshire?"
"Ay do I," said my grandsire; "they are brooks that rise every other
year out of springs, and rush rapidly to the sea near the promontory
called Flamborough."
"And thou knowest," continued Thomelin, "that their drying up is deemed
a good sign, and that their running is held to be a sure presage of
famine or pestilence?"
"I have so heard in other days," said my grandsire contemptuously; "but
then, again, I have known them run, and better run, and neither plague
nor famine come in consequence."
"Anyhow," said Thomelin, not caring to dispute the point, "we are
almost certain to have more war."
"More war?" exclaimed my grandsire.
"By my faith," said Thomelin, "little doubt can there be as to that.
Think how matters now stand. King Edward makes a peace with Philip of
Valois, and, not just in the best humour, comes home; and no sooner is
his back turned than Philip causes twelve knights of Brittany--all our
king's friends and allies--to be arrested, without rhyme or reason, and
beheaded without trial."
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed my grandsire.
"Well," continued Thomelin, "all the kinsmen of the murdered men
have taken up arms; and Godfrey Harcourt, one of the great lords of
Normandy, has come to England, and got a promise from King Edward to
avenge them. Everybody who knows aught of King Edward knows what that
means."
"Doubtless," said my grandsire, "it means such a war as has not been
seen in thy time."
"And," added Thomelin, "when we have more war, trust me, we will have
more taxes, and already they are hard enough to bear. And yet, if King
Edward would just make up his mind, instead of being longer fooled by
foreigners, as he has been, to take an English army to the Continent,
I see not why war should not turn out both to the honour and profit of
the nation."
"I hold with you, kinsman," said I, sliding into the conversation; "and
beshrew me if aught would be more to my mind than to cross the narrow
seas, to fight the braggart Frenchmen."
"You would fain see something of war, then, Arthur?" observed Thomelin,
startled at my enthusiasm.
"Yes," replied I, in a tone of decision. "Life, at the longest, is but
short; and, to me, every day seems wasted that I pass in obscurity."
It was while my mind was wholly bent on this subject--while I was
brooding over the past, and panting to penetrate the future--that
Fortune, as if in compassion, threw in my way a great opportunity,
and enabled me, under favourable auspices, to commence the arduous
enterprise of climbing the ladder of life.
CHAPTER V
JACK FLETCHER
It was a warm day in the month of September--one of those autumnal days
when the sun still shines in all its vigour--and my grandsire, with me
as his companion, was leaning on his staff, strolling about in the
neighbourhood of his homestead, and grumbling somewhat savagely at
the rapacity of the royal purveyors, by whom we had recently, to our
consternation and our cost, been visited; when we were suddenly roused
by the tramp of a horse's hoofs, and, looking round, found ourselves
face to face with a cavalier of thirty-five whose dress and demeanour
at once proclaimed him a man of high rank.
I confess, indeed, that I was lost in admiration, and stood silent with
surprise. The stranger was by far the most striking personage I had
ever seen, and, in point of appearance, even rivalled the imaginary
heroes of my boyish day-dreams. He was about six feet in height, and in
the flower of manhood, with a figure admirably proportioned, long-drawn
features, a thoughtful brow, a noble air, and an eye bright with valour
and intelligence. His aspect indicated more than regal pride, modified,
however, by frankness of spirit; and as he approached, with a hawk on
his wrist, a bugle at his girdle, and two hounds running at his horse's
feet, his bearing was easy as well as dignified, and he accosted my
grandsire with the tone of one who had at once the right to command and
the privilege to be familiar.
"Good-day, friend," said he, reining in his steed.
"Sir, good-day," replied my grandsire briefly, and with an indifference
in accent and manner to which it was evident the other was unaccustomed.
"I have lost my way in the forest," remarked the cavalier, after
a pause, during which he appeared to reflect; "and yet methinks I
should not consider that a misfortune, since it has conducted me to so
pleasant a spot."
"Yes," replied my grandsire, "I thank God that my lines have fallen in
a pleasant place."
"And your lot is, therefore, to be envied by men who dwell in king's
palaces."
"Mayhap it might," said my grandsire; "but that the exactions of the
king's men are so unjust and oppressive."
"Ha!" exclaimed the stranger, as if in a tone of inquiry.
"Yes," continued my grandsire resolutely, "never in my time has there
been anything to compare to it, albeit this is the fourth reign in
which I have lived. Did King Edward but know of the tyranny and
rapacity exercised in his name, and that his subjects live in dread of
the purveyor's horn, he would take such order that the commons should
no longer be so outrageously plundered."
"Doubtless," replied the cavalier, "the king would do what is right and
lawful."
"I would that I had some talk with him," said my grandsire. "I could
tell him many things that he is little likely to hear from knight or
noble."
"Expound your grievances to me," said the cavalier; "I am not
altogether without influence at the king's court, and I may even have
power to set matters right."
"Enter my house, then, if you deem me not unworthy of such an honour,"
said my grandsire, as we reached the door.
"Right gladly," replied the stranger, dismounting; and, resigning his
steed to my care, he followed my grandsire.
Evidently with curiosity, the cavalier, on entering the little hall,
examined several pieces of armour and weapons that had been in fashion
late in the thirteenth century, especially a huge iron club that
was suspended on the wall. But when, having stabled the stranger's
steed, I appeared in the hall, I found him seated at the board with
my grandsire, partaking of such good cheer as the tenement afforded,
and quaffing horns of ale, with apparent relish. Ere the meal was at
an end my grandsire had uttered all his complaints against the royal
purveyors, and was evidently delighted with his guest; and, as his
heart opened, he did not fail to express his satisfaction.
"Courtier," exclaimed the old man, almost with enthusiasm, "I begin to
believe that thou art an honest fellow."
"I would fain hope, my friend," replied the stranger, "that men who
know me best would so report me."
"I believe it," said my grandsire; "and," added he more soberly, "I
should know men when I see them; for in my life I have held discourse
with men of all ranks, and with some whose names will live for ever in
chronicle and song."
"Indeed?" quoth the cavalier, struck by a remark which gave him a
higher idea of his new acquaintance. "I perceive, then, that you have
not passed your life in this quiet homestead."
My grandsire laughed, as if in scorn of the thought.
"No," replied he, recovering his serenity, "not at this homestead did
I pass my early years, but where banners were flying, and bridles
ringing, and swords flashing. My father, who was well known in his day
as the Farrier of the Strand, fought with his iron club, which hangs
on my wall, for the king at Evesham, under the banner of Lord Merley;
and when my father departed this life, I was taken to the North, by the
Lord Merley, and there trained to arms. I then went into the service of
the good King Edward, and by him was much trusted. I was with the king
when he was in danger at Ghent; I was with him when he conquered at
Falkirk; I was with him when he died at Burgh-on-the-Sands."
"And how came your services to pass unrewarded and unrecognized?"
"Listen, courtier, and learn. When the old king was laid in his grave,
I served his son as I had served himself; and how I fought at Burton
and at Borough Bridge it would ill become my tongue to tell. But this
cannot be gainsaid; it was my hand that struck down the rebel Clifford;
and it was my hand that seized the rebel Lancaster. However, evil days
came on apace; fate went against my king; and leal service could avail
naught. At length, when all was over, and when, at Berkeley Castle,
he was cruelly murdered, I crept hither to pass my days in peace; and
I have since lived on, persuading myself that I cannot be altogether
useless on earth, since it is God's pleasure that I survive the evil
times I have seen."
"Evil days they were," said the cavalier, as he rose and paced the
floor, evidently much agitated by memories which my grandsire's story
had recalled.
I gazed with some surprise on the effect which had been produced; and
my grandsire was in such perplexity, that he seemed quite relieved
when the cavalier turned towards me and eyed me keenly.
"And this," said he, "is your grandson?"
"Yes," answered the old man; "my grandson, Arthur, whom I have taught
to serve God and honour the king, and whom it lately pleased my lord
the prince to commend, at Smithfield, for his brave looks and gallant
bearing."
"A goodly youth, on my faith," said the cavalier; "and one who it seems
to me, might acquit himself with honour in a higher sphere."
"His father was not of our rank," replied my grandsire. "But that is a
long story, which it would pain me to tell, and you and him to hear."
"Another time, mayhap, I may hear it," said the cavalier, not
without exhibiting some interest in what my grandsire had told him;
"meanwhile," continued he, "it is time for me to ride towards Windsor,
which I will do, if you will put me in the way. But, my friend," added
he kindly, "fail not to visit me at the castle, and bring thither your
grandson, and I will so requite your hospitality as to convince you
that I am no churl."
"Come to Windsor," exclaimed my grandsire, "to be driven from the gate
like a mangy cur! No, courtier; men shall never have it in their power
to say that such was my fate."
"Fear not such a repulse," said the stranger. "Ask for me; and, if you
so do, trust me you will be admitted with all courtesy."
"And, pray thee, by what name are you known?" added my grandsire.
The cavalier looked puzzled, but took from his hand a ring.
"Ask for Jack Fletcher," he said; "and if that suffices not," added he,
presenting the ring, "show this, and, at the sight of it, gates and
doors will open to admit you."
My grandsire bowed low as he received the ring; and the stranger rising
to depart, took leave of me kindly, sallied forth, mounted his horse,
and with my grandsire showing the way through the forest, and talking
of deer and wild cattle, rode towards Windsor, as he had come, with
his hawk on his wrist, his bugle at his girdle, and his hounds running
at his side.
"Now," soliloquised I, as I watched his departure, "I will wager that
the visit of this stranger is to exercise some important influence on
my destiny."
CHAPTER VI
WAR WITH FRANCE
At the time when the cavalier who called himself Jack Fletcher lost his
way in Windsor Forest, and accepted such hospitality as my grandsire's
tenement could afford, King Edward, as Thomelin of Winchester had
predicted, was preparing to renew that war which made Englishmen for
a time almost masters of France. In order to render my narrative the
more intelligible, it is necessary to refer to the origin of that war,
to the events by which it had been distinguished, and to the stage at
which it had arrived.
It was on the 1st of February, 1328--the year in the course of which
I drew my first breath--that Charles, King of France, the youngest of
the three sons of Philip the Fair, and brother of Isabel, wife of our
second Edward, died without male heirs. For the vacant throne--from
which, centuries earlier, Hugh Capet pushed the descendant of
Charlemagne, and to which subsequently St. Louis gave dignity--several
candidates appeared, the chief of whom were Philip of Valois and Edward
of England. Philip, relying on the fact that the Salic law excluded
females from reigning, claimed the crown of France as heir male of
the old king. Edward, without denying the validity of the Salic law,
pleaded that, so far as succession was concerned, it did not bar the
sons of a king's daughter. The Parliament of Paris, however, was
appealed to; and, being much under the influence of Robert, Lord of
Artois, who was Philip's brother-in-law, the Parliament decided in
favour of Philip; and Edward, then young and governed by his mother,
Queen Isabel, and Roger de Mortimer, so far bent his pride as to
visit France, and do homage at Amiens for Guienne and Ponthieu. But
he privately protested beforehand against the homage he was about to
perform; and perhaps he felt little regret when Philip's interference
in Scottish affairs gave him a fair excuse for a rupture, and for not
only renewing his claim, but submitting it to the arbitrament of the
sword.
Meanwhile, Philip of Valois had involved himself in a scandalous
quarrel with Robert, Lord of Artois, to whom he owed his crown; and
Robert, threatened with vengeance and destruction, reached England,
disguised as a merchant, and exerted all his eloquence to rouse
Edward's ambition. Circumstances favoured his exertions in this
respect. Enraged at his exclusion from a throne which he believed to
be his by hereditary right, and exasperated at the aid given by Philip
to the Scots, Edward lent a willing ear to Robert's suggestions; and,
resolving to avail himself of the state of affairs on the Continent,
which was most favourable to his projects, he prepared without delay to
put his fortune to the test.
At that time, in fact, the Flemings were up in arms. The Count of
Flanders, a faithful ally of Philip of Valois, was guilty of tyrannies
which drove his subjects to revolt; and Jacob von Arteveldt, a brewer,
who ruled in Ghent, and exercised an enormous influence all over
Flanders, formed a great league against Philip and the Count, and
invoked Edward's aid. Not unwilling to interfere, the King of England
entered into an alliance with the Emperor of Germany; and sailing from
the Orwell, in July, 1338, he landed in Flanders to pursue his schemes
of conquest.
Taking up his residence at Antwerp, Edward linked himself in close
friendship with the Flemings, and prepared for active operations; and
Philip, supported by John, the blind King of Bohemia, by the Spaniards,
and the Genoese, prepared to defend the dominions which he called his
own. For a year little or nothing was done. But in November, 1339,
the English began the war by wasting Cambresis; and about the middle
of October, Philip of Valois advanced with a mighty army to give the
invaders battle. No battle, however, took place. The French retreated
without striking a blow; and Edward, after having assumed the title and
arms of the kings of France, returned to England to make arrangements
for pursuing the prize on which his heart was set.
By this time the sympathies of the English nation were enlisted in
the king's struggle. No sooner, indeed, had the war begun than Philip
of Valois ordered his admirals to make a descent on England; and
these master corsairs, approaching the coast with a fleet manned with
Normans, Picards, and Spaniards, plundered Southampton, Sandwich,
Winchelsea, Rye, Dover, and Portsmouth. Everywhere they were guilty
of fearful violence; and when Edward returned to England, he was
surrounded by multitudes, complaining loudly of the outrages that had
been committed in his absence.
"O king!" cried the populace, "our towns have been burned, our houses
pillaged, our young men slain, and our maidens deflowered."
"Be patient," replied Edward, "and rest assured that my turn is coming,
and that I will not only protect you from your enemies, but make them
pay dearly for all they have done."
Faithful to his promise, the king fitted out fleets to defend the
coast, and prepared a great armament at Ipswich, with which to return
to the Continent. It was the summer of 1340, and, every preparation
having been made, Edward sailed from the Orwell; and on Saturday, the
24th of June, approached the coast of Flanders. As there were rumours
of mighty preparations to prevent a landing, a sharp look-out was kept
from the admiral's ship, and suddenly the sailors, who were aloft,
shouted that they saw masts.
"Who will they turn out to be?" asked Edward.
"Doubtless," was the answer, "this is the fleet kept at sea by the
French, under the admirals who have done England so much harm."
"Well," said the king, "I have, for a long time, wished to meet these
men; and now, please God and St. George, we will fight with them."
As the king spoke, all doubts were removed. Before him lay a fleet of
a hundred and twenty vessels, under the command of admirals who had
peremptory orders not to allow him to set foot on continental soil.
Every man on board the English ships was now on the alert, and a
great naval battle began, and speedily assumed an aspect of excessive
fury. Being able and determined men, the French admirals made every
exertion, and, having the advantage of numbers, they pressed hard on
their foes. But, in spite of the great odds against them, the English
fought dauntlessly; and, after the conflict had raged for several
hours, the French lost heart and hope, and leaped by hundreds into the
sea. By seven o'clock in the evening the victory was complete, and
Edward, landing next morning, set off on foot, with his knights, on a
pilgrimage to Our Lady of Ardembourg, and afterwards rode to Ghent to
visit Queen Philippa, who, in that city, had just given birth to her
son, John of Gaunt.
While Edward was destroying the French fleet at Sluys, Philip of Valois
was making war on Edward's brother-in-law, the Count of Hainault. It
was of importance that he should at once hear the news; but he was a
man of such violent temper that none of his knights had the courage
to tell what had happened. At length the court jester undertook the
delicate duty of informing his master of the loss he had sustained.
"Cowardly English!" said the jester, with bitter emphasis.
"What do you say?" asked Philip.
"Cowardly English!" repeated the jester. "Dastardly English!
False-hearted English!"
"Why do you call them so?" asked Philip.
"Because," answered the jester, "they durst not leap out of their ships
as our men did when they fought at Sluys."
Philip beginning to understand, uttered an exclamation of pain; and,
on learning all, he flew into a violent passion, retreated towards
Arras, broke up his army, and employed the mediation of the Countess
of Hainault, who was his sister, and mother of the Queen of England.
Edward, eager for a meeting, proposed to decide their dispute by a
single combat; but the Frenchman declined on the ground that the
challenge was addressed to Philip of Valois, not to the King of France,
and could not, therefore, be intended for him. After some negotiation,
a peace was brought about by the Countess of Hainault's mediation, and
Edward, who was by this time reduced to extreme poverty, returned to
England to brood over the failure of his great schemes.
It was now the spring of 1340, and a renewal of the war seemed somewhat
improbable. But, ere long, an event occurred in Brittany which produced
unexpected consequences. In 1341, the Duke of Brittany died without
issue, and two candidates appeared to claim his Duchy. One of these
was Charles of Blois, who had espoused the duke's niece, and claimed
Brittany in her right; the other was the duke's brother, John, Count of
Montfort, who claimed as heir male. Philip of Valois, who now forgot
the Salic law, and only remembered that Charles of Blois was his own
nephew, decided in Charles's favour; and Montfort, having implored the
support of the English king, seized upon the strongholds in the duchy.
Unfortunately, the earl was taken prisoner early in the war; but his
countess, Joan, the Fleming, bravely maintained the struggle, and,
aided by an English force under Sir Walter Manny, made herself famous
by her defence of Hennebon.
While contending with countless difficulties, the Countess of Montfort
came to England to represent her case to the English king; and Edward,
who was deeply interested in what was occurring on the Continent, sent
Robert, Lord of Artois, with an army to aid her efforts. The expedition
was not fortunate. Attacked suddenly at Vannes, and taken by surprise,
Artois received wounds of which he soon died; and Edward, vowing to
avenge him, embarked to conduct the war in person.
It was late in 1343 when the King of England landed in Brittany, and
took the field with the hope of conquering. But fortune proved so
adverse that nothing but his martial skill saved him from humiliation.
While before Vannes he found himself threatened by the heir of France
and Charles of Blois, at the head of a French army four times more
numerous than that under his banner; and his doom looked dark.
However, the French, finding that he had taken up a very strong
position, and not particularly eager to try conclusions with the
conqueror of Halidon and Sluys, did not venture on an attack; and,
after the hostile armies had lain for some time facing each other, two
cardinals, sent by the pope, appeared in the character of peacemakers.
Edward had scarcely a choice. He was surrounded by enemies, and almost
destitute of provisions; and the coasts were so vigilantly guarded
by the fleets of Spain, that he despaired of receiving supplies from
England. His men were, in consequence, suffering much. At first,
however, he would not consent to peace; but the two cardinals, having
made great exertions, at length succeeded in bringing the belligerents
to reason, and ambassadors on both sides were nominated to confer
in the Priory of the Magdalen at Malestroit. Eventually they came
to terms; and, a truce for three years having been sworn to, Edward
embarked for England about the close of February, 1344, and landed
at Weymouth, probably with the idea that he had seen the last of the
Continent, and had more than enough of continental war.
If so, he was much mistaken. Scarcely, in fact, was Edward's back
turned when Philip of Valois startled Christendom with a display of the
perfidy and cruelty which characterised his life. At a tournament, to
which the Bretons went without misgiving, twelve lords, who had fought
for the cause of Montfort, were arrested. No charge was brought against
them; nor were they allowed the benefit of a trial. Without having
assigned a cause, or given the opportunity of a defence, Philip caused
them to be conducted to the scaffold and beheaded.
This tragic event caused the utmost horror. The friends and kinsmen
of the murdered men took up arms, and went in a body to the Montfort
standard; and Godfrey Harcourt, a great baron of Normandy, finding
himself in danger of sharing their fate, escaped to England, and
obtained from Edward a vow to avenge the lawless execution of his
allies.
CHAPTER VII
WINDSOR CASTLE
My grandsire, much to my surprise, and much to my disappointment,
showed no inclination whatever to avail himself of the cavalier's
invitation, or to put the hospitality of Windsor Castle to the test.
At first, indeed, he was very enthusiastic about the visit of a guest
so brilliant, and pleased to make comparisons between him and the
high-bred personages whom he had seen in his earlier days. But no
sooner did a week pass than all this enthusiasm began to die away, and
the aged worthy seemed to give up all idea of pursuing the acquaintance
he had accidentally formed, and evinced considerable and increasing
uneasiness about possession of the ring which had been left as the
pledge of welcome and good cheer. In vain I endeavoured to persuade
him to seek out the stranger; he only replied that Jack Fletcher
was, doubtless, a very merry companion, who doubtless also, loved an
adventure, and would, on occasion, say more in an hour than he would
stand to in a year.
"But the ring," urged I.
"Ay," exclaimed my grandsire, shaking his head in evident perplexity.
"That is the rub; what is to be done with the ring I know not."
"I will tell you," suggested I, perceiving my advantage, and resolved
to follow it up. "Intrust me with the ring, and I will ride to Windsor,
seek out the courtier, and place it in his hands."
My grandsire did not much approve of my plan; and my mother, on hearing
of my proposal, protested loudly against it. But I had a will of my
own, and an idea, which haunted me night and day, that the stranger's
visit was, in some way, linked with my destiny; and believing, at all
events, that he could aid me to emerge from obscurity, I held to my
intention with all the tenacity and determination of my nature. Nothing
daunted by the opposition of my grandsire and the alarm of my mother,
I never rested till I obtained their sanction to what I, at that age,
deemed a grand enterprise; and having, at length, by perseverance,
removed all obstacles, I prepared for my journey.
Accordingly, one morning in October, I arrayed myself so as to appear
to the best advantage, mounted my black steed, and rode through the
forest, with a feeling that I was on the road to fortune. I confess,
however, that, as I neared the town of Windsor, my confidence in myself
gradually weakened; and, as I reflected how little qualified I was by
experience and knowledge of life to carry the project of boldly pushing
my fortune to a successful termination, I not only repented of having
ventured on such an errand, but almost made up my mind to turn rein,
ride back to my grandsire's homestead, abandon once and for ever all
ambitious ideas, and live, with independence, if not content, tending
the oxen, and tilling the soil.
It happened, however, that my imagination, which, in reality, had led
me to undertake this journey to Windsor, did not altogether desert
me in the middle. In the midst of my doubts, I conjured up, for the
hundredth time, a brilliant future; and feeling, as if by instinct,
that my fortunes were hanging on the decision of the moment, I summoned
pride to my aid, and pursued my way. My shyness, natural to a youth
reared in the solitude of a grange, was rather inconvenient at the
moment; but I have hinted that I was not without courage. I will go
further, and say that I was not without audacity; and it was with
the fixed purpose of doing, daring, and risking all, that I spurred
into the little town of Windsor, rode up the ascent that leads to the
castle, and, reining in at the massive gate, cast a look of awe at the
towers, and turrets, and fortifications of the Norman stronghold, from
which the standard of England floated in the autumn breeze.
The warder appeared, as in duty bound, and demanded on what errand I
came, and looked calmly on as I answered that I wished to be admitted
to the presence of a cavalier who called himself "Jack Fletcher."
"Jack Fletcher?" he repeated, opening his eyes, and regarding me with
a glance which seemed to intimate that he recognised the name, but was
not quite certain whether or not to acknowledge that he did.
"I come at the invitation of the cavalier I have named," said I,
endeavouring to appear as courageous as possible; "and, to remove any
doubts, I bring a token, which I was given to understand would secure
me the privilege of being admitted to his presence."
I produced the ring; the warder looked at it, and bent his head.
"All right," said he; "enter, and presently you will be conducted to
him you seek."
As the warder spoke, the gate opened; and, at a signal from him, I
rode into the courtyard, where squires and knights, gaily dressed,
were loitering about, and talking of adventures in love and war, and
feats of arms. I remarked, with surprise, that several of them had one
eye bound up with silk; and I afterwards learned that they had taken
a solemn vow, in presence of the ladies and the peacock, never again
to see with both eyes till they had performed certain deeds in arms
against the French.
While I, having dismounted, stood looking with a feeling of that wonder
produced by novelty on this gay scene, and somewhat astonished at my
eccentricity in venturing into such a place, a young man of noble
aspect and bearing approached and addressed me.
"Youth," said he with a smile, "you have come hither to see Jack
Fletcher."
I bowed with great respect; for the air and appearance of the young
noble impressed me with a sense of his importance; and I showed the
ring, the influence of which on the warder I had carefully noted.
"Follow me, then," said he, smiling, "and I will lead you to his
presence; though, in truth, it was an old man and not a youth for whom
I expected to do that office."
I was by this time much too agitated to explain or reply; and I
followed my guide like one in a dream, as he passed through passages
and galleries. At length he halted at a door, and, drawing aside a
curtain, spoke some words, which to me sounded like an order for
execution. Mechanically, however, I entered, and, with my heart
beating, and my brain whirling, and all my courage, all my audacity
vanished, found myself face to face with the cavalier whose figure
had, for weeks, been present to my imagination, and whose words had,
for weeks, echoed in my ear. He wore a black velvet jacket, and a hat
of beaver, which became him much; and, as he turned his eye upon me,
the truth as to who he was flashed, for the first time, so vividly and
rapidly on my mind, that I stood stock-still, and almost felt as if I
should have sunk to the floor.
My confusion and embarrassment, however, were so evident, that they
pleaded for me more eloquently than words could have done; and he
appeared all anxiety to put me at my ease.
"Brave youth," said he, "be not alarmed at finding yourself in a
strange place; but make yourself as easy as if you were in your
grandsire's grange. Why came he not with you, as he promised?"
"My lord," answered I, bending my knee, and trying to take courage,
"my grandsire, on reflection, deemed it prudent not to intrude on
the strength of the invitation which you gave in your courtesy; but
intrusted me with the ring to restore to you, which I now do;" and,
with great respect, I suited the action to the word.
I thought that a shade of disappointment passed over his countenance as
I spoke; and I shrewdly guessed that it had been his wish to question
my grandsire further on the tragic events of the late reign, on which
their conversation had formerly turned, and which at the time had
produced so strong an effect.
"Well," said he, after a pause, "men who have seen many years must
be permitted to do as seems best in their own eyes; and, moreover,
methinks we ought not to murmur too loudly at his absence, since he has
sent you in his stead; and now that we have you here, youth," he added,
with a smile, "you shall not leave us at your own pleasure. You, as I
gathered, wished to be a warrior. Will you choose between my service
and that of the Prince of Wales?"
"My lord," I replied, more and more embarrassed. "I fear me I am little
qualified, by breeding or accomplishments, to serve either; and, even
if it happened to be otherwise with me, I could not venture to choose."
"Ah," said he, with charming frankness, "I see how it is. The prince
is of your own age, and that is a circumstance which always tends to
attract, especially in early youth. So let us consider the question
settled, and I will at once have you installed as one of his pages."
So saying, and while I stared in amazement at the result of my journey
to Windsor, he rose, took me by the arm, and talking of my grandsire
as he went, conducted me to the tennis-court, where the prince and his
companions were amusing themselves at play.
My guide, who every moment acquired additional importance in my eyes,
stopped as we entered, and eyed the prince with a glance of high pride.
"I bring you," said he, "a youth of strength and courage, whom you will
pleasure me by admitting among your pages; and I recommend him to your
favour as the grandson of a man who, in his day and generation, served
your progenitors faithfully and well."
"The hero of the quintain match at Smithfield!" exclaimed the prince.
"My lord," he continued, "he is welcome for his grandsire's sake and
his own."
"My lord," said I to the prince, "I pray you to pardon my seeming
boldness. Had I known all I should not have dreamt of presenting myself
at Windsor."
"Ah!" exclaimed the prince, with great good-humour; "you would not have
come on Jack Fletcher's invitation had you known that Jack Fletcher
was the king. But in that case I might have found you out; for I want
striplings of courage and likelihood around me; and I have thought of
you as such ever since the day when you won the peacock."
CHAPTER VIII
EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE
To enable my readers to form some idea of the position which was
occupied by the Prince of Wales at the time when I, Arthur Winram--for
by this surname I was now known--was admitted to the castle of Windsor,
and taken into his service as page, I must go back a few years to
relate such particulars as to his birth and boyhood as may convey a
notion of the advantages he had inherited and the training he had
received.
It was at York, and in the minster of that capital of the North, that,
one Sunday in January, 1328, Edward the king, then sixteen, espoused
Philippa, one of the four daughters whom William, Count of Hainault,
surnamed the Good, had by his wife Joan, who was a princess of the line
of Capet, and sister of Philip of Valois, to whom the Parliament of
France adjudged the crown which St. Louis had worn. The marriage, being
brought about by the king's mother, Isabel, and Roger de Mortimer, was
not at first regarded with favour in England. In fact, people expressed
much discontent with the business. But for once the instincts of the
English deceived them. It was a love match after all; and ere long the
young queen displayed so much excellence and so many amiable qualities,
that she became more popular than any Queen of England had ever been,
with the exception, it must be admitted, of Eleanor of Castile.
Nothing, probably, contributed more to the change of sentiment on the
part of the English than the birth of the son destined to so glorious
a career and so melancholy an end. At Woodstock--a sylvan palace
associated with the memories of the Norman and early Plantagenet kings,
and with the touching romance of Rosamond Clifford--Edward, Prince
of Wales, first saw the light. It was ten o'clock on the morning of
Friday, the 15th of June, 1330, when he was ushered into existence,
and excited the admiration of the queen's household by his magnificent
appearance.
No time was lost in sending a messenger to inform the king that a son
had been born to him, and an heir to the house of Plantagenet; and
on hearing the welcome news, and that the prince, just cradled at
Woodstock, was a marvellously fine infant, and likely one day to be a
most handsome man, the king gave a right royal reward to Thomas Prior,
who had the good luck to carry the message.
Intelligence of the prince's birth proved hardly less welcome to the
nation than to the king. The event was talked of with enthusiasm in
every town and hamlet; and people told wonderful stories of the royal
infant's remarkable size and beauty, the fineness of his limbs, and his
state cradle, painted with designs from the Evangelists. Everywhere
the young mother and her son were the subjects of conversation, and
portraits of them, at the period, began to form favourite models for
the Virgin and Child.
The king was, doubtless, well pleased at the interest that was
manifested; and, in order that the public might participate in the
rejoicings that followed the birth of England's heir, he proclaimed
his intention of holding a grand tournament in London. Accordingly,
the lists were erected in Cheapside, and a gay company of knights and
ladies assembled on the occasion.
The ceremony, however, was interrupted by an accident that caused some
unpleasantness. At the upper end of the street a gallery had been
erected for the accommodation of the queen and her ladies; and, while
the tilting was taking place, the scaffolding on which the gallery was
reared gave way, and the structure fell to the ground. Great was the
fright, loud the screaming, and alarming the confusion. Luckily enough,
nothing fatal had occurred; but the king, much enraged, threatened to
punish the workmen. Philippa, however, interceded in their behalf;
and Edward, pacified by her mediation, and soothed by her earnest
entreaties, consented to pardon their carelessness.
While the tournament was held in Cheapside in honour of his birth,
the prince was passing his childhood under the charge of women. Joan
of Oxford was his nurse; Matilda Plumpton was rocker of his cradle;
and the Lady St. Omer, wife of a brave knight, was his governess. But
no sooner was he old enough for his book than he was intrusted to the
charge of Walter Burley, to be instructed as became the heir of a
family, one of whose chiefs had given it as his opinion that "a king
without learning was a crowned ass."
I ought to mention that Walter Burley had been bred at Merton College,
Oxford, and that he was a celebrated doctor of divinity. Having written
divers treatises on natural and moral philosophy, his fame spread over
the country, and recommended him to the Court; and when Philippa of
Hainault came to England as queen, he had the distinction of being
appointed her almoner; and, in after years, when he had the honour
of figuring as tutor to her son, he fulfilled his functions with high
credit. At the same time, Simon Burley, his young kinsman, a lad of
great promise, was admitted as one of the prince's class-fellows, and
formed that friendship which subsequently led to his being the prince's
favourite knight.
Nor were those exercises which make men strong in battle neglected in
the education of the prince. From childhood he was accustomed to arms,
trained to feats of chivalry, and inured to exertion. As he grew up he
gave indications not to be mistaken of turning out a learned, elegant,
and brilliant hero, and, in some respects, reminded men of his mighty
progenitor who conquered Simon de Montfort at Evesham, and reigned as
the first Edward with so much power and popularity.
Meanwhile, the royal boy was admitted to the honours which naturally
devolved on him as heir to the crown of England. At the age of three
he was created Earl of Chester; at seven he was made Duke of Cornwall;
and at thirteen he was, in parliament, invested by the king with the
dignity of Prince of Wales.
About the same period, another honour, and one to which he had no
hereditary claim, seemed likely to fall to his lot. I have already
mentioned that the Count of Flanders had, by his tyranny, driven his
subjects to revolt, and that Jacob von Arteveldt, a famous brewer,
exercised enormous influence among his countrymen, and that, especially
in Ghent, his word was almost law.
Now it entered into the heart of Arteveldt to conceive the expediency
of wholly depriving the Count of Flanders of his inheritance, of
making it a duchy, and bestowing it on the Prince of Wales. Full
of his scheme, and perhaps rather elated with the power he enjoyed
in Flanders, Arteveldt entered into communication with the King of
England, and had the gratification of finding that his proposal was
quite the reverse of unwelcome. Indeed, King Edward promised, without
delay, to take his son to Flanders, that Arteveldt might have an
opportunity of putting his project into execution; and, accordingly,
about St. John the Baptist's Day, he embarked with the prince, in his
ship, the Katherine, for Flanders, and sailed into the harbour of
Sluys, where, some years earlier, he had destroyed the French fleet.
At Sluys, King Edward kept his court on board his ship, the Katherine,
and there received Arteveldt and his other allies among the Flemings.
Many conferences were held. But it soon appeared that Arteveldt's
enthusiasm was not shared by his countrymen. The idea of disinheriting
their count and his son was one which they seemed most averse to
entertain; and they could not be prevailed on to do more in the matter
than promise to consult the cities which they represented. Every
attempt to bring the business to a conclusion proved abortive; and
meanwhile a storm was gathering which was to destroy the whole scheme
at a blow.
In fact, French influences, and perhaps French gold, were at work
in every city of Flanders, and rapidly undermining the power which
Arteveldt had for years been building up. All regard for freedom and
commerce gave way before the prejudices of the hour; and the people of
Ghent not only set their faces decidedly against Arteveldt's project of
deposing their count in favour of the Prince of Wales, but manifested
the utmost indignation against its author. In Arteveldt's absence from
Ghent the murmurs were loud; and no sooner did he return to the town
than the malcontents expressed their sentiments in a most menacing tone.
It was about the noon of a summer's day when Arteveldt, having left
the King of England and the Prince of Wales at Sluys, entered Ghent.
Immediately he became aware that his popularity was gone. People who,
in other days, had been wont to salute him with profound respect, now
bent their brows and turned their backs; and the multitude, at all
times easily deluded, intimated that they were prepared to restore the
count whom they had banished, and to throw down the great citizen whom
they, till recently, had worshipped.
"Here," cried they, as they recognised his figure on horseback,
"comes one who is too much the master, and wants to order in Flanders
according to his will and pleasure. This must not be longer borne."
Arteveldt was not blind nor deaf to what was passing. As he rode up
the street he became certain that some mischief was in agitation, and
probably suspected that his life was aimed at. In any case, he hastened
to take precautions against any attempt at violence. As soon as he
dismounted and entered his mansion, he ordered the doors and windows to
be secured, and warned his servants to be on their guard.
It soon appeared that Arteveldt's instincts had not deceived him. In
fact, a multitude, chiefly composed of the mechanical class, almost
instantaneously filled the street, surrounded the mansion, and evinced
a determination to go all lengths and force an entrance. Resistance
appearing vain, Arteveldt despaired of saving himself by force; and,
coming to a window with his head uncovered, he attempted to bring them
to reason.
"My good people," said he, in the most soothing tone, "what aileth
you? Why are you so enraged against me? How have I incurred your
displeasure? Tell me, and I will conform myself entirely to your wills."
"We want," answered they with one voice, "an account of the treasures
you have made away with."
"Gentlemen," said Arteveldt, "be assured that I have never taken
anything from the treasures of Flanders; and if you will, for the
present, return quietly to your homes, and come here to-morrow morning,
I will be ready to give so good an account of them that you shall have
every reason to be satisfied."
"No, no!" cried they; "we must have it directly. You shall not escape
us thus. We know that you have emptied the treasury, and, without our
knowledge, sent the money to England; and you must, therefore, suffer
death."
When Arteveldt heard this, he clasped his hands together, and wept in
mortification of spirit as he thought of the services he had rendered
his country, and perceived how they were likely to be requited.
"Gentlemen," he said, "such as I am, you yourselves have made me.
Formerly you swore you would protect me against all the world, and now,
without any reason, you want to murder me."
"Come down," bawled the mob, "and do not preach to us from such a
height. We want to know what you have done with the treasures of
Flanders?"
Seeing clearly that the populace were in that state of excitement
which makes them mistake friends for foes, and that his destruction
was certainly intended, Arteveldt left the window and attempted to get
out of his house by the rear, with the object of taking refuge in a
neighbouring church. But he was too late to save himself from butchery.
Already four hundred men had entered the mansion by the back, and the
toils were upon him. Shouting for his head, and clamouring like wild
beasts, they rushed upon him, seized him forcibly, trampled him under
foot, and slew him without mercy.
When this tragical event occurred at Ghent, the King of England and
the Prince of Wales were still at Sluys, awaiting the result of their
negotiations. On hearing of Arteveldt's violent death, the king was
enraged beyond measure; and, after vowing to avenge his ally and
friend, he put to sea with his son and returned to England.
Extreme was the alarm of the more prudent among the Flemings when they
learned what had been done by the mob at Ghent, and what had been said
by the King of England on receiving intelligence of the murder of
Arteveldt. Without delay they sent ambassadors from the various cities
to explain and apologise; and at Westminster the Flemings were admitted
to the royal presence. At first, Edward was haughty and disdainful;
but, after much conversation with the ambassadors, who disowned all
participation in the bloody deed, he consented to forego thoughts of
vengeance.
By this time, indeed, the king had foes enough on the Continent without
adding the Flemings to the number; and he perceived the impolicy of
attempting to force his son on them as a ruler. It was not as Duke
of Flanders, but as Prince of Wales, that the heir of England was to
perform the martial prodigies which made him so famous among the men of
the age he adorned with his valour and chivalry.
Events had already reached a crisis which rendered the continuation
of peace impossible, when I so far realised the aspirations I had
cherished in obscurity as to make my way into the service of the young
hero around whose name so much fame was soon to gather.
CHAPTER IX
KING EDWARD'S DEFIANCE
As King Edward had promised, I speedily found myself installed as one
of the pages to the Prince of Wales, and hastened to provide myself
with garments suitable to my new position in life, and to fall into the
ways of the court over which the good Queen Philippa presided with so
much grace and amiability.
In spite of the humble sphere from which I had emerged, I was treated
with almost familiar kindness by the prince, and with perfect courtesy
by the gentlemen who formed his household, with the single exception of
the Lord De Ov, whose haughty words at Smithfield had so deeply galled
me. Between the young baron and myself there existed an instinctive
antipathy, as if we had been born to be mortal foes; and, as he never
looked at me without a scowl of scorn, I, rather elate with my rising
fortunes, replied with glances of fiery defiance.
I had lost no time in sending a messenger from Windsor to inform my
grandsire and my mother of the result of my visit to Jack Fletcher, and
of my intention to take an early opportunity of presenting myself in
person at the homestead, to convince them not only that there was no
mistake about my good luck, but also that I was certain, ere long, to
rise higher.
Never, indeed, had there been a time when an Englishman was likely
to have more chances of distinguishing himself in continental war.
Everybody was telling his neighbour how the king was about to lead an
army, composed of Englishmen, to France, and how Philip of Valois--if
he knew what manner of men the invaders were likely to be--would
tremble at the prospect of their landing. I fully participated in the
prevailing excitement, and listened eagerly as Simon Burley related the
circumstances under which King Edward sent the defiance which made a
renewal of the war inevitable.
It appears that the King of England was at Windsor, celebrating the
feast of St. George, and flattering himself that peace was established,
when he received intelligence that the treaty of Malestroit had been
rudely broken by the summary execution of his Breton allies. The king,
whose temper was fiery, no sooner heard of this breach of faith and
outrage on justice, than his blood boiled with indignation, and he
vowed he would make Philip of Valois repent his handiwork.
At that time Sir Hervé de Léon, a knight of Brittany, who had stood
sternly up for the interest of Charles of Blois against the English
king and the Earl of Montfort, happened to be a prisoner in England;
and Edward in the excess of his rage, bethought him of retaliation.
Fortunately, however, Henry, Earl of Derby, the king's kinsman, had the
courage to remonstrate, and to persuade Edward that such a course would
be unworthy of his dignity and of the reputation he enjoyed throughout
Christendom.
"My lord," said Derby, "if Philip of Valois has, in his rashness, had
the villainy to put to death so many valiant knights, do not suffer
your courage to be tainted by it; for, in truth, if you will but
consider a little, your prisoner has nothing to do with this outrage.
Have the goodness therefore to give him his liberty at a reasonable
ransom."
Edward, after attentively listening to the earl, paused, reflected,
indicated by gesture his concurrence in his kinsman's opinion, and
ordered the captive knight to be brought to his presence.
"Ha! Sir Hervé--Sir Hervé," began the king, who by this time had
recovered his serenity, "my adversary, Philip of Valois, has shown his
treachery in too cruel a manner when he put to death so many knights.
It has given me much displeasure, and it appears as if it were done in
despite of us. If I were to take his conduct as my example, I ought to
do the like to you, for you have done me more harm in Brittany than any
other man."
"Sire----" said Sir Hervé, interrupting.
"Nay," continued Edward, "listen. I will preserve my honour unspotted,
and allow you your liberty at a trifling ransom, out of my love for the
Earl of Derby, who has requested it; but on this condition, that you
perform what I am going to ask of you."
"Sire," said Sir Hervé, "I will do the best of my power to perform
whatever you shall command."
"Ah, then, let us come to the point," continued the king. "I know,
Sir Hervé, that you are one of the richest knights in Brittany, and
if I were to press you, you would pay me forty thousand crowns for
your ransom. But you will go to Philip of Valois, my adversary, and
tell him, from me, that, by putting so many knights to death in so
dishonourable a manner, he has sore displeased me, and I say and
maintain that he has, by this act, broken the truce, and that, from
this moment, I consider it broken, and by you send him my defiance."
"Sire," replied Sir Hervé, "I will perform your message to the best of
my abilities."
"In consideration of your carrying my message," added the king, "I will
let you off for ten thousand crowns, which you will send to Bruges
within five days after you have crossed the seas."
"Sire," said the knight, "I engage so to do; and God reward you and my
lord of Derby for your kindness to me."
No delay could be laid to the charge of Sir Hervé de Léon in fulfilling
his promise. Finding himself released from prison, he took leave of
the king, and embarked at Southampton. His intention was to land at
Harfleur, but the vessel in which he sailed encountered a violent
storm. For fifteen days the knight was almost at the mercy of the winds
and the waves; and he was under the necessity of throwing his horses
overboard. At length the mariners landed at Crotoy, a town in Picardy,
at the mouth of the Somme, and Sir Hervé with his suite journeyed on
foot to Abbeville.
The voyage, however, had proved too much for the Breton knight, and
at Abbeville he was so ill and so weakened by sea-sickness that he
could not ride on horseback. But he did not forget his promise; and,
though his end was approaching, he travelled in a litter to Paris, and
delivered to Philip of Valois, word for word, the message with which
King Edward had intrusted him.
"And now," said King Edward, "let my adversary tremble."
"Ay, let Philip of Valois tremble," shouted hundreds of voices.
Everywhere throughout England there was bustle, and excitement, and
preparation for war; and while men-at-arms and archers were mustering
at Southampton, Godfrey de Harcourt, that great noble of Normandy, whom
Philip of Valois menaced with death, reached England, to encourage the
king with his promises and aid him with his counsels; and among the
youth who surrounded the Prince of Wales there was much enthusiasm, and
also much talk of performing feats of arms; and none among them was
more enthusiastic than myself or more hopeful of doing something to win
renown.
It was under such circumstances, one morning in May, that I rode
through Windsor Forest to the homestead that had sheltered my
childhood, to bid adieu to my grandsire and to my mother before
crossing the sea. My grandsire shed a tear and my mother wept bitterly
as we parted. But my heart was too elate with hope, and my brain too
full of glowing aspirations, to allow their sadness to depress me.
Already I was, in imagination, winning the spurs of knighthood, even
leading armies to victory, and making my way to fame and fortune by
heroic achievements.
So far everything appeared brilliant. But I was destined, ere the year
closed, to discover that war was not wholly made up of triumphs, and
to have ample leisure to pine, in irksome solitude, for a sight of the
quiet homestead which I had deemed so dull.
But let me not tell of the future. At the period of which I write there
was little thought among us of disaster or of mishaps. The king, the
prince, earls, barons, knights, squires, and yeomen were leaving their
homes to take part in the great enterprise. All England was ringing
with predictions of victory and conquest: and my young heart beat to
the music of the hour, as I thought of Philip of Valois listening to
the terms of King Edward's defiance, and trembling on his throne at the
approach of King Edward's vengeance.
CHAPTER X
THE VOYAGE
About St. John the Baptist's Day, 1346, the King of England, having
nominated his young son, Lionel of Clarence, lieutenant of the realm,
and intrusted Queen Philippa to his kinsman, the Earl of Kent, embarked
at Southampton, to cross the sea. On board the king's ship, the
Katherine, was the Prince of Wales; and I, with other pages and several
young gentlemen of high birth, had the privilege of being in attendance
on the prince.
Godfrey de Harcourt, the great Norman lord I have already mentioned,
accompanied King Edward on this occasion. Indeed, the king relied much
upon Harcourt for such information as might enable him to penetrate
into the country which recognised Philip of Valois as sovereign, and
strike a shattering blow at his adversary's power.
It was King Edward's intention to land in Gascony; and his mighty
armament, on board of which were most of the great earls and barons of
England, put to sea with that view. The wind was favourable, and, as
the ships went tilting over the waves, it was a fair sight to behold;
for it seemed as if the whole water, as far as the eye could reach,
was covered with cloth, from the number of sails that were given to
the wind. On the third day, however, there was a marvellous change. In
fact, the wind, changing suddenly, drove us on the coast of Cornwall;
and the mariners were fain to cast anchor, and remain there for six
days and six nights.
It was now that Harcourt proposed to King Edward to change the
destination of the armament, and to land in Normandy instead of Gascony.
"Sire," said Harcourt, "Normandy is one of the most fertile provinces
in the world; and I will answer with my head that you may land in any
part of it you please without hindrance, for no one will think of
opposing you. You will find in Normandy rich towns and handsome castles
without any means of defence, and your people will gain wealth enough
to suffice them for twenty years to come. Your fleet may also follow
you up the river Orne, as far as Caen."
"On my faith, cousin," said the king, "I believe you are in the right."
"What I state is true, sire," added Harcourt; "I, therefore, intreat
you will listen, and give credit to what I have said."
After some consideration, King Edward determined on following
Harcourt's sage advice; and, without delay, he gave orders that the
fleet should steer direct for Normandy. At the same time, he ordered
the flag of the Earl of Warwick, who was admiral, to be hoisted on
board his own ship; and, the wind being favourable, he took the lead of
the armament, and made straight for the Norman shore.
It was on the coast of Coutantin, of which Coutances is the chief town,
that the English fleet came to anchor; and it was at the port of La
Hogue, not far from St. Sauveur le Vicomte, the dominion of Harcourt,
that King Edward landed.
At that moment, as I well remember, there occurred a slight accident,
which created much excitement, and which the king, with admirable
presence of mind, turned to good account. Being impatient to reach
the land which he claimed as his own, he no sooner observed that the
Katherine was on the point of touching the strand, than he leaped from
on board. As he set foot on the shore, however, he happened to slip,
and fell with such force on his face, that the blood gushed from his
nose.
A cry of horror instantly arose, and spread through the armament; and
the knights about the king gathered round him with dismay on their
countenances.
"Sire," said they, "let us intreat you to return to your ship, and not
think of landing to-day, for this is an unlucky omen."
"Why an unlucky omen?" exclaimed the king, after a moment's hesitation.
"I look upon it as most favourable, for it is a sign that the land is
desirous of me."
As the king's words were reported, a loud shout indicated how much
pleased the English were with his answer; and they began to disembark
with the baggage, armour, and horses. That night the king and his
army lay on the sands; and, next day, having conferred knighthood on
the Prince of Wales, and appointed Godfrey de Harcourt and the Earl of
Warwick marshals of his army, and the Earl of Arundel constable, he
prepared to march.
Meanwhile messengers, despatched by the towns of Normandy, were riding
in haste towards Paris, to inform Philip of Valois that the English
had landed; and all over the country rumour spread the news that the
lion-hearted Plantagenet was once more on the soil of France, with a
mighty host of archers and men-at-arms, led by Anglo-Norman nobles,
whose genius and valour made them most formidable war-chiefs.
And so, no longer, as on former occasions, with a band of foreign
hirelings, but with an army of Englishmen, sworn to conquer or die,
and with his gallant son riding by his side, did King Edward begin his
march into the dominions of his adversary--hope beckoning him onwards
and genius guiding him on the way to victory.
I have said that I embarked to take part in the war in high spirits;
and in spite of the exertion and fatigue of the disembarking, my
enthusiasm had now risen to the highest pitch. But suddenly I was
reminded that I had, at least, one enemy at hand, who was determined
not to overlook my existence. I was just mounting my black steed to
ride in the prince's train, and had my hand in the mane to vault into
the saddle, when the Lord De Ov crossed my path, and contrived, in
passing, to run his charger against mine in such a way as to leave no
doubt that insult was intended; and then, turning round, he eyed me
with a malevolence that no words could have expressed.
My blood naturally boiled at this unprovoked insult, and at another
time I should certainly have given way to my temper. In the prince's
presence, however, and in the circumstances in which I was, anything
like retaliation was out of the question, and I was forced to restrain
my wrath and bite my glove.
Mounting in sullen mood, I calmed myself as I best could; and, as
I followed the prince's banner, I could not help wondering for the
twentieth time, but more than ever, what cause there could be for the
malevolence which this young baron, so high in the world's esteem in
comparison, exhibited towards me, an unprotected boy, from the day when
accident threw us in each other's way.
I lived long enough both to experience his utmost malice, and to
punish it. Better far for him would it have been to have allowed the
past to sink into oblivion. It was his constant display of antipathy
which eventually led to my penetrating the mystery that hung over my
birth, and to discover that I had to settle with my Lord De Ov a heavy
hereditary account; and it was his own insolent folly that precipitated
the fate that befell him on that day when, in the face of heaven and
earth, I avenged, at one blow, the wrongs of a father, and my own.
CHAPTER XI
MARCH OF THE INVADERS
It soon appeared that the alarm expressed by the French when they heard
that the King of England had set his armed heel on the soil of Normandy
was not unfounded or unreasonable.
Indeed, the martial chief of the English invaders lost no time in
making his presence felt, and adding to the terror which the news
of his landing had inspired. After dividing his forces into three
divisions, he advanced into the country, the centre host being under
his own command and that of the Prince of Wales; while on either hand
marched the marshals, ravaging as they went, and driving the natives
before them as hunters chase the deer. Every evening, at sunset, the
three forces met at the place appointed for encamping for the night;
and every morning they parted to pursue their successes.
First among the places that yielded to the English was St. Lo, a rich
trading town in Coutantin; and, this conquest achieved, they advanced
on Caen, a flourishing and handsome city, with a noble castle and many
fine churches, besides the monastery dedicated to St. Stephen, in which
reposed the ashes of William the Norman. At Caen, Edward became aware
that there was every prospect of resistance, for Robert de Blarguy,
with three hundred Genoese, held the castle; while the Count of
Tancarville and the Count of Eu, Constable of France, occupied the town
with a host of warriors, who, when joined by the townsmen, formed a
formidable force.
It was necessary, under the circumstances, to proceed with caution; and
the king quartered for the night in the fields outside the town, with
the intention of attacking on the morrow. But the French were meanwhile
on the alert; and, headed by the constable, the citizens boldly came
forth into the field to do battle with the invaders. Nor did the
English shrink from an encounter. No sooner, indeed, did day dawn, than
the king and the Prince of Wales prepared for action, and set their men
in order. The sight of the English produced an immediate effect; and
when they began to approach, the townsmen took fright, turned their
backs, and fled through the gates.
But it was too late to save themselves by flight; and the English,
entering with them, forcibly took possession. This, however, was not
done without considerable loss. Indeed, the men of Caen showered
stones and every description of missile from the windows, and exerted
themselves so vigorously that more than five hundred Englishmen lost
their lives.
On hearing of the havoc that had been wrought among his soldiers,
King Edward was highly exasperated; and, in his wrath, he thought of
vengeance.
"On my faith," exclaimed he, "I am strongly inclined to put the
inhabitants to the sword, and burn the town!"
Harcourt, however, interposed, and appeased the king's wrath.
"Sire," said he, "assuage somewhat of your anger, and be satisfied
with what has already been done. You have a long journey to make, and
there are in this town thousands of men who will defend themselves
obstinately. It would cost you many lives, and put a stop to your
expedition, without redounding to your honour. Philip de Valois is
certain to come to give you battle, and you will have more than full
employment for all your men."
"Sir Godfrey," replied the king, "you are marshal; therefore order as
you please. For this time we will not interfere."
Delighted at the king's answer, Harcourt mounted his horse, ordered
his banner to be displayed, rode through the town, and commanded that
none of the English should, on pain of death, hurt any man or woman in
Caen. This prevented slaughter; but many prisoners were taken, and the
Constable of France and the Count of Tancarville were among the number.
At Caen the king and his army remained for three days; and the English,
having made themselves masters of the place, did not fail to make free
with what it contained. After the marshal's proclamation, which assured
the inhabitants that their lives were safe, was understood, all fear on
their part seemed to vanish. Many of them received the invaders into
their houses as guests, and others freely opened their coffers, and
parted with their gold in consideration of being protected.
Finding themselves masters, on such terms, of a town larger than any
in England, except London, full of noble dames, and damsels, and rich
citizens, and stocked with draperies, merchandise, wines, and all
manner of good things, the English indulged, without stint, their
appetite for pleasure and plunder; and many of them amassed great
wealth, which was sent, in barges, down the river to Estreham, to be
conveyed to St. Sauveur, where lay the fleet, ready to convey the spoil
and the prisoners to England.
CHAPTER XII
A SNARE
It is not unnatural that, when relating what the king said, and what
his marshals did, and how his army moved, I should be in some danger
of losing sight of my own figure, and even forgetting, in some degree,
my own existence. However, I would not, by any means, have the reader
conclude that, because silent as to my achievements, I, Arthur Winram,
was wholly idle during the march of the English from La Hogue to Caen,
or an idle spectator of the events that rendered that expedition
memorable.
In fact, young, new to life, ardent and eager to appear a man, I
entered with enthusiasm into the spirit of the enterprise. Far be it
from me to sing my own praises; but, being in constant activity, I met
with exploits of which I venture to say no warrior of my age could with
justice boast. At Caen I was among the first who entered the gates,
and barely escaped atoning for my audacity by being stoned to death
in the narrow streets; and afterwards gained some experience, and a
significant warning to be on my guard, during a mysterious adventure,
which involved me in such danger that I well-nigh gave myself up for
lost.
I have already mentioned that, after the king had consented to spare
the place, Godfrey de Harcourt rode through the streets with his banner
displayed, and commanded that no Englishman should, on pain of death,
injure an inhabitant, male or female, and that the proclamation led to
the army mingling with the citizens. I was rather too young to profit
much by the hospitality or the wealth of the men and women of Caen; but
I was not insensible to the wild kind of freedom in which the invaders
indulged, and did not fail, like my neighbours, to assume the air of a
conqueror, and to roam about the city as if I had been lord of all I
beheld.
It happened that, on the second day of the king's residence in Caen, I
was examining, not without interest, the monastery of St. Stephen, in
which repose the ashes of William the Norman, when I felt my shoulder
slightly touched, and, turning quickly round, found beside me a man
with a beetle brow, who, in answer to my question as to his business
with me, intimated that he could not speak my language, but placed a
missive in my hand.
Drawing back to guard against surprise--for his appearance was the
reverse of prepossessing--I read the document with breathless amazement.
"If the English page, calling himself Arthur Winram"--so ran the
words--"will, at nightfall, meet the bearer of this on the spot on
which he receives it, he will be conducted to the presence of one who
will clear away the mystery that hangs over his birth, and reveal the
story of his parentage."
I trembled with excitement as these words met my eye, and did not,
for an instant, hesitate about venturing on an interview. Having
explained to the messenger, in as good French as I was master of, that
I should meet him at the time appointed, I hurried back to the prince's
quarters, and passed the remainder of the day in vague surmises.
I confess that sometimes I suspected a snare; but, considering my
position, believing that no one could be interested in harming me, I
dismissed my doubts as they rose, and asked, with a smile of contempt,
whether, in pursuit of the information for which, from childhood, I had
earnestly longed, I, vowed as I was to face all dangers in quest of
fame and fortune, would shrink from a hazard which could not be great,
and which probably was imaginary.
Such being the view which I took of the adventure to which I was
invited, I awaited in a restless mood the hour for going forth to hear
the secret by which, I could not doubt, my destiny, in some measure,
hung. At length, the sun having set, I prepared to be gone; and
arraying myself, without any weapon save a small dagger, which, having
sheathed, I placed in my bosom to be ready to my hand in case of need,
I walked forth with the feelings natural to a man about to solve a
mysterious question that has for years baffled his intelligence, and
preyed on his imagination.
Making my way through streets filled with warriors flushed with wine,
I bent my steps to the monastery of St. Stephen, and there I found,
true to his time and appointment, the man with the beetle brow.
Without speaking, he made a sign for me to follow; and I, having by
this time cast the last remnant of hesitation to the winds, accepted
his guidance, and walked on, under the influence of a curiosity which
silenced the last whispers of prudence.
It was still early, but daylight had wholly departed; and, the moon
not having yet risen, Caen was gradually enveloped in darkness, as my
guide, after leading me through streets with which I was unacquainted,
at length halted before the door of a house which had nothing to
distinguish it from the ordinary dwellings of citizens in that town
and others of the province of which it formed part. Having rung at
the gate, we were readily admitted; and I, after being conducted up
a stair, found myself in an apartment somewhat brilliantly lighted,
and, as I thought, richly furnished. On a table, where stood a lamp
that threw its brilliancy all over the room, were a flask and two
drinking-cups; and on a couch, hard by, reclined a woman who rose as
I entered, and welcomed me with a smile, which, of itself, would have
sufficed to banish suspicion of anything like foul play being intended.
At this moment, when long years have intervened, I perfectly remember
the impression which the first sight of that woman produced on me.
She was young--not more than twenty--and exquisitely beautiful, with a
tall, graceful figure, hair dark as the raven's wing, dark, dark eyes,
that seemed to pierce instantly to the heart, and features which, in
later years, would have led me to suppose her a native of Italy. At
that time, however, I was much too ignorant of countries and races to
be capable of making any such distinctions; and as I stood silent, I
certainly was not stupified, but I was lost in wonder.
"You know not the language of the country in which we are?" said she,
with a voice and manner which completed the fascination.
"It grieves me, lady," I replied, "that I am not so familiar with it
as to hold converse freely with the natives; but I know enough to
understand and to make myself understood."
"It matters not," she said hastily; "for I know enough of the English
tongue to spare you the inconvenience of speaking, or listening to,
mine. Your name, or rather the name by which men call you, is Arthur
Winram?"
"True," answered I, "I pass by that name; but I have reason to believe
that I am entitled to bear one to which the world would pay more
respect."
"On that point you shall be enlightened anon," said she, as she
motioned me to a seat, and then added, gravely and in a tone of
emotion, "but the tale I have to tell is one of bloodshed; and you will
require all your courage to hear it to an end. Be pleased, therefore,
to steel your heart for the trial."
As she spoke she raised the flask on the table, filled the cups that
stood with it, took one herself, and made a sign for me to take the
other. I obeyed; I put forth my hand; I took the cup; I raised it to my
lips; and, as my blood was feverish with suspense, and my thirst, in
consequence, intense, I drank copiously. I had scarcely done so when a
marvellous change came over me. My head began to swim; the objects in
the room seemed to dance before my face. Gradually my eyes grew dim;
the figure of the woman faded from my sight; and I sank back overcome
and unconscious.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BROKEN BRIDGES
After remaining three days in Caen, and despatching the Earl of
Huntingdon to England in command of that fleet which carried not only
the spoil of the Norman towns but a multitude of prisoners, among whom
were some sixty knights, including the Count of Tancarville and the
Count of Eu, Constable of France, King Edward led forth his army to
pursue his career of conquest.
It soon appeared that the great Plantagenet would have to encounter a
difficulty which, perhaps, he had little anticipated. At first, indeed,
the progress of the English was as easy and as uninterrupted as before
their arrival at Caen. Having taken the town of Louviers, and made
themselves masters of much of the wealth the place contained, they
marched into the county of Evreux; and Edward, with a view of drawing
near to Rouen, where he hoped to attract many Norman men-at-arms to his
standard, approached the banks of the Seine. But at this stage he found
his operations unexpectedly checked. In fact, the French, acting under
orders from Philip de Valois, whose alarm and rage knew no bounds, had
deliberately and carefully broken down the bridges to prevent Edward
crossing to the right bank; and it was not till he reached Poissy, in
the Isle of France, not more than seven leagues from Paris, that he
could see any way of overcoming the difficulty which his adversary had
thrown in his way.
The bridge of Poissy, like the others on the Seine, had been destroyed
by the French; but the beams and other parts were left by the river,
and the king resolved on its reconstruction. Accordingly, he took up
his residence for a few days in the convent of Poissy; and while his
marshals pursued their ravages almost to the gates of Paris, burning
St. Germain and St. Cloud by the way, he celebrated the feast of the
Virgin Mary, sitting at table in scarlet robes, without sleeves,
trimmed with furs and ermines.
The festival of St. Mary over, the marshals having returned, and the
bridge having been repaired, Edward again donned his mail, passed the
Seine on the 15th of August, and turned his face toward Calais, which
it was his object to reach. But after taking the town and castle of
Poix the king found himself in a still more awkward dilemma than that
from which he had freed himself; for the Somme, a broad and deep river,
presented an apparently insuperable obstacle to his progress; and he
pushed forward to Airaines, a town four leagues from Amiens, with the
melancholy conviction that his own situation and that of his army was
critical in the extreme.
Every bridge on the Somme had been broken down, and not a jot of
information as to a ford could be obtained for love or money. Before
Edward was the river, apparently impassable; behind him a mighty army
bent on his destruction; for Philip of Valois had taken the field, and
around his banner had gathered half the feudal warriors of Europe. From
Bohemia, from Germany, from Luxembourg, from Hainault, from Savoy, and
from Lorraine, they had rushed under kings and princes of fame, and
were coming on the track of the English like hunters pressing on to the
lion's death. It was vain to think of a refuge, for the invaders were
in a hostile country, with no place of sufficient strength to afford a
chance of security. But the king's heart did not fail him even in that
day of trial.
"Here," said he, on reaching Airaines, "we halt for three days; during
that time we must find or make a way to pass the Somme; and once on the
other side we will, please God and St. George, show our adversaries
how, when closely pressed, the lion can turn to bay."
But three days passed, and, in spite of all the efforts of the
marshals, matters remained as they had been, save that the enemy drew
rapidly nearer, and the English army seemed doomed; and many muttered,
"All is lost."
CHAPTER XIV
A RUSH FOR LIBERTY
I must now leave the King of England and his army at Airaines, retrace
my steps to Caen, and relate what befell me in that city when I
so unexpectedly, and under such mysterious circumstances, sank in
unconsciousness.
It is not in my power to say how long I remained insensible of
the position in which I was. I awoke, however, with a feeling of
sickliness, which was speedily succeeded by one of horror. It was pitch
dark; my limbs felt cramped and confined; and when I strove to recover
my feeling of freedom, I discovered, to my consternation, that I was
bound hand and foot. I almost lost my senses on making this discovery;
but, fortunately, drowsiness crept over me, and I again yielded to
slumber. It was well that such was the case, as it probably saved me
from despair and delirium.
When I again awoke it was broad daylight, and I was better able to
judge of my predicament. I immediately perceived that I was reclining
on straw in a small chamber, lighted by a window that was high from the
floor, and that there was no appearance of any door by which an escape
might be attempted. Nor was this all. My hands and feet were firmly
bound with cords. I was evidently a prisoner, and perhaps destined for
a victim.
My reflections at that moment, as may be supposed, were not of the
most agreeable kind; and I thought with a deep sigh, of my grandsire's
grange, and, almost with remorse, of my mother's warning. Not
unnaturally I cursed the fortune which, after deluding my fancy with
promises of a golden future, reduced me suddenly to the condition of a
captive, without even leaving me the power of striking a blow for my
deliverance.
As I reflected and murmured, I was interrupted by the voices of persons
who seemed to converse in a low tone, and presently a concealed door
was opened, and the man with the beetle brow entered the chamber. I
closed my eyes, breathed hard, and pretended to be sunk in slumber. But
I was all attention, and felt a return of hope.
"He sleeps," said the man, looking towards the door.
"Good," exclaimed his companion; "and the sooner he sleeps the sleep
that knows no breaking so much the better."
"My lord," said the man resolutely, "I have told you I will not have
his blood on my hands."
"What need?" was the reply; "if he is left here long enough, time and
hunger will do their work."
I shuddered at the idea, but without attracting their notice; and as
they turned to depart, I partially opened my eyes. My suspicions as to
the author of my incarceration were instantly confirmed as I caught a
glance of the person who destined me for the most cruel of deaths. But
I felt calmly vindictive, and, almost ere the bolts were turned upon
me, had resolved to keep my own counsel, and to await with patience the
day of vengeance.
Matters having reached this stage, I bent all my ingenuity to discover
some possibility of setting myself free, and determined to exercise no
particular scruples as to the means. Fortunately, my dagger had been
left where I had placed it on the previous evening, and I contrived, by
great exertion, to bring the handle near my mouth, with the object of
seizing it in my teeth, and drawing it from the sheath. After several
trials I succeeded, and commenced to saw the cords with which my hands
were bound, but for a long time found my efforts quite futile. I must
have passed hours making effort after effort in vain, and was on the
point of abandoning the attempt in despair, when I was inspired with
renewed energy by a circumstance that attracted my attention as I lay
on my back, toiling diligently, but to no purpose.
While occupied, as I have stated, and ever and anon pausing to
ponder on the necessity of yielding to fate, my eye caught sight of
a spider, which while spinning its web, had suspended itself by a
long and slender thread from the roof above my head, and, with great
perseverance, endeavoured to swing itself from one rafter to another.
I watched its efforts, and became interested in the unconquerable
determination it displayed. Repeated defeats only led to renewed
energy. Six times it had essayed to reach its point, and on each
occasion it failed and fell back. Admiring the insect's determination,
and drawing a parallel between myself and it, I resolved to regulate
my conduct by its ultimate success or failure. As I did so it made a
seventh effort, attained its object, and fixed its web; and, encouraged
by the augury, I renewed mine with such vigour that I soon succeeded.
I almost went mad with joy and excitement as I found my hands free; I
lost not a moment in cutting the cords that bound my feet; and I stood
upright on the floor, somewhat cramped, indeed, but with my dagger in
my grasp, and on my face a stern smile, as I stretched out my limbs,
and felt that I had energy enough left to strike a desperate blow for
liberty and life.
It was necessary, however, to act with caution, and carefully to
examine my position; and I did so. I found that the window, besides
being high from the floor, was too well secured with iron to admit of
my escaping by it; and, moreover, I strongly suspected that the chamber
in which I found myself was at so great a height from the ground, that,
even if I could have forced myself through it, I should have been
unable to descend, save with something like a certainty of breaking my
neck. Accordingly, I at once abandoned that idea, and concluded that,
as I could not hope to escape by stratagem, I must lose no time in
attempting to do so by force.
But, in order to attempt force with any prospect of accomplishing my
object, I felt that it was necessary to await my opportunity; and I
recalled to mind the proverb of the Arabs as to patience being the
price of all success. In this frame of mind--calm, but perfectly
resolute--I took my place by the door, and prepared, as soon as it was
opened, to close with my gaoler, to force my way downward, dagger in
hand, and take my chance--no matter what odds I might encounter--of
making my way to the street, and thence to the prince's quarters.
For hours I had to wait and wearily passed the time. At length,
however, when the day was departing, and I knew by the decreasing light
that evening had fallen, I suddenly heard steps. I drew slightly
aside, and rejoiced to think that the dusk befriended me. As I drew
aside, the bolt turned, the door opened, and the man with the beetle
brow entered with something--perhaps food--in his hand. I had no
time, however, to observe minutely. As he glanced towards the spot I
had occupied, and perceived that I was no longer there, he uttered
an exclamation of surprise. But already the prospect of escape had
inspired me with extraordinary energy. Almost ere the exclamation had
left his tongue, I sprang upon him as the mastiff on the bull, and,
with a mighty exertion of strength, I prostrated him on the floor.
Not an instant did I now hesitate. I placed my dagger between my teeth,
sprang through the open door, descended the narrow stairs almost at a
bound, darted by the woman whom I had seen on the previous evening,
and, to make matters short, pushed through a window that was before
me, and managed so dexterously to drop to the ground, that, albeit the
distance was considerable, I was shaken, indeed, but unhurt.
My escape had been effected with so much more ease than I anticipated,
that I could hardly believe in its having really taken place. However,
as I gathered myself up, I became convinced; and, after muttering
thanks to God and the saints for their protection, I made my way
through the dark to the prince's quarters. My first impulse, in spite
of the vow I had formed, was to hasten to the prince and tell all.
But I had been long enough at court to have learned to think twice
before opening my mouth on such a subject; and five minutes' reflection
enabled me to perceive that I should never be believed. I, therefore,
renewed my resolution not to publish my wrongs till my name was great
enough to give weight to my words, and, in the meantime, to watch my
enemy closely.
As I reached the prince's quarters, I, somewhat to my dismay, ran
against Sir Thomas Norwich, a warrior who had won renown under the
Earl of Derby in Gascony. As this knight now held a high post in the
prince's service, and occupied a high place in the king's favour, he
was looked upon by squires and pages as a personage whose good opinion
was more to be desired than fine gold.
"Boy," said he, "where, in the name of all the saints, have you been?"
Unprepared for the question, I remained silent, and, doubtless, looked
very guilty.
"Come," continued he severely; "I fear me that, young as you are, you
have been following the multitude to do evil; and let me warn you that
it is a game which ever, in the end, brings those who play at it to
grief."
"Nay, sir knight," protested I earnestly, "I was tempted into an
adventure which----"
"An adventure!" repeated Sir Thomas, shaking his head sternly. "Beware,
boy. In the days of my youth I had many an adventure, and credit me,
nothing can be more true than that the end of that mirth is sadness."
"Let me explain."
"Nay, nay. Enough of this. The king marches at sunrise; and see that
you are in readiness to follow the prince's banner."
It was after my narrow escape, and not in the most celestial mood,
that I accompanied the invading army, and took part in the various
enterprises till we reached Airaines, and found that the Somme was
between us and the province towards which we looked for safety.
CHAPTER XV
HUNTING A KING
It is necessary, having conducted the English army, and myself, to
Airaines, to go back for a few weeks to describe the effect which the
march of the invaders produced on Philip of Valois, and to explain how
he assembled a host so formidable as to daunt even King Edward's brave
warriors.
No sooner did Philip learn how the English were ravaging Coutantin than
he flew into one of his violent rages, and swore, in his wrath, that
they should not escape punishment--that they should pay dearly for
the mischief they were doing. Forthwith he summoned not only his own
barons and knights, but John of Hainault, and the fighting men of that
country, and despatched messengers to John, the blind King of Bohemia,
to Charles of Bohemia, John's son, who had been elected Emperor of
Germany, to the Count of Flanders, to the Duke of Lorraine, to the
Count of Savoy, and to the Count of Namur, to hasten to his aid with
all their forces. Faithful to their ally in his distress and danger,
they flocked to the capital of France like eagles to the carnage, and,
encamping about St. Denis, awaited the approach of the invaders whom
they had gathered to crush.
Meanwhile, Philip of Valois remained at Paris, expecting that King
Edward would come thither to offer battle. However, when the marshals
of England, marking their course by burning castles, pushed up to the
very gates, and rumours ran that the English were about to pass the
Seine, Philip began to stir; and, having ordered all the penthouses
of Paris to be pulled down, he prepared to join the army which had
assembled to fight for the crown which he unworthily wore.
When the Parisians, who, by this time, were in feverish alarm, learned
that Philip was on the point of leaving the capital, their terror knew
no bounds, and they raised a great outcry. In their distress they sent
deputies to intreat him not to abandon them at such a crisis. On being
admitted to his presence, the deputies fell on their knees.
"Ah, sire, and noble king," cried they, wringing their hands, "what are
you about to do? Are you about to leave your fine city of Paris?"
"My good people," replied Philip, somewhat touched, "be not afraid."
"Sire," urged the deputies, "the English are but two leagues from
Paris, and when they know you have quitted us they will advance, and we
are unable to resist them. We pray you, therefore, to remain and defend
us."
"Fear not," replied Philip; "I tell you the English will not approach
nearer than they have done; and as for me, I must go to St. Denis, for
I am impatient, above all things, to pursue the English, and to fight
with them." Accordingly, Philip of Valois that day left Paris, and,
on reaching St. Denis, he found himself at the head of a noble army,
with an emperor, a king, and a multitude of princes as his captains,
and, what was deemed of immense importance, a numerous body of Genoese
cross-bowmen, who, it was hoped, would prove more than a match for
those English archers, whose achievements had made them the terror of
their country's foes.
Much annoyed and rather startled was Philip to hear that King Edward
had actually left Poissy, and crossed the Seine. However, having given
orders to break down all the bridges on the Somme, and vigilantly to
guard every spot at which it was possible to pass the river, he marched
from St. Denis at the head of his army, which gradually swelled as
he went to the number of a hundred thousand men, and pushed forward
determinedly till he was within three leagues of Amiens. At this stage,
Philip learned that Edward was at Airaines, and took up his quarters
for the night at Amiens. Next day, however, he resumed the chase, and
about noon appeared at Airaines. But, to his disappointment, he found
that the English had left the place that morning, and that they had
proceeded to Oisemont, a town in Picardy, five leagues from that which
he had just quitted.
"Never mind," said Philip, haughtily, "Edward cannot escape us; we
will shut him up between Abbeville and the Somme, and either take him
prisoner, or force him to fight at such a disadvantage that he must
lose."
Flattering himself with anticipations of a great triumph, Philip of
Valois, before continuing the hunt after his royal foe, remained at
Airaines to wait for his nobles and barons who were expected, while
his scouts, who were all over the country in search of intelligence,
brought tidings of the foe with whom he was so eager to come up; and he
passed the night regaling his fancy with the idea of terminating the
war, once and for ever, in his favour, at a blow, or perhaps without
striking a blow. Next morning he rose from his couch to act on the
information he had obtained.
It was now Thursday, the 24th of August; and Philip of Valois, mounting
his steed, ordered his banner to be displayed, and led his army forth
from Airaines, confidently expecting to find the English king and his
followers on the banks of the Somme, and either to take them captive,
as a birdcatcher does sparrows, or to scatter them, as a hawk does
pigeons. Suddenly, as he rode along in front of his array, one of the
scouts met him with a face which indicated that he brought news not
likely to be welcome.
"Well," asked Philip, "where are these English? Speak, sirrah!"
"Sire," answered the scout, "the English have passed the Somme."
CHAPTER XVI
GOBIN AGACE
In a former chapter I mentioned that, among the places taken by the
King of England, during his victorious and exciting march through
France, was Poix, a town of Picardy, about six leagues from Amiens.
The Lord of Poix was absent; and the captain of his castle, not having
the means of holding out, surrendered almost without resistance, and
allowed the fortress to be entered by the English soldiers at a time
when they were flushed with victory and wine.
It happened that, when the castle was taken, there were within its
walls two demoiselles, daughters of the Lord of Poix, and very
handsome. Great was the danger of these ladies at this moment; for the
invaders, as I have said, were then highly excited with their triumphs,
and in no humour to pay excessive respect to female virtue. Fortunately
for the ladies of Poix, I had been one of the first to foot the walls
of the castle and make my way into the interior; and, aware of the
danger in which the demoiselles were placed, I posted myself before
them, and, vowing to protect them, prepared, sword in hand, to defend
their honour with my life. I confess, however, that I felt, to my
consternation, that my influence in their behalf was not likely long to
prevail under the circumstances.
"A murrain take the madcap page!" cried one man-at-arms, frowning on me
fiercely.
"Make way," shouted another, with a hoarse laugh, "and let me advance
to console the fair ones in their jeopardy."
"Only over my body," answered I, as my blood boiled with indignation,
and I brandished my sword.
"Down with the jackanapes!" exclaimed the first speaker, making a
thrust at me with a spear.
I parried the attack, and my stubborn courage was not without its
effect. Nevertheless, it was evident that my resistance could not
long avail to save the noble demoiselles from insult, and I was just
giving way to despair, when Sir John Chandos, a knight of great fame,
made his appearance. Not without difficulty, he appeased the soldiers,
and, having rescued the young ladies from their dangerous position,
conducted them to the king. At his request I accompanied him to the
royal presence, and Edward received them with chivalrous courtesy.
"We do not make war on women," said the king; "and I am bound to
protect you against all dangers. But, if there is any stronghold to
which you wish to be conducted, name the place, and thither you shall
be escorted without delay."
"To Corbie," was the reply.
"It shall be as you wish," said Edward; and then turning to Sir Thomas
Norwich, he added with a smile, "Sir Thomas, be yours the honour of
escorting the noble demoiselles to the castle whither they wish to
proceed."
"Sire," replied the knight, "I will, to the best of my ability, fulfil
your command."
I was, much to my satisfaction, ordered to accompany Sir Thomas Norwich
on this expedition; and, finding myself acting as a protector of noble
damsels of grace and beauty, began to consider myself a great hero of
romance, and was, on our return, indulging in the luxury of building
castles in the air, when we encountered a party of armed peasants.
After a short skirmish we overcame, with little difficulty, the rustic
militia, and took them in a body as captives to the English camp.
Now this led to important consequences. While running my eye over the
prisoners, I remarked one stout fellow, whose countenance struck me as
being more intelligent than that of his comrades; and, not without a
vague hope of extracting from him such information as might be welcome
to the prince, and of service to the king, I singled him out from the
party, and entered into conversation.
"What is your name?" asked I.
"Gobin Agace," was his answer.
"You are our prisoner," observed I significantly.
"Yes," said he; "but you may have heard the story of the mouse that
gnawed the toils in which the lion was caught, and set the lion free."
"And how does that concern the business now in hand?"
"Much," answered the peasant; "for such a service as the mouse rendered
to the lion, I can, I believe, render to your king."
"Ha! by St. George, I perceive!" exclaimed I, much gratified. "Being
a native of this country, you have such knowledge of the fords on the
Somme as would secure you an ample reward."
"In that respect," said the young peasant, "I could render your king a
service that would be worth my weight in gold; and, if you will lead
me to his presence, I will convince you that I am not speaking as a
braggart might."
It was evening when we reached Oisemont, where King Edward was now
quartered, and rode into the town with our captives. We were just in
time. Immediately after, the king held a council; and, having ordered
the prisoners to be brought before him that they might be questioned,
he addressed them courteously.
"Good fellows," said he, "do any of you know a ford on the Somme, below
Abbeville, where I and my army could pass without danger? Whoever,"
added Edward, "will show us such a ford shall have his own liberty, and
that of any twenty of his fellow-captives whom he may select."
At this point Gobin Agace, whom I had instructed, stepped forward and
bent his head.
"Sire," began he, "I do know such a ford, and I promise, under peril of
life, that I will conduct you to a place where you and your whole army
may pass the Somme without any risk."
"Go on," said the king, inspired with a new hope by the peasant's words.
"There are certain fordable places," continued Gobin Agace, "where you
may pass, twelve men abreast, twice in the day, and not have water
above your knees. When the tide is in, the river is full and deep, and
no one can cross it; but, when the tide is out, the river is so low
that it may be passed on horseback or on foot without danger. You must,
therefore, set out early, so as to be at the ford before sunrise."
"And what call you this ford?" asked the king.
"Sire," replied the peasant, "the bottom of the ford is very hard, of
white gravel and stones over which all your carriages may safely pass,
and thence it is called Blanche-taque."
"Friend," said the king joyfully, "if what you have told me is found to
be true, I will give you and all your companions their liberty, and I
will besides make you a present of one hundred nobles."
It now seemed that the safety of the King of England and his
army depended on the accuracy of Gobin Agace's information as to
Blanche-taque; and Edward gave orders that, at daybreak, every man
should be ready, at the first sound of the trumpet, to march towards
the Somme, and make the grand experiment.
CHAPTER XVII
HOW WE FORDED THE SOMME
Deep and somewhat depressing was the anxiety felt throughout the
English army as the night of Wednesday closed over Oisemont; and brief,
if any, was the sleep enjoyed by most of the brave islanders whose
situation was so critical. Edward, who, both as king and Englishman,
was almost overwhelmed with a sense of responsibility as he thought
of the duty he owed to the brave men who had placed themselves in
jeopardy to assert his rights, scarcely closed his eyes, but waited
with impatience the break of day to make the attempt on which seemed to
hang the fate of his army and his own reputation as a war-chief.
Rising at midnight, and intent on putting his fortune to the test,
the king ordered his trumpets to sound; and, ere the first streak of
day glimmered in the sky, he set out from Oisemont at the head of
the van, and under the guidance of Gobin Agace, reached the ford of
Blanche-taque just as the sun rose. But at that time the tide was so
full that the idea of attempting a passage was not to be entertained;
and the light of day revealed on the opposite bank a strong force,
which had been posted there under one of the lords of Normandy, named
Godemar du Fay, with positive orders not, on any account, to allow the
English to ford the river.
In fact, Philip of Valois, on arriving at Amiens, had despatched
Godemar du Fay, with a thousand horsemen, six thousand footmen, and
a body of Genoese, to render the passage of the Somme absolutely
impossible; and Godemar had, on his march towards Blanche-taque, been
joined by a multitude of peasants and the townsmen of Abbeville, and
found himself at the head of twelve thousand men, who occupied a strong
position, and presented an imposing front. Edward, however, was not
in the least degree daunted. On seeing how matters were he merely
indicated his intention of waiting for that part of his army which had
not yet come up, and then attempting the passage at all hazards--the
feat on which everything now appeared to depend.
Accordingly, when the various divisions of the English reached the
Somme, and the tide had in some measure fallen, the king intimated to
his marshals that the hour had come for putting all to the test; and
shouting, "Let all who love me follow me," he spurred his charger and
dashed into the stream. The Prince of Wales and his knights followed;
and the French horsemen, at the same time, left the opposite bank, and
met them hand to hand.
A fierce combat now began in the water, and many gallant deeds
were performed on both sides. But the French--albeit they fought
well--exerted themselves in vain. The king and the prince, heading
their knights, bore down all opposition; and, almost ere they had
obtained a footing on the bank, the superior prowess of the English
was so evident, that the French almost immediately gave way and began
to disperse. Moreover, Godemar himself, after remaining for a moment
aghast at what was passing before him, concluded--and not without
reason--that all was lost; and, while the English were still struggling
through the ford, he completely lost hope of holding his ground, gave
way to panic, turned his horse's head, and headed the flight.
Having solemnly rendered thanks to God for conducting himself and his
army so far in safety, Edward summoned Gobin Agace, gave him and his
companions leave to depart, and, in recognition of the service he had
rendered, presented him with a hundred nobles and a good horse.
The Somme being thus passed, the king, with a lighter heart, pursued
his march, intending to take up his quarters at the town of Noyelle.
Learning, however, that it belonged to the Countess of Aumerle, sister
of his old friend, Robert of Artois, he sent to assure her that she
should not be disturbed, and pursued his way till he came, on Friday,
to a village in Ponthieu. Understanding that Philip of Valois was still
pursuing with the intention of giving battle, Edward, no longer wishing
to avoid an encounter, resolved to encamp, and await what fortune God
should send.
"Let us post ourselves here," he said to his people, "for we will
not go farther till we have seen our enemies. I have reason to wait
for them on this spot, as I am now on the lawful inheritance of my
grandmother, and I am resolved to defend it against my adversary,
Philip of Valois."
Orders for encamping on the plain near the village having been issued,
Edward, remembering the infinitely superior number of the army
which followed the banner of his foe, and determined to take every
precaution to ensure a victory, in the event of a battle, commanded
his marshals to select the most advantageous ground, and to inclose a
large park, which had a wood in the rear, within which to place all the
baggage-waggons and horses. No time was lost in executing the king's
orders; and the English, with a degree of hope unfelt for days, then
set about furbishing and repairing their armour, so as to be prepared
for the conflict which was not likely to be for many hours delayed.
Meanwhile, Edward, no longer avoiding but courting an encounter, sent
his scouts towards Abbeville to learn whether or not there was any sign
that Philip of Valois was about to take the field; and the scouts, on
returning, said there was no appearance of any movement on the enemy's
part. The king then dismissed his men to their quarters with orders to
be ready betimes next morning; and, after giving a supper to the earls
and barons who accompanied him, he retired to his oratory, and, falling
on his knees before the altar, prayed to God that, in the event of
combating his adversary on the morrow, he might come off with honour.
By midnight all was quiet, for thorough discipline prevailed throughout
the camp, and men stretched themselves to rest; and refreshed their
energies with slumber; and I, Arthur Winram, as I spread the skin of a
wild beast on the grass hard by the prince's pavilion, and threw myself
on the ground, and closed my eyes to dream of marvellous adventures in
love and war, said to myself--
"Now let me sleep while there is yet time. Mayhap, ere the sun of
to-morrow sets, I may sleep the sleep that knows no breaking."
CHAPTER XVIII
THE EVE OF BATTLE
It is well known that Robert, King of Sicily, was a great astrologer
and full of deep science, and that he had often cast the nativities
of Edward of England and Philip of Valois; and that, having found by
his astrology and the influence of the stars that, if they met in
hostile encounter, Philip would assuredly be defeated, the Sicilian
king had frankly intimated to his royal kinsman the result of his
investigations, and strongly advised him to beware of hazarding a
battle.
For years this prediction had exercised much influence on Philip's
mind; but on this occasion, the Valois, finding himself at the head of
an army so much superior in number to that of his gifted adversary,
was ready to throw all hesitation to the winds, and eager for nothing
so much as an early opportunity of coming to close conflict. Much,
therefore, was he disappointed on hearing that the English had given
him the slip and passed the Somme.
"Now," demanded Philip, turning to his marshals, "what is to be done?"
"Sire," replied they, "the tide is now in at Blanche-taque, and you can
only cross the river by the bridge of Abbeville."
"Well, then, let us turn toward Abbeville," said Philip, and his
marshals gave orders to that effect.
On reaching Abbeville, Philip took up his quarters in the monastery
dedicated to St. Peter. He was still hopeful of overtaking and crushing
his foe, though perhaps not quite so secure of victory, in the event
of a battle taking place, as he had been twelve hours earlier. At
all events, he deemed it prudent to await such additions to his army
as were likely to arrive; and from Thursday to the evening of Friday
he remained impatiently at the monastery awaiting the coming of his
friends and intelligence of his foes.
Wearily passed the hours, and more and more impatient grew Philip. At
length, however, as that August day was drawing to a close, the French
marshals rode into Abbeville with tidings that the King of England had
encamped on a plain in Ponthieu, and that the English army appeared
bent on remaining to try conclusions. Perhaps Philip now began to
entertain some doubts as to the result, and to call to memory the
prediction of the King of Sicily, which, in his rage and desire for
vengeance, he had, for a time, forgotten. But, in any case, it was
clear that he had gone too far to recede; and, come what might, he
resolved to push forward and fight for the crown which he wore.
So Philip of Valois entertained the princes and great lords of his
army at supper; and, next morning, after hearing mass, he set out in
pursuit of the invaders who had wrought him so much mischief and caused
him so much trouble. As he left Abbeville the rain fell in torrents,
and the march was long and fatiguing. But, still undaunted, Philip
pushed forward, and, about noon, came in sight of the English, who
were seated on the ground on a large plain, not far from a village
which boasted of a windmill. Hitherto obscure, this village was, from
that day, to be widely known to fame as the place where the great
Plantagenet, after being so keenly hunted, turned to bay.
It was Cressy.
CHAPTER XIX
THE BATTLE OF CRESSY
It was Saturday, the 26th of August, 1346, when Philip of Valois
marched from Abbeville to Cressy; and, on the morning of that day, the
King of England and the Prince of Wales, rising early, heard mass and
took the sacrament. At the same time most of the English confessed
their sins and received absolution, that they might go to battle with
lighter consciences and heavier hands; and these religious ceremonies
having been performed, Edward commanded his men to arm themselves, and,
with the aid of his constable and the two marshals, arrayed the army in
three divisions.
At the head of the first division Edward placed the Prince of Wales,
who was supported by the Earls of Warwick and Oxford. The second was
under the Lord de Roos and the Earls of Northampton and Arundel. The
third, which the king intended as a reserve, he retained under his own
command.
Having thus arrayed his forces, Edward, armed in mail, save his head
which was uncovered, mounted a palfrey, and riding from rank to rank,
with a white wand in his hand, encouraged the soldiers by his presence,
and intreated them to do their duty valiantly. He then ordered that
they should refresh themselves with what provisions they had, and
retired to his own division; while the men seated themselves on the
grass and ate and drank at their ease. Everything being ready for
action, they placed their helmets and weapons beside them, and awaited
the coming of their foes, who, still deeming themselves secure of an
easy victory, were pushing forward furiously.
It was not, however, till afternoon--not, in fact, till three
o'clock--that Philip of Valois, who had left Abbeville in the midst of
a heavy fall of rain, came up--at the head of that seemingly countless
host, which had gathered from so many countries to his aid--with the
handful of invaders he had vowed to crush as a potter's vessel. As the
French approached, the sun, which had been obscured all the morning,
broke through the clouds, and added to the effect of their chivalrous
display. Nor could anything have been more impressive. Banners and
pennons flew; armour glistened; bridles rang; and from the armed
multitude--panting for blood and carnage--rose loudly shouts of "Kill!
kill! kill!"
It happened, on that memorable day, that the Count of Alençon led
the van of the French army, and that in front of his cavalry he had
placed the Genoese, whose cross-bows were deemed likely to do terrible
execution. But, fatigued with a hasty and long march, the Genoese
were not in the best condition for the work they were designed to do,
and the delay which took place in consequence caused considerable
confusion. Philip, as was his wont when in any way annoyed, lost his
temper, and, as usual when he did so, his wrath instantly got the
better of his discretion.
"In the name of God and St. Denis," he roared, "order the Genoese
forward and begin the battle!"
Nothing could have exceeded the imprudence of attacking formidable foes
with an army in such disorder as that of France then was. But Philip's
blood was boiling at the sight of his enemies seated calmly on the
grass, and he was incapable of calculating chances. Accordingly orders
to attack were given; and the Genoese, supported by a large body of
men-at-arms, splendidly arrayed, approached with a loud shout which
was intended to make the English tremble. But the Genoese were much
mistaken. No notice whatever was taken of the noise. The Genoese then
raised a second shout. It, however, had quite as little effect as the
first. The Genoese then raised a third shout. But not one iota more
attention was paid to it than had been paid to the first and second.
The Genoese then presented their cross-bows and began to shoot, and
instantly--suddenly, as if by magic--the English were in motion and
on their feet. Every archer was stringing his bow; every footman was
brandishing his pike; every horseman was mounting his steed. All the
thirty thousand stood calmly contemptuous of odds, and sternly resolute
to conquer or die.
No time was now lost by the English in trying conclusions. Making a
step or two forward, at a signal from their leaders, the archers in
the division commanded by the prince, which was drawn up in the form
and manner of a portcullis or harrow, with the men-at-arms in the
rear, bent their bows, and sent a shower of arrows with such force in
the face of the foe, that the Genoese flung down their cross-bows,
and attempted to retreat. Again Philip lost his temper, and, with his
temper, everything like prudence.
"Kill these scoundrels," shouted he; "for, by St. Denis, they only
serve to stop our road to victory."
"Yes," cried the Count of Alençon, "let us ride over the bodies of
the Genoese." And, without hesitation, the men-at-arms charged the
cross-bowmen, and cut down the unfortunate mercenaries right and left.
Meanwhile the King of England, leaving the post of honour to the
Prince of Wales, and without putting on his helmet, took his station
by the windmill which I have already mentioned, and kept his eye on
every part of the field. Marking the confusion among the French, he
sent a messenger with orders to his son to charge upon them where
their disarray was greatest; and gallantly was the duty performed.
Nothing, indeed, could exceed the heroism with which the heir of
England--bestriding his grey barb, inspiring those around him to
despise odds, and defy the press of numbers--fought to win his spurs
that day. It was an exciting spectacle to see one so young enacting
such a part on such an occasion; and, inspirited by his example, the
English advanced with increasing enthusiasm, and rushed on with a
determination before which their enemies fell or were fain to give way.
But the great lords of France did not relish the idea of being beaten
by a warrior in his teens; and, as the conflict went on, the prince
was exposed to serious danger. By a simultaneous movement, the Count
of Alençon advanced from one side and the Count of Flanders from
the other, and, coasting, as it were, the archers, bore down with
irresistible force on the prince, at the head of their riders; while
Philip of Valois, guided by their banners, hounded forward a body of
French and Germans, who, breaking through the archers, engaged in
hand-to-hand encounter with the prince's men-at-arms. Fortunately, Lord
de Roos and the Earl of Northampton lost no time in bringing the second
division to the rescue. But the peril was still so extreme, that the
Earl of Warwick, apprehending the worst, sent Sir Thomas Norwich to the
king, who was still posted by the windmill.
"Sire," said the knight, "the Earl of Warwick, and others about your
son, are attacked by the French, and are sorely handled; wherefore they
intreat that you will come to their assistance with your battalion;
for, if the French increase, as they are like, your son and they will
have much to do."
"Is my son dead, or wounded, or felled to the earth?" asked Edward.
"No, sire, but he is hardly matched; wherefore he hath need of your
aid."
"Well," said the king, "return to him, and to them that sent you
hither, and let them know not to send for me, nor expect me to come
this day, let what will happen, so long as my son is alive. And say
that I command them to let my son win his spurs; for, if God be
pleased, I wish all the glory and honour of the day to be given to the
boy and to those who are about him."
Meanwhile, young Edward was bearing himself bravely; and when Sir
Thomas Norwich returned and repeated the king's answer, the prince
and his comrades were greatly encouraged with the confidence the king
reposed in them, and exerted themselves so strenuously, that, as the
day wore away, the battle--lately so fiercely contested--began to wear
a most unfavourable aspect for the French. The Counts of Alençon and
Flanders, indeed, fought bravely. But their efforts were in vain. Down
they both went, never to rise again; down went the Count of Blois and
the Duke of Lorraine; down went the Count of St. Pol and the Count of
Auxerre; and away fled Charles, Emperor of Germany, leaving his old
blind father to his fate.
But John of Bohemia--old and blind as he might be--was not the man to
fly; and, as he learned from his knights how the battle was going, and
how a boy, whose name he had never heard, was, at the head of a handful
of men, vanquishing the chivalry of Christendom, his indignation became
high and his excitement great.
"Where," he asked suddenly, "is my son?"
"My lord," answered one of his knights, "we know not; but we believe he
is fighting."
"Well, gentlemen," said the king, "you are all my people, and my
friends, and brothers-in-arms this day: therefore, as I am blind, I
request you to lead me so far into the battle that I may strike one
stroke with my sword."
"My lord," was the reply, "we will directly conduct you forward."
And the knights, that they might not lose the blind king in the crowd,
interlaced their bridles with his, and, placing him in front, led him
to the charge. But John of Bohemia was not more fortunate than his
friends. Good use, indeed, he made of his sword. His charge, however,
was as vain as the efforts of the Counts of Alençon and Flanders had
been. After penetrating into the English ranks, the Bohemian warriors
fell in a body; and the blind king and his knights were found next
day among the slain, with their horses fastened to each other by the
bridles.
It was now about vespers; and the battle, having raged for hours, was
wearing itself out. Hitherto Philip of Valois had enacted the part of
a brave warrior, and done stern work with sword and lance. But, as
evening sped on, it became evident that all was lost; and John of
Hainault saw that there was no hope of safety save in flight.
"Sire," said he, riding up to Philip, "retreat while it is yet time,
and do not further expose yourself. If you have lost this battle,
another time you may conquer." And, taking the rein of the vanquished
man's bridle, he led him forcibly from the scene of action, just as the
shades of evening were beginning to settle over the ground where his
adherents lay dead and dying.
By this time, indeed, the struggle was becoming faint, and ere long it
was at an end; and King Edward descended from the windmill from which
he had watched a mighty and magnificent army go down before his scanty
ranks. Placing himself at the head of his division, he advanced towards
the Prince of Wales, took the young hero in his arms, and kissed him.
"Sweet son," said he, "God give you good perseverance. You have most
loyally acquitted yourself this day, and you are worthy to be a
sovereign."
"My lord," replied the prince, bowing low, "the honour of the victory
belongs to you alone."
The King of England and the Prince of Wales, having strictly forbidden
all noise and rioting, retired to give thanks to God for the happy
issue of the day; and darkness, descending over the ground, now
slippery with gore, concealed the carnage; and so well was order kept
in the English camp that the stillness of the night was unbroken, save
by the wounded who were dying, and the riflers who were prying, and
the ravens that were flying over the field where the princely hunters
had learned to their cost how terrible was the lion of England when he
turned to bay.
CHAPTER XX
MY ADVENTURES AT CRESSY
On that memorable day when, at Cressy, King Edward so gloriously
overcame his enemies, and the Prince of Wales so gallantly won his
spurs, I, Arthur Winram, was no inactive spectator of the conflict that
was raging and the deeds that were being wrought. Nor, so far as I was
concerned, did that day come to a close without such adventures as
give colour to life and youth, and furnish food for the memory in more
advanced life.
When the French host, with banners waving, and clarions sounding,
and crowds of peasants shouting, "Kill! kill! kill!" advanced upon
Cressy, and when the English, after sitting quietly on the grass, rose
undauntedly to meet their foes, I lost no time in mounting my steed and
taking my place among the squires and pages who surrounded the Prince
of Wales. At that time the clouds that had for hours obscured the face
of day had dispersed, and the sun, shining between the two armies,
flashed on their armour and weapons. It was a fair sight to behold,
and the eye of the prince gleamed with enthusiasm as he gazed on the
exciting spectacle.
"Now may we be thankful to God and to good St. George," exclaimed the
young hero, "that the sun at length deigns to shine on our array."
"My lord," said Sir Thomas Norwich with a smile, "that, it seems to me,
is a blessing which has been equally vouchsafed to our enemies."
"But mark you not the difference, and how much it is in our favour?"
said the prince proudly. "The sun," continued he, "is on our backs, and
in their faces; and methinks," added he, "that is a circumstance which
they can hardly deem to their advantage, and for which it becomes us to
be devoutly thankful."
Such was the conversation that took place by the prince's standard
after we mounted our horses, and almost as he uttered the last words
the battle began in earnest.
I cannot pretend to have any accurate recollection of what took place
for hours after the embattled hosts met in the shock of war. It was in
reality my first field; my blood was hot; my brain was on fire; and my
memory retains nothing beyond a vague idea of the confusion and carnage
caused by the clash of steel, the rush of war-steeds, and the flights
of arrows that darkened the air and carried destruction into the ranks
of the foemen. I believe, however, that the novelty, the excitement,
and the very terror of the scene had upon me an intoxicating influence;
and I have been told that I fought like one drunk with new wine.
As the hours sped on, however, I became more calm; and, some time
after the attempt of the Count of Alençon and the Count of Flanders
to turn the fortune of the day had ended in their fall, and the utter
discomfiture of their forces, I recovered possession of my senses
sufficiently to be aware that it was after the hour of vespers, that I
had left the battle, and that I was keenly pursuing a young warrior,
evidently of high rank, who, seeing that all hope of victory had
departed, was bent on escaping from a field which his friends had
irretrievably lost.
Even in my soberer mood I had no inclination to favour his project of
escape, and I loudly summoned him to turn and prove that he was not a
coward.
"What ho!" cried I, "turn about. You ought to be ashamed of yourself
thus to fly from a single adversary."
For a time the young warrior paid no attention to the reproaches which
I launched at him. After a time, however, he seemed to think that
it was necessary, for his honour, to give proof of his valour; and,
halting, he turned his horse's head, put his sword under his arm after
the manner of a lance, and charged me with all his might, hoping to
transfix me.
But he was disappointed. I saw my danger in an instant, and taking
my sword by the handle, and exerting all my skill and dexterity,
I contrived not only to elude the thrust of my adversary, but, in
passing, to strike his sword to the ground.
But here I lost myself. In fact, I failed to follow up my advantage
with sufficient speed, and my antagonist, springing nimbly from his
steed, ere I was aware of his purpose, repossessed himself of his
weapon, and placed himself on the defensive. My blood by this time was
again up; and I had already resolved that, if no accident intervened,
he should not depart from me on easy terms. But he, believing,
doubtless, that, as I was on the winning side, the danger of delay was
almost, if not altogether, on his, looked around with the air of one
eager to escape from a conflict likely to result in captivity.
"Frenchman," said I, "it is vain to dream of escape. We part not till
we have proved which is the better man."
"Who are you that follow me thus?" asked my adversary, apparently
astonished at my persistency.
"I am an Englishman, and page to my lord the Prince of Wales," answered
I, "and I mortally hate him whom the French call king; and as there
can, therefore, be no peace between thee, as a Frenchman, and myself, I
pray thee look to thy defence."
"In truth," replied the youth, "I am not, as you deem me, a Frenchman,
but Louis, son of the Count of Flanders, and merely fighting against
the English as an ally of the King of France."
"Louis of Flanders!" exclaimed I. "By the Holy Rood, so much the worse
for you! Ever has your sire been England's bitter foe; and it behoves
every Englishman worthy of his country, as I hold myself to be, to
avenge, on your head, the blood of Jacob von Arteveldt, who, by your
father's instigation, was barbarously murdered."
"Dog of an islander!" cried the young prince, stung to fury, and
brandishing his sword, "I cannot longer brook your insolence. Dismount,
and receive the chastisement you have provoked."
As he spoke, I leaped from my steed. Instantly our swords met, and we
engaged in hand-to-hand conflict--he attacking with all the energy
which rage could inspire, and I defending myself with the determination
inspired by the hope of making a captive almost worth his weight in
gold.
And thus on foot, and in the dusk of evening, took place a fierce
encounter, with no lookers-on save our steeds, which stood silently
by. So equally were we matched, that, for minutes, neither of us had
the slightest advantage, and the issue was doubtful in the extreme.
Fortunately, however, for me, I was now by far the cooler of the two;
and at last, not without great difficulty, I succeeded in disarming him
and bringing him to his knee. Immediately I threw myself upon him, and,
with visions of the grandeur I was to acquire from taking a prisoner
of such rank, I told him, on pain of death, to surrender, rescue or
no rescue, and awaited his answer, the nature of which I could hardly
doubt.
But, as the proverb has it, there is much between the cup and the lip.
Of this I was, on that occasion, destined to learn the whole truth by
bitter experience. At the moment I spoke the tramp of cavalry reached
my ears; and, almost ere I could turn my head, my prostrate foe uttered
a loud cry for aid, and several horsemen rode forward.
"I should know that voice," said the foremost of the party, reining up
at the distance of a few yards from the spot where I was bending over
the prince I had destined for my prisoner.
"Yes, sire, I am Louis of Flanders," cried my vanquished adversary. "I
am Louis of Flanders; and I lie here at the mercy of an English varlet."
The horseman who had already spoken, and who was no other than Philip
of Valois, turned towards those who attended him.
"Slay the varlet, and rescue my cousin of Flanders," said he in accents
of anger; and two of his companions dismounted and advanced.
It now appeared that I was doomed to instant death; and I well-nigh
gave myself up for lost. But neither my instinctive sagacity nor my
mother wit deserted me. Quick as thought, my resolution was taken.
"Hold!" shouted I loudly and menacingly. "Beware, and be not rash, but
listen."
The two men, whose mission was to kill me, stayed their steps, and the
others forming Philip's escort were silent.
"Mark," continued I, seeing that I was attended to, and feeling hope
revive, "my knee is on this young lord's breast; of my hands, one is
on his neck, and in the other is a dagger, the point of which touches
his throat."
"It is true," cried the Flemish prince in great alarm, a feeling which
I took care should not diminish.
"You may kill me, doubtless," added I slowly and sternly, "but not
until I have sacrificed a victim. Advance a step farther, and this
young lord dies on the instant."
I looked my enemies in the face, and, as well as I could perceive by
the dim light, had no reason utterly to despair. My presence of mind
had saved me, for the moment at least. The two men stood still, and,
a brief conference having taken place among the party on horseback, a
cavalier advanced.
"Sir page," said he, "relax your grasp, and permit the young prince to
rise, and you shall not be exposed to injury in life or limb."
"No," exclaimed I sternly. "He rises not till I am assured of life and
liberty."
"I assure you that you shall be unharmed," was the reply; "and as for
your liberty, we must, as a matter of prudence, keep you with us for
the time being; but I promise that, within as short a space of time as
consists with policy, you will be restored to freedom."
I hesitated.
"And whose word have I for such conditions being fulfilled?" asked I,
after a pause, and not without curiosity.
"You have my word," answered the cavalier; "and I am John of Hainault,
whose name is not unknown in England."
I, with difficulty, curbed my tongue, and suppressed the reply that
sprang to my lips; for the martial Hainaulter had recently deserted
the cause of King Edward for that of Philip of Valois; and everybody
had told each other with surprise that he had changed sides from the
most mercenary motives. But I felt the full peril of my position, and
answered with the respect which might be supposed due from me to the
uncle of Queen Philippa, and the man who originally escorted her to
England.
"The word of the Lord John of Hainault," I said, "is sufficient, and I
rely confidently on his honour."
I now hesitated no longer. Rising, I assisted the Flemish prince to
his feet; and, while I surrendered my sword to John of Hainault, with
all the grace of which I was master, Louis of Flanders approached the
stirrup of Philip of Valois.
"Where is your father, cousin?" asked Philip kindly.
"Alas! sire, he is slain," replied the boy--"slain before my eyes;" and
he burst into tears.
"Compose yourself, cousin," said Philip kindly; "it has been the fate
of many brave men to die to-day."
"You are right, sire," replied the young count suddenly. "It is no time
to mourn; it is more meet to think of vengeance."
"Yes, sire," added John of Hainault; "and, that we may be alive and
free to fight another day, let us tarry here no longer. I say, as I
have already said, that, if you have lost this battle, another time you
may be a conqueror. Let us ride."
"And whither go you?" asked the young Count of Flanders.
"To the castle of La Broyes," answered John of Hainault.
"And what are we to make of this English page?" inquired one of the
horsemen.
"Kill him!" cried Philip, bending upon me his eyes fully and fiercely,
like a hawk that has long been kept in the dark.
"No, sire," protested John of Hainault calmly; "I have pledged my word
for his safety; he must mount and accompany us as a prisoner."
"By St. Denis!" exclaimed Philip. "Why cumber ourselves with such as he
is, when a thrust would settle the question at once?"
"My lord," replied John of Hainault gravely, "my word is passed; and
that is conclusive in my view as to his life being spared, however
worthless it may be."
No more time was wasted. I was ordered to mount my horse. I obeyed
readily, making the best of a bad business, and, disarmed and
vigilantly guarded, accompanied the cavaliers who escorted Philip of
Valois from the field in which he had met with a defeat more terrible
than any that had befallen the warriors of France since that day when
the paladins of Charlemagne were attacked and routed by a half-Spanish,
half-Moorish host, at the pass of Roncesvalles.
Mournfully and sadly the vanquished warriors rode on through the fields
of Picardy; and so much darker grew the night as they pursued their
way, that, at one time, they believed they had lost the path, and
feared that they would find themselves at the English camp. Late at
night, however, they perceived before them the lights of La Broyes,
and, with hearts somewhat lightened, they approached the gate. But, as
it happened, the gate was shut for the night, and the vanquished Valois
was refused admittance into his own fortress.
"Summon the governor," said Philip, in a commanding tone.
Having been hastily summoned, the governor appeared on the battlements.
"Who is it that calls at such an hour?" demanded the functionary, in a
mood by no means serene.
"Open, governor, open!" cried Philip impatiently.
"Who is it?" again demanded the governor, in a querulous tone.
"It is the Fortune of France," answered Philip solemnly.
And the governor, knowing his master's voice, came down; and the gate
was speedily opened; and Philip of Valois and his friends, and I, their
captive, silently entered La Broyes; and, so far as I was concerned,
that melancholy night ride was ended.
CHAPTER XXI
AT LA BROYES
I have no doubt I entered the castle of La Broyes with a merrier
heart than any of the party whose prisoner I happened to be. I was
not likely to forget, and I did not forget, that I had formed one
of the dauntless army which had just won a marvellous victory; and,
albeit I was a captive, I felt--especially after having supped--more
than half-inclined to believe my own mishap a trifle when I thought
of the effect that would be produced in the cities and hamlets, and
castles and granges of England, when through the land ran tidings
that England's king had, without even putting on his helmet, put his
continental enemies under his feet.
I was still musing on this subject--so grateful to English pride--and
was on the point of stretching myself to rest on the floor of
the chamber to which I had been conducted, when John of Hainault
condescended to come and hold some conversation with me. I had not, of
course, any idea of the Hainaulter's motive, and more than suspected
that his object was to gain intelligence that might be turned to
account. However, I deemed that I was guilty of no indiscretion in
convincing him that I was not wholly without importance in the court
of that country to which, twenty years earlier, he had escorted Queen
Isabel the Fair when she came to dethrone her ill-starred husband, and
to which, somewhat later, he had conducted his niece as the bride of
King Edward, then on the point of throwing off the influence of his
mother and Roger de Mortimer, and entering upon that career of victory
which enabled him to take the highest place among the sovereigns of the
age.
I flattered myself that I had reason to be satisfied with the
impression I produced, and, indeed, soon found the advantage I had
gained by asserting my dignity as page to the Prince of Wales. In
fact, John of Hainault's countenance began gradually to relax, and he
expressed himself on the event of the day with a frankness hardly to
have been anticipated under the circumstances.
"Well, sir page," said he, laughing somewhat carelessly as he
prepared to go, "it rejoices me to perceive that you treat your
mishap with the indifference which a brave warrior--be he stripling
or grey-beard--should treat temporary captivity. And God wots you
have your consolation; for, certes, the King of England has won a
great victory, and the Prince of Wales has proved himself a wondrous
war-chief, considering his years."
"My lord," replied I with enthusiasm, "may the king ever so prevail
over his enemies, and may the prince ever prove himself the worthy son
of such a father!"
"The King of France," said John of Hainault, looking keenly at me as he
spoke, "is inclined to blame Sir Godemar du Fay for his defeat."
"In truth," remarked I, smiling, "it baffles me to discover in what way
the unfortunate knight could have prevented it."
"Nevertheless," continued he, "there are some about the king who are
loudly calling Sir Godemar a traitor; and the king, enraged at the idea
of having been betrayed, threatens to hang him."
I trembled for the safety of Gobin Agace, who had served us so well in
the hour of need, but I did not deem myself bound to speak.
"Thinkest thou that Sir Godemar could have played the traitor?" asked
he.
"My lord," I answered, "I am a humble page, and unable to judge of such
high matters of war and state."
"For my part," continued he slowly, "I entertain no doubt of Sir
Godemar's good faith; and I see not how he could have resisted the
English army."
"Verily," said I grimly, "it seems to me the reverse of surprising,
that Sir Godemar failed to do with a handful of men-at-arms and a
rabble of townsmen, what Philip, Count of Valois, failed to do with the
flower of the French nobility and half the princes of Europe at his
back."
"My friend," said John of Hainault drily, "I advise you to be more
respectful when you allude to the chief of the House of Valois, and
to speak of him as King of France; otherwise, assuredly they will have
little scruple in hanging you on the nearest tree."
"Well, my lord," replied I carelessly, "I am in their hands, and,
doubtless, they can do with me as they please. But, in that case, my
lord the Prince of Wales may make inconvenient inquiries after the fate
of his page; and King Edward has this day shown that he knows how to
avenge lawless executions."
"_Mort Dieu!_" exclaimed the Hainaulter in alarm; "I warn you, for your
own sake, not to allow your tongue to outrun your discretion, or you
will never more see the green fields and oaken forests of your native
land."
And wishing me "Good night," he took his departure, certainly not much
wiser than he had come.
I now stretched myself to rest, and slept the sound sleep of youth.
Next morning I rose refreshed, and with a feeling that I had little to
complain of, save that Fortune had been somewhat unkind in making me a
captive in the hour of victory. But I was not without my consolation,
and I was rather inclined to show contempt towards my gaolers as men
belonging to an inferior nation. But I had prudence enough to keep this
feeling in check, and so to insinuate myself into their good graces as
to learn something as to the movements of Philip of Valois and John of
Hainault.
It appeared, in fact, that Philip and the martial Hainaulter had only
made a brief halt at La Broyes. Indeed, Philip neither considered it
safe nor politic to remain long in the place. At midnight, after taking
some refreshment, he again mounted, and, under the direction of guides
familiar with the country, set out for Amiens. By daybreak he reached
that place, and, having halted for a while to rest from his fatigue, he
pursued his way to Paris, vowing to hang Sir Godemar du Fay, and vainly
hoping, perhaps, to discover some way of redeeming himself and his
fortunes from the disgrace and disaster of a terrible defeat.
I bore my imprisonment patiently, but could not do otherwise than blame
John of Hainault for having, in some degree, forfeited his promise, and
left me without hope of release. I was reflecting somewhat bitterly on
the circumstance one day, when the governor of La Broyes appeared, and
informed me that, on the morrow, I was to be removed from the fortress.
"And wherefore?" asked I.
"I know not," answered the governor, with a significant shake of the
head.
I felt some alarm, but refrained from exhibiting any feeling. However,
I made an effort to obtain information on another, and not an
unimportant, point.
"Mayhap," said I gravely, "you will not deem me impertinent, as affairs
stand, in asking to what place I am to be removed?"
"To Bernicles," was his reply.
My heart rather sank, for the name suggested to my imagination that
terrible instrument of torture used by the Saracens. In fact, the only
bernicles of which I had heard is an engine made of pieces of wood
pierced with holes, into which the legs of captives are thrust. They
are put at such a distance from each other as to cause intense pain;
and, the holes being at various distances, the legs of the victim are
forced to a greater or less extension according to the pain intended to
be inflicted. No wonder I started, and felt some sensation of horror,
as I turned to the governor, and said gravely--
"I mislike the name. However, when one of your monarchs--indeed, that
King of France since canonised and known as St. Louis--was a prisoner
of the Saracens, and threatened by them with the bernicles, he said, 'I
am your captive, and it is in your power to do with me as you please.'
So say I."
The governor left me; and I, having taken my evening meal, lay down
to sleep, and dreamed that I was on the point of being put in the
bernicles by Philip of Valois and the young Lord De Ov, and that I was
rescued from their hands by the ladies of Poix, whose champion I had
constituted myself when their father's castle was taken by the army of
invaders.
"Well," murmured I as I awoke, and convinced myself with some
difficulty that it was a dream, "no saying what all this may end in.
Assuredly my prospects are not inviting. Nevertheless, let me not
droop or despair. I have heard men say that fortune, in love and war,
often turns out more favourable than could have been expected. So let
me hope for the best, and trust in God and St. George."
CHAPTER XXII
THE SIEGE OF CALAIS
I have related, in a previous chapter, and in its proper place, that
when, on that memorable Saturday on which Cressy was fought, the
English found themselves masters of the field, they, in obedience to
the king's command, refrained from noise and riotous merriment, and
frequently gave thanks to God for the happy issue of the day, and for
the wondrous victory which had crowned their efforts.
After vespers the French seemed to have vanished from the ground.
At least, they gave no audible sign of being near the camp of their
conquerors. No more hooting or shouting was heard, nor any more
crying out for particular lords or their banners. Nevertheless, the
English made a point of erring on the safe side, and were on their
guard against a nocturnal surprise. As the night of Saturday was
very obscure, they lighted huge torches, and kindled large fires;
and when the morning of Sunday, the 27th of August dawned, and the
atmosphere was so densely wrapped in fog that men had some difficulty
in recognising their comrades in arms, even at the distance of a few
yards, their sense of insecurity increased, and, with the sense of
insecurity, the vigilance necessary to avert all danger.
And what did King Edward under the circumstances?
He called his marshals to his presence, and pointed out the danger of
the French being allowed to collect and form themselves into a large
body; and he ordered his marshals, at the head of a detachment, to make
an excursion, and prevent any surprise that might be meditated by the
enemy.
The expedition was not without its results. In fact, the marshals
encountered a large body of fighting men, headed by the Archbishop
of Rouen and the Grand Prior of France, who had been informed that
Philip of Valois was not to fight before Sunday, and still remained
in ignorance that he had fought and been discomfited. A conflict
immediately took place; and the Archbishop and the Grand Prior having
fallen to rise no more, their followers either shared their fate or
saved themselves by flight.
Flushed with victory, the marshals returned to the English camp, and,
meeting King Edward as he was coming from mass, told him of their
adventure, and reported how matters stood. On learning that there
was now no danger of the French collecting, the king gave orders for
examining into the numbers and condition of the dead.
By this time the fog was vanishing; and ere long the full extent of
the carnage became known. And fearful it was to think that, of the
mighty army which, twenty-four hours earlier, was marching to Cressy
from Abbeville to exterminate the invaders with shouts of "Kill! kill!
kill!" more than thirty thousand were corpses. Of these, eleven were
princes, and twelve hundred knights.
Our king was not a man to war with the dead. He ordered the bodies of
the principal knights to be carried to the abbey of Montenay, and, at
the same time, proclaimed in the neighbourhood that he should grant
a truce for three days, in order that the French might bury their
dead; and, having halted all Sunday on the field of battle, he next
morning marched with his army in the direction of Calais, which he was
resolved, if possible, to make his own ere he crossed the narrow seas
to his native land. No opposition was now offered to his progress.
Having marched through the forest of Hardelou and the country of the
Boulonois, Edward and his son reached Wissant-on-the-sea; and, having
rested with his army during the night of Wednesday at that large town,
which some believe to be the Portus Iccius at which Cæsar embarked for
the conquest of Britain, they next day appeared before the walls of
Calais, with a stern determination, on the part of the king, not to
retire till he had placed the standard of England on its highest tower.
Now it happened that Calais was a town of marvellous strength, and that
it had the advantage of being strongly garrisoned. John de Vienne, a
knight of Burgundy, was governor, and with him were a number of knights
and squires, who vowed to fight to the death rather than allow the
place to fall into the hands of the English. But the brave governor was
not quite sure of their provisions holding out in the event of a long
siege, and, therefore, decided on sending all the poor inhabitants out
of the town, in order to diminish the consumption.
It was a Wednesday morning; and greatly surprised was the King of
England when he was informed that men, women, and children were issuing
in swarms from the gates. Mounting his steed, Edward hastened to the
spot, and found that upwards of seventeen hundred human beings were
outside the walls, and attempting to pass through his lines.
"Why have you left the town?" asked he, in a voice wherein curiosity
was mingled with compassion.
"Because we have nothing to eat," was the reply that rose from a
thousand tongues.
"Well," said the king, much moved, "I will allow you to pass through in
safety; but first I will order you all a hearty dinner, and, ere you
depart, I will give to each of you two sterlings as alms."
"Sire," said the poor Calesians, touched with gratitude, "may God and
Our Lady bless thee and thine!"
And the king was as good as his word; and the Calesians went forth to
seek new homes, scarcely knowing whither they went.
Such was the scene with which the siege opened.
It appeared evident to King Edward that Calais could not be taken by
storm, and he deliberately prepared for a long siege. Between the city
and the river, and the bridge, the king caused houses to be built of
wood, thatched with straw or broom, and laid out in streets. To this
temporary town everything was brought likely to be required for the
subsistence of an army. From Flanders and England arrived cloth, and
bread, and merchandize in great variety; and every Wednesday and
Saturday there was held a market, at which those who had money could
buy whatever they desired.
Meanwhile many gallant deeds were done, and many feats of arms were
wrought. Few days, indeed, passed without witnessing conflicts between
the warriors of England and the warriors of France. Frequently
skirmishes took place near the gates and the ditches, between the
garrison and the besiegers; and so vigilant were the French who guarded
the fortresses around Calais, that at no time could the English
venture abroad without the certainty of falling in with parties of the
enemy. But, of course, they did constantly venture abroad in search
of adventure, and seldom did so without skirmishes, which never ended
without some being killed and wounded.
Autumn passed away in this manner. But still King Edward acted with
caution and foresight. In vain the impatient and imprudent urged him
to take Calais by assault. He perfectly comprehended his position, and
expressed his determination to bide his time.
"I know," said he, "that it would be life and labour lost, and that I
must stay here till I starve the town into a surrender. Besides, Philip
of Valois may come at any time to raise the siege; and I must spare my
men, that they may be ready to do battle valiantly in case of need."
But slow was the process of reducing the Calesians to extremity.
Gradually, indeed, it became apparent that provisions were stealthily
conveyed into Calais; and, after this conviction, speedily followed
the discovery that two mariners, Marant and Mestriel by name, and both
residents at Abbeville, acted as guides to the men who were adventurous
enough to relieve the garrison. On being made aware of this, the king
vowed to put an end to the system, which threatened indefinite delay to
his conquest, and took immediate steps with that object.
And this is what King Edward did. He caused a large castle to be
constructed of strong timbers, and placed between Calais and the
sea; he carefully fortified it with engines of war, including the
bombards, now coming into use; he garrisoned it with forty men-at-arms
and two hundred archers, whose duty it was, night and day, to guard
the harbour and the port so closely that nothing could come in or go
out without being sunk or taken; and, having in this way cut off all
communication between the beleaguered city and the sea, he calmly
awaited the course of events.
"The fruit," said he, "is not yet ripe; but it will be soon; and, with
Calais in our possession, Englishmen will be able to boast--nor in
vain--that they carry at their belts the keys of France and Flanders."
CHAPTER XXIII
MY RELEASE
I awaited with something like resignation the hour of my removal from
La Broyes to Bernicles; but day after day passed, and I still occupied
the chamber in which I had been left when Philip of Valois and John of
Hainault took their departure. At length I was visited a second time by
the governor of the fortress, and, on looking up, perceived that his
air and aspect were much more friendly than on the former occasion.
"Young gentleman," began he, advancing, "it grieves me that I have
treated you with a neglect of which I should not have been guilty had I
known that I was so deeply your debtor."
"Sir," said I, much surprised, "I am not aware at this moment in what
way I have been of service to you."
"Ah," replied the governor, "though you knew it not, the ladies of
Poix are my near kinswomen; and I would fain show what kindness is in
my power to one who, at great hazard to himself, saved them from the
violence of a brutal soldiery."
"Sir," said I, bowing low, "I pray you to accept my thanks for your
courteous compliment; nathless, I have yet to learn that the soldiers
of England are more brutal than other soldiers would be under the like
circumstances. For the rest, I did no more than a youth apprenticed to
chivalry is bound to do on such occasions."
"Well," continued the governor, "we will not dispute on either point.
My business with you is simple. I believe that, of all evils in this
life, an Englishman regards captivity with most horror. Is it not so?"
"Doubtless," replied I, reflecting, "to men of a nation whose passion
has ever been freedom, the idea of being confined to a narrow space,
and within four walls, is the reverse of grateful."
"And you would do something for liberty?" suggested he.
"Certes," replied I quickly; "anything in reason and honour."
"In neither respect should I ask you to offend your conscience," said
the governor frankly. "Now listen."
"I am all attention."
"I hold letters of great moment, written by the Lady Joan, Countess
of Hainault, to her daughter, Philippa, Queen of England. On them may
depend fifty thousand lives, and it is of the last moment that they
should be speedily and safely conveyed to her hands. Are you willing
to do an errand which, if it result as I would fain hope, will be the
means of putting an end to a sanguinary war, and bringing about an
honourable peace?"
"Assuredly," answered I, "I see no reason why I should refuse to be the
bearer of letters from the Countess of Hainault to my lady the queen."
"In that case," said the governor, "there is no reason why, in
twenty-four hours, you should not be on the sea, and tilting over the
waves towards England. The condition which I make in setting you at
liberty is so slight that I hardly deem it can interfere with your
doing our errand. And, mark me, I make the condition light because I
fear not to trust you, for where there is so much chivalry there must
be much truth."
"Name the condition," said I.
"It is simply this--that you give your promise not to bear arms against
the King of France for a year and a day."
I hesitated.
"What, youth!" exclaimed the governor, "do you hesitate?"
"Yes, by St. George! I do; for I know not whether I can, with honour,
make such a promise."
"Tush, youth," said the governor, "you are over-scrupulous. Think of
William Montacute, the great Earl of Salisbury, and one of your king's
foremost barons. He was long a prisoner in the Châtelet, in Paris;
and you may have heard of Salisbury's captivity. While he lay in the
Châtelet, his countess, whom Englishmen called Katherine the Fair, had
the misfortune to bewitch the King of England by her beauty, but with
no will of her own."
"The countess," said I, "was chaste as the snow on the top of Cheviot."
"But, however that may have been," continued the governor--"and I
question it not--it was at length agreed that Salisbury should be
exchanged for the Earl of Moray, on condition of taking an oath never
again to serve against France; and such an oath he took."
"Well," said I, after a pause, "my lord of Salisbury was a puissant
earl, and I am a nameless page; and, though naught should, or ought to,
tempt me to do what my conscience disapproved, merely because it had
been done by a great lord; yet, seeing not how it can be inconsistent
with my honour to accept your terms, such as they are, and to do your
errand, such as you describe it, I cannot but deem that, in accepting
your terms and promising to do your errand, I am acting rightly."
"Credit me, you are acting rightly," said the governor.
Next morning I was mounted soon after sunrise, and, with the Countess
of Hainault's epistles to Queen Philippa in my custody, I was, under
the protection of an escort of horse, riding towards the seaside to
embark in a ship that lay at anchor, and ready to sail for the English
coast.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE FALCON REVISITED
It was the evening of Saturday, the 10th of October, 1346, when the sun
was just setting, as I, having crossed the Channel, and travelled from
Dover to London, and escaped all perils by sea and land, again found
myself safe and sound in that part of the capital of England known as
Gracechurch.
I alighted, not without the air of a stripling of consequence, at the
sign of the Falcon, and, as I did so, and parted from my horse, I could
not but remember how brief was the period that had elapsed since first
I set foot in that hostelry, and yet how much in the interval I had
seen and experienced. I was certainly a little more advanced in years,
and looked, perhaps, less boyish, because taller and stronger, than
when I accompanied my grandsire to see London lighted up on Midsummer
Eve, and to try my skill at the quintain on the day of St. John the
Baptist. But half of the dreams in which I then was in the habit of
indulging had been realised. I had seen countless knights, with their
plumes, and swords, and prancing steeds, and I had witnessed much of
the pomp and pageantry, and something, also, of the horrors, of war.
Moreover, I had played a part which flattered my vanity. I had figured
in court and camp--had passed through perilous adventures--had stood,
sword in hand, as the champion of noble demoiselles--had footed the
walls of besieged towns, and had participated in a great victory,
the tidings of which set bells ringing and bonfires blazing all over
England.
What wonder if, in such circumstances, my young heart swelled with
pride, and if I already saw myself, in imagination, with the crest, and
plume, and golden spurs of knighthood, leading bands of fighting men to
battle, and rushing on to victory in the name of God and St. George?
Musing thus--for I had my full share of ambition as well as vanity--I,
with a firm step, entered the hostelry of the Falcon; and, having
seated myself at a table, and summoned the drawer to furnish a stoup
of wine, I looked around on the company with the air of superiority
which is soon learned among men taking part in military enterprises
that are crowned with success.
Many of the ordinary frequenters of the Falcon were there, indulging,
as of old, in gossip about the events of the day, and discussing the
news with a degree of excitement which convinced me that there was
something of great importance in the wind. My attention, however, was
attracted to three persons who sat in silence apart from the group of
citizens, and separate from each other. One was evidently a yeoman
of Kent; the second was a young priest, with a restless eye and a
wild manner; and the third, whose dress indicated that he ranked as a
squire, was a tall, strong man of forty or thereabouts, with fair hair
and a grey eye, whose glance told plainly as words could have done that
he was deficient neither in satire nor sagacity. He called for a quart
of ale just as I entered, and proceeded to discuss the liquor with
evident relish.
I was on the point of putting a question to this worthy gentleman as to
the latest news from Calais, and had just prepared myself to open the
conversation by drinking deep of t
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