Cressy and Poictiers

"But what know you of him?" asked I eagerly.

"This, at least," replied Copeland in a low tone, "that he feels his seat less soft than a bed of down, and that his temper is severely tried at times."

"In what way?" asked I.

"Why, simply because men say – or, at least, whisper, if they dare not say it aloud – that he is not the true heir of the barons whose titles he bears and whose lands he possesses. But you must have heard something of the story?"

"Not a whisper," said I. "I pray you relate it. I am all attention."

"I will relate it," said Copeland; "but understand, master page, that what I say is under the rose: it is not safe to speak freely of the great."

"Credit me, sir knight, you are safe with me," exclaimed I firmly; "I am incapable of betraying any man's confidence."

"Well, then," began Copeland, "you must know that, in the year 1330, soon after King Edward – the second of the name – was cruelly murdered in Berkeley Castle – for a cruel murder it was – Isabel the queen and Roger de Mortimer, with whom Queen Isabel was deemed much too familiar, held sway in the country."

"I have heard that such was the case," said I.

"At that time," continued Copeland, "rumours, which assuredly were false, ran about to the effect that King Edward was still alive, and that he was a prisoner in Corfe Castle; and a conspiracy, in which many good men took part, was formed to restore him to liberty."

"Even so," said I; "of this I have heard vaguely."

"At the head of that conspiracy," continued Copeland, "was Edmund, Earl of Kent, the young king's uncle, who, believing his brother to be still alive, rashly went to Corfe Castle, and asked the governor of the fortress to conduct him to Sire Edward; for which indiscretion he was tried at Winchester and executed."

"I have heard that sad tale," said I, interrupting; "how the earl's sentence caused such indignation that even the headsman declined to do his office; how he remained four hours on the scaffold before any one could be found to enact the part of executioner; and how, finally, a malefactor from the Marshalsea, on being bribed with a promise of pardon, undertook to behead him."

"It was even as you relate it," said Copeland, resuming; "and it happened that one of the men of rank engaged in the conspiracy of which the Earl of Kent was head, was Edward, Lord De Ov, a brave warrior, whose wife was a daughter of the house of Merley. Now, it was generally considered that this Lord De Ov – who, I may mention, was marvellously skilful in those chivalrous tricks which you, and striplings like you, value so highly – might have escaped to France, as the Lord Viscount Beaumont and others did about the same time, and lived, like them, to return to England in happier days; but, unluckily for his chances of escape, he had a younger brother named Roger, who, from base motives, betrayed him. So, instead of getting off, he was taken, while lurking on the coast, carried to Winchester, and hanged in that city on a high gibbet."

"My curse on the brother who could be guilty of such treachery!" exclaimed I, my blood boiling with indignation.

"But," continued Copeland, heedless of my interruption, "this was not all. Edward, Lord De Ov, had a wife and infant son; and for Roger's purpose it was necessary to make away with them also; and accordingly the widow was decoyed away by Margery, one of the queen's gentlewomen, who pretended that she had been sent for by her husband, and, carrying with her the infant son, left her husband's castle at Winchester. For years neither mother nor son was heard of. At length, however, they were reputed to have died, and corpses, said to be theirs, were brought North, and buried in the chapel of the castle; and Roger De Ov became lord of all. But Roger soon after pined and died; and, when he went the way of all flesh, his son, who is now lord, succeeded to his feudal power. But men still say that, somewhere or other, the widow and son of Edward, Lord De Ov, yet live, and that one day or other there will be an overturn; and now you comprehend wherefore my lord sits less easy in his seat than he might otherwise, do, and how there may be people living whose demands put his temper to the test."

"Assuredly," said I, "the story is sufficiently plain, albeit involving a mystery."

"And, if I mistake not," remarked Copeland significantly, "there are at least two people alive who could clear that mystery up to satisfaction."

"Who may they be?" asked I.

"One," answered he in a whisper, "is no less a personage than Isabel the queen, now residing, in gentle captivity, at Castle Rising."

"And the other?" I inquired eagerly, for my curiosity was by this time excited.

"The other," answered he, "is a person of fewer years and lesser rank than Queen Isabel. She is daughter of a Northern squire who was an honest man, and mine own kinsman, and married the queen's gentlewoman of whom I spake. I cast my eyes by chance on the damsel when in the camp before Calais, and recognised her in an instant. Nay, more, I made enquiries, and learned that her beauty exercised enormous influence over the heart of Aymery de Pavie, and that her threats exercised as much over the conduct of Lord De Ov, insomuch that one did as she liked from love, and the other from fear."

I involuntarily uttered an exclamation of surprise, and my agitation was so great that it well-nigh got the better of my discretion and of all the resolutions I had formed. However, I regained my equanimity, and calmly renewed the conversation.

"And what name bears this wondrous demoiselle, sir knight? by what name is she known?" asked I, with what coolness I could command.

"The demoiselle is known by the name of Eleanor de Gubium," was Copeland's reply.

CHAPTER XL

TOO LATE

My imagination, such as it was, completely got the better of what reasoning faculty I possessed as Copeland concluded, and, having accompanied him to Westminster with a brain on fire, I never slept that night. I persuaded myself, in the absence of all evidence, that I was the victim of a monstrous piece of injustice; I walked about my chamber like an enraged lion pacing its cage, and I grew feverish with impatience for the break of day. Early next morning, while the palace was still hushed in repose, I was on horseback, and on the way to my grandsire's homestead.

As I rode along I strove to collect my thoughts and to prepare myself for the anticipated interview with those whose faces I had of late so often and so earnestly longed to behold. But my efforts to recover calmness were in vain. Within twelve short hours my whole ideas had undergone a change. Copeland's Northern voice still rang in my ears; his tragic story occupied my mind; my imagination ever and anon conjured up the probability of its being a matter in which I had both part and lot, and rapidly converted probability into certainty; and all sentiments of tenderness for home and kindred gave way before my intense desire to penetrate the mystery which I fancied was now illumined by a ray of light.

"Ere sunset," I exclaimed to myself in a tone of exultation, "I shall learn all that concerns me, or know the reason why."

A long journey, as I must have felt, lay before me. But no consideration of the kind influenced me even so far as to make me spare the good steed I bestrode. On I spurred, as if the Furies had been behind, and Paradise before. But, fast as went my steed, faster still flew my thoughts, and faster than either rushed the warm blood through my veins. I scarce noted anything by the way; and the herdsman driving out his cattle, the waggoner with his team of oxen, the charcoal-burner with his cart, the chapman with his pack-horses, the pilgrim leaning on his staff, and carrying the palm branch to deposit on the altar of his church, made way for me, and stared in silent amaze as I passed, probably fancying me one of those spectre huntsmen of whom legends tell.

As I sped on my way, and entered the great forest of Windsor, a hare crossed my path. Of evil omen such a circumstance is generally regarded, and at another time I might have felt some slight alarm. Now, however, one idea possessed my whole heart and mind; I was in a mood to laugh at omens; and, spurring on and on with hot speed, rousing the deer and the wild cattle, I pursued my way, indifferent to the belling of deer and the bellowing of cattle. At length as the day was speeding on towards noon, I reined up my jaded and exhausted horse as I approached the home of my childhood.

But now, for the first time, my heart misgave me. No longer did the homestead seem to present to my eye the same cheerful aspect as of old – all was silent and melancholy. An instinctive feeling that something was wrong flashed through me, and filled me with sudden fear. I sprang from my steed and rushed to the door, shouting loudly, and, as I did so, Thomelin of Winchester appeared with a face which confirmed all my fears.

"Alas!" said he, shaking his head, "you have come too late."

I had already guessed all, and was at no loss to interpret his words. The Great Destroyer had visited the homestead, as he was ere long to visit almost every house in the kingdom, and demanded his prey, and both the grey-haired warrior and the melancholy widow had fallen victims to his rapacity.

"What mean you, Thomelin?" asked I wildly, for I scarce knew what I said. "Can it be that my grandsire and my mother are no more?"

"Both," replied Thomelin solemnly. "Both have gone to their long home. May God have mercy on their souls!"

I said "Amen" and crossed myself devoutly as Thomelin spoke; but even at that moment, which was sad and bitter, the idea uppermost in my thoughts was that which for hours had been presenting itself in such a variety of forms.

"And the secret of my birth, good Thomelin," said I, taking his hand, "know you anything certain as to that?"

"Nothing certain, as I live," answered he earnestly. "Only of this I am, and have ever been, well assured, that Adam of Greenmead was not your grandsire, nor was your mother kinswoman of mine."

"And who, then, was my mother?" I demanded.

"Nay, that is more than I could tell, if both our lives depended on my so doing," he replied. "Whatever the secret, it has perished with those who kept it so faithfully."

I uttered a groan, and well-nigh sank under my mortification.

"In truth, Thomelin," murmured I, "you were right in saying that I had come too late. But God's will be done!"

CHAPTER XLI

HOW CALAIS WAS SAVED

At the time when Aymery de Pavie unworthily figured as governor of the town and castle of Calais, Geoffrey de Chargny, a French knight of high distinction, was stationed at St. Omer by Philip of Valois to defend the frontier against the English.

Now, it occurred, not altogether unnaturally, to Geoffrey de Chargny, that, as the Lombards are by nature avaricious, Aymery de Pavie might, with a little art, be bribed to surrender Calais; and when, albeit it was a time of truce, he, without scruple, made the experiment, he succeeded so well in his negociations that the Lombard executed a secret treaty, whereby, proving false to the King of England, he covenanted to deliver the stronghold into the French knight's hands, on condition of receiving, as a reward for his perfidy, the sum of twenty thousand crowns.

So far the project seemed to prosper; and, even after Aymery de Pavie returned from England, all went so smoothly that De Chargny considered that he had reason to congratulate himself on his skill, and to entertain no doubt of final success. In fact, the Lombard appeared all anxiety to bring the business to a successful issue, and appointed the last day of the year for fulfilling the treaty.

Everything having been thus arranged, at the close of December, Geoffrey de Chargny, dreaming sanguinely of the elevation to which he believed his exploit was to raise him in the eyes of his countrymen and his country's foes, left St. Omer at the head of a formidable force, and, accompanied by Sir Odoart de Renty, Sir Eustace de Ribeaumont, and many other knights of fame, marched towards Calais, and, halting near the bridge of Nieullet just as the old year was expiring, sent forward two squires, on whose sagacity he relied, to confer with the Lombard, and ascertain how matters stood.

"Is it time for Sir Geoffrey to advance?" asked the squires.

"It is," was the answer; and, after this brief conference, the squires hastened back to intimate to their leader that the hour for his grand achievement was come.

On hearing what was the answer of the Lombard, De Chargny lost no time. At once he gave orders to advance; and, leaving a strong force of horse and foot to keep the bridge of Nieullet, and posting the crossbowmen whom he had brought from St. Omer and Aire in the plain between the bridge and the town, he sent forward Odoart de Renty, with a hundred men-at-arms, and a bag containing the twenty thousand crowns, to take possession of the castle, and marched forward cautiously, with his banner displayed, to the gate that leads from Calais to Boulogne.

Meanwhile, onward hastened Odoart de Renty; and no sooner did he and his men-at-arms reach the castle than Aymery de Pavie let down the drawbridge, and opened one of the gates to admit them. Without hesitation they entered, and Odoart handed over the bag containing the crowns.

"I suppose they are all here?" said the Lombard, flinging the bag into a room which he locked; "but to count them I have not now time. We must not lose a moment, for presently it will be day. To make matters safe, I will conduct you at once to the great tower, so that you may make yourself master of the castle."

While speaking, Aymery de Pavie advanced in the direction of the great tower of the castle; and, as he pushed back the bolt, the door flew open; but, as Sir Odoart and his comrades found to their horror, it was not to admit them. In fact, the shout that arose from hundreds of voices immediately convinced the French that the business was not to terminate so satisfactorily as they had anticipated, and they began to comprehend that there was a lion in the way.

Nor is it difficult to account for such having been the case. From the day of his return to Calais, Aymery de Pavie, as if to atone for his perfidy, had maintained the promise he had given to the King of England; and Edward was no sooner informed of the night on which, according to the secret treaty, Calais was to be surrendered to the French, than he prepared to go thither. Taking with him three hundred men-at-arms and six hundred archers, he embarked at Dover with the Prince of Wales and Sir Walter Manny; and, having landed at Calais so privately that hardly a being in the town knew of his arrival, he placed his men in ambuscade in the rooms and towers of the castle.

"Walter," said the king, addressing the brave Manny, "it is my pleasure that you act as the chief of this enterprise, and I and my son will fight, as simple knights, under your banner."

Now the King of England, attended by his son and Sir Walter Manny, posted himself, with two hundred lances, in the great tower to which the Lombard led the French, and no sooner was the door thrown open than they raised the shout of "Manny! Manny to the rescue!" and rushed upon the intruders. Resistance being quite vain, Sir Odoart and his companions yielded themselves prisoners, while the king turned to his son —

"What!" said he scornfully, "do the French dream of conquering Calais with such a handful of men? Now let us mount our horses, form in order of battle, and complete our work."

It was scarcely yet daybreak; and the morning of the 1st of January was intensely cold, as Geoffrey de Chargny, seated on horseback, with his banner displayed and his friends around him, waited patiently at the Boulogne gate to enter and seize Calais.

"By my faith, gentlemen!" said he angrily, "if this Lombard delays much longer opening the gate, we shall all die of cold."

"True," said another knight; "but, in God's name, let us be patient. These Lombards are a suspicious sort of people, and perhaps he is examining your florins to see if there are any bad ones, and to satisfy himself that they are right in number."

At this moment an unexpected spectacle presented itself. The gate suddenly opened, trumpets loudly sounded, and from the town sallied horseman after horseman, armed with sword and battle-axe, and shouting loudly, "St. George for England!" and "Manny to the onslaught!"

"By Heavens!" cried the French in amazement, as many turned to beat a retreat, "we are betrayed!"

"Gentlemen," cried De Chargny, "do not fly; if we fly we lose all."

"By St. George!" shouted the English, who were now close enough to hear, "you speak truth. Evil befall him who thinks of flying!"

"You hear, gentlemen?" said De Chargny. "It will be more advantageous to us to fight valiantly, and the day may be ours."

And as he spoke, the French, at his orders, retreating a little, and dismounting, drove their horses away from them that they might not be trampled on, and formed in close order, with their pikes shortened and planted before them.

On seeing this movement on the part of the French, King Edward halted the banner under which he was, and dismounting, as did the prince, prepared to attack on foot.

"I would have our men drawn up here in order of battle," said he to Sir Walter Manny, "and let a good detachment be sent towards the bridge of Nieullet; for I believe a large body of French to be posted there."

And, the king's orders being passed on without delay, six banners and three hundred archers left the force and made for the bridge.

And now came the tug of war. Advancing with his men on foot, and his son by his side, the king assaulted his foes battle-axe in hand; and sharp and fierce was the encounter as English and French mingled hand to hand and steel to steel. Many were the brave deeds performed in the grey morning, and on both sides the warriors fought with high courage. But, of all the combatants, none displayed more valour and dexterity than the king himself. Fighting incognito under the banner of Manny, and singling out Eustace de Ribeaumont, he maintained with that strong and hardy knight a desperate conflict. Long they fought, the English king with his battle-axe, the French champion with his mighty sword. Twice the king was beaten to his knee, and twice he sprang to his feet to renew the combat. Even after having been separated in the confusion of the battle, they contrived again to meet, and again to close in a fierce and resolute conflict.

But, meanwhile, fortune had gone so decidedly against the French that all their hopes vanished. Many were slain. Geoffrey de Chargny and others were taken prisoners; and, when Sir Eustace paused for an instant to look round, he perceived that he stood almost alone amid a host of foes.

"Yield!" said the king. "You are vanquished, and have done all that a brave man could."

"It is true, sir knight," said Sir Eustace, surrendering his sword. "I see that the honour of the day belongs to the English, and I yield myself your prisoner."

While this struggle was taking place at the Boulogne gate, a fierce fight went on at the bridge of Nieullet. In fact, the party of English detached by the king having first attacked the crossbowmen, drove them from the ground with such force that many of them were drowned in the river, and then rushed on the defenders of the bridge. But the knights of Picardy, who kept the bridge, were less easily dealt with than the crossbowmen; and, for a time, they maintained their post with determination, and performed so many gallant actions as to move the envy of their assailants. Their courage, however, was vain; and at length, hard pressed by the English, they mounted their horses, and, pursued by their foes, fled fast away.

It was now broad day, and King Edward, still maintaining his incognito, returned to the castle of Calais, and gave orders that the prisoners taken in the battle should be brought into his presence. Much marvelled the French knights to find that the King of England was among them in person, and much diverted were the English at the amazement expressed by their vanquished adversaries.

"Gentlemen," said the king, raising his hand for silence, "this being New Year's Day, I purpose in the evening to entertain you all at supper, and I hope you will all do honour to the occasion, and make good cheer."

"Sire," said the French knights, bowing low, "you are a noble prince, who know how to honour your enemies as well as your friends."

Accordingly, when the hour for supper arrived, the tables were spread in the castle hall; and the king, bareheaded, but wearing, by way of ornament, a rich chaplet of pearls, seated himself at table, and gathered the captive Frenchmen around him; while the Prince of Wales and the knights of England served up the first course, and waited on the guests.

But this was not all. When supper was over, and when the tables were drawn, the king remained in the hall, and conversed with the prisoners, each in turn, and, while marking his sense of the unfair conduct of Geoffrey de Chargny, he took care to mark, in a manner not to be mistaken, his appreciation of the valour and prowess of Eustace de Ribeaumont.

"Sir Geoffrey," said the king, looking askance at the baffled knight, "I have little reason to love you, as you must know. You wished to seize from me, last night, by stealth, and in the time of truce, what had given me so much trouble to acquire, and cost me such sums of money. But, with God's assistance, we have disappointed you, and I am rejoiced to have caught you thus in your attempt. As for you, Sir Eustace," continued Edward, turning to his vanquished antagonist with a smile on his countenance, "of all the knights in Christendom whom I have ever seen defend himself, or attack an enemy, you are the most valiant. I never yet met in battle any one who, body to body, gave me so much trouble as you have done this day. And," added he, taking off his chaplet, and placing it on the knight's head, "I present you with this chaplet as being the best combatant of the day, either within or without the walls; and I beg you to wear it this year for love of me. I know that you are lively, and that you love the company of ladies and damsels; therefore, wherever you go, say that I gave it to you. I also grant you your liberty free of ransom, and you may set out to-morrow, if you please, and go whither you will."

Such was the result of Geoffrey de Chargny's project for gratifying Philip of Valois by gaining possession of Calais.

CHAPTER XLII

A PRINCESS IN PERIL

My excitement, which for many hours before I reached the homestead, where I came just in time to hear that I was too late, had been intense, gradually subsided; and such was the reaction which took place that, for days and weeks, my depression was well-nigh intolerable. I had no heart to return to Westminster; and having, on the plea of recruiting my health and spirits in the air I had breathed during childhood, obtained from Sir Thomas Norwich leave to absent myself from my duties as page, I walked and rode about the forest of Windsor, indulging in melancholy musing over the past, and as indifferent to the future as I had previously been enthusiastic and sanguine. In vain I essayed to rouse myself from lethargy. I felt as if nothing could ever again revive my hope, and restore me to that energy which is hope in action. I had already passed weeks in this frame of mind, when fortune threw me in the way of a terrible adventure, in which I won some honour, and nearly lost my life.

It was autumn; and albeit the harvest was gathered in, and the leaves were falling from the trees, the sun shone with sufficient brightness to gladden the heart of man, and to impart to the landscape a cheerful aspect; when, having occasion one day to visit the little town of Windsor, I mounted my black steed and rode through the forest. When, absorbed in reflection, I was wending my way up one of the glades, my horse, while pacing proudly along the grassy path, suddenly shied; and, looking round, I perceived that he had been startled by the green dress and white bow of an archer, who emerged from the wood, closely attended by a black mastiff of prodigious strength, and capable of being a powerful friend or a terrible foe.

I observed that the archer eyed me with a glance of recognition; and, drawing up, I, with a consciousness of having seen him before, gave him "Good day," and, with a slight effort of memory, I called to mind that he was one of the Englishmen who, stationed in the prince's division, had drawn their bows at Cressy; that I had often observed and praised his dexterity during the expedition into France; and, moreover, that he was one of those who had been since taken into the king's service, by way of rewarding them for their marvellous achievements during the war with Philip of Valois. Remembering such to have been the case, I entered into conversation with him, and while I rode slowly, and he walked at my stirrup, with his mastiff at his heels, through the forest, in the direction of Windsor, he talked of the battles and sieges in which he had taken part.