Cressy and Poictiers

Edward and Philippa endeavoured to seem diverted at the boy's rudeness, and laughed over the awkward incident. But, a few days later, he fastened a quarrel on the Prince of Wales, while playing at chess, which was more awkward still. The king and queen, however, decided the dispute in his favour; but nobody aware of the circumstances could doubt that the boy was bad by nature, and that his education had not been such as to eradicate the vices which he inherited.

"On my faith," said the Lord Merley to me as we one day talked over the quarrel which he had with the prince at chess, "I wish the Gascons had kept that young tiger to tame at Bordeaux; for, if his ferocity continues, I see no way of dealing with him but putting him in a cage, and committing him to the care of the keeper of the wild beasts in the Tower."

"In truth, my lord," replied I, laughing, "I should be inclined to agree with you if I did not remember how fiercely and bravely he fought by his father's side at Poictiers long after his three elder brothers were flying from the field, as if the foul fiend had been behind, and ready to devour them."

"Doubtless," said Lord Merley, "he possesses courage; but such as, whether in young or old, is the courage, not of a brave man, but of a wild beast."

CHAPTER LXX

DEATH OF QUEEN ISABEL

Soon after the Prince of Wales brought John of Valois as a captive, to London, Isabel the Fair, mother of King Edward, died at Castle Rising, in Norfolk. No great impression was produced by the news; for the royal lady was not known, even by sight, to the generation which won and celebrated the battles of Cressy and Poictiers; and, but for the annual visits of the king to his mother, her existence would almost have been forgotten. Ever since the execution of Roger de Mortimer she had lived at Castle Rising, secluded from the world. Her comfort was, indeed, attended to, and she was enabled to maintain a household suitable to her state, with ladies, and knights, and esquires of honour to attend her; and at times she was allowed to witness plays, which were exhibited for her diversion in the court of the castle. But she was forbidden to go abroad, or to show herself in public; and, as I have said, but for King Edward's visits, Englishmen would have forgotten the woman whom their fathers branded as "the she-wolf of France."

But, however that may have been, about the time when Queen Isabel was buried with much pomp in the church of the Grey Friars, in London, I was, one evening, seated in my chamber at Westminster, speculating on the probability which there was of the Prince of Wales going to take up his residence in Guienne, of which he had been created Duke, and of my attending him to Bordeaux, when a visitor was announced, and a lady entered. I immediately recognised Eleanor de Gubium, and I started as I remembered how she had pledged herself, as soon as the queen was no more, to find me out, whether in court or camp, and reveal the secret of my birth. It is true that my curiosity had considerably diminished, owing to the information which I had obtained from Sir John Copeland and others, but still as I recognised this woman, whose conduct towards me had been so mysterious, I felt something of the old eagerness to know all.

"Lady," said I, as I rose to receive her, "you remember your promise, and you have come to redeem it."

"In coming," replied she, "I have two objects. The first is to do an errand; the second is to clear up a mystery. I will first do mine errand, and then I will clear up the mystery."

"And what is your errand?" asked I.

"My errand," she answered, "is to pay the ransom of my husband, who was your prisoner at Poictiers."

"On my faith," said I, bluntly, "it seems to me that there must be some mistake; inasmuch as I had but one prisoner; and he was a French squire, known as Eustace the Strong; and he was to have paid his ransom at Bordeaux before Christmas."

"Even so," replied Eleanor; "I am the wife of him whom you call Eustace the Strong; and, since the ransom was not paid at Bordeaux, seeing that you were not there to receive it, I have brought the gold to Westminster."

And as she spoke she placed on the table a bag containing the sum for which we had covenanted.

"Verily," exclaimed I, "this is passing strange, and much am I taken by surprise, for I never thought of again hearing of Eustace the Strong, still less of your coming hither to pay his ransom in the character of his wife."

"However, sir knight," said she, suddenly rousing herself to energy, "we have more important business. You say you remember the pledge I gave; and now I am ready to tell how you were saved from a cruel and an obscure fate."

"And what might that fate have been?" asked I.

"A fate which, to one of your aspiring vein," replied she, "would have been misery itself. When Edward, Lord De Ov, was executed at Winchester for participating in the conspiracy of the Earl of Kent, Roger De Ov, being, by the favour of Roger De Mortimer and Queen Isabel, put in possession of the castle and baronies of his murdered brother, was all anxiety to remove that brother's widow and son from his path, and the path of his heirs; and my mother, who was a Frenchwoman, and one of the queen's gentlewomen, was intrusted with the duty of conveying them beyond sea. The widow was to have been placed in a religious house, and the son to have been separated from her, and brought up among the handicraftsmen of a town in Flanders, in utter unconsciousness of his country and kindred. No chance of golden spurs had such a project been executed. Confess, sir knight."

"None, in truth," muttered I, "but, lady, proceed. I am impatient to hear all."

"Well," continued Eleanor, "it would have been executed but for the interference of my father. Being a squire of the North, and attached to the house of De Ov, he would not hear of the murdered lord's widow or son being conveyed from the country; and so, while my mother pretended to execute the command, he went to Adam of Greenmead and implored him out of his loyalty to the Merleys, from whom sprang the lady, to shelter and protect her and her son so secretly that their existence in England should never be discovered. Briefly, then, the yeoman consented, and, at great risk – for few dared then to defy the vengeance of the queen, or her favourite – he received Edward Lord De Ov's widow and orphan at his homestead, giving out that one was his daughter, the other was his grandson; and there you remained, your identity known to me alone, till, in an evil hour, I, galled by some taunting words of young Roger De Ov, threatened him with producing the true heir, and, unhappily, told enough, not only to raise his suspicions, but to set him on your track. Hardly were you admitted as one of the prince's pages ere he was aware of your being the injured and disinherited kinsman; and you know the rest, and will pardon me for having, when mad and under the influence of a temptation I could not withstand, lent myself to aid in alluring you into his power, though I dreamt not then that his views in regard to you were so diabolical, and I should never have consented to his wishes being gratified."

"Lady," said I, as she concluded, "I have listened to your tale, and it is all very much as I suspected; and, having mused long over the circumstances, I declare on my faith, that I see not how I can avail myself of the knowledge without ruining my prospects, such as they are. If I understand you aright, I could not reveal my wrongs to the world without mixing up the name of Queen Isabel with the story in a way that would do her little credit; and how could I, favoured as I have been by the king and his son, do aught that would bring fresh obloquy on the memory of a woman who was mother of the one, grandmother of the other?"

"What!" exclaimed she, manifesting much surprise, "would you not risk royal favour and a descent on the ladder of life to prove yourself the heir of an illustrious surname and a magnificent castle and baronies on the banks of the Wear?"

"For the surname," answered I proudly, "I am so pleased with that which I have made for myself, that I should hardly relish exchanging it for another; and for the castle and baronies, I have concluded, after reflection, that with the king's favour gone, they would be further out of my reach than they are now."

"Shame upon your indifference!" cried Eleanor with a flashing eye. "Had my father foreseen that you would show a spirit so unworthy of a De Ov, he would hardly have hazarded his life, and the life of another, to save you from the fate to which you were destined. Nor suppose, for a moment, that inaction in your case secures you safety. I, who know your enemy right well, tell you for your comfort that he will never desist from his efforts till your ruin is accomplished."

"But my Lord De Ov has disappeared," said I calmly; "mayhap he is dead; and I neither war with the dead nor expect the dead to war with me."

"Delude not yourself," replied she scornfully. "Roger De Ov lives, and lives with as strong a desire as ever to witness your ruin. He is now prisoner in the house of the Templars at Luz; but ere long his ransom will be paid, and he will be at freedom. And then look to yourself."

"In truth," said I, musing, "this does alter the case, and I must look to myself."

CHAPTER LXXI

WHAT BEFELL LORD DE OV

Eleanor De Gubium was not mistaken as to the fate of Lord De Ov. On the day when the battle of Poictiers was fought and won he had been under the necessity of surrendering, rescue or no rescue. In fact, no sooner was the haughty baron saved from the danger of perishing by the sword of Eustace the Strong than he incurred the danger of dying by the lance of John de Helennes, that squire of Picardy whom I had met at Mount Moreville, when he was attached to Sir Lancelot de Lorris, and when he was intrusted by that gallant knight with his bloodstained banner to convey to one of the ladies of Poix.

It seems that at Poictiers, John de Helennes fought in the division of John of Valois, and bore himself bravely; but when he saw his countrymen dispersing on all hands, and perceived that the day was irrecoverably lost, he bethought himself of flight; and meeting his page with a fresh horse, mounted, with the object of making a speedy escape. But in this endeavour he was destined to be rudely interrupted; for Lord De Ov, smarting from wounds of the depth of which himself was quite unconscious, being by this time remounted and not in the most celestial mood, no sooner observed the squire spurring away from the lost field, than, setting his spear in rest, he dashed after the fugitive with the hope of taking him prisoner.

"Sir squire," cried the English baron, in a loud and menacing voice, "I pray you return and meet me fairly. You cannot escape thus; for my steed is the fleeter of the two; and if you turn not I will smite you in the back, like a craven."

"By my halidame, you never shall!" cried John de Helennes on hearing this challenge; and, halting, he wheeled round his steed to meet his pursuer face to face.

Now it was the object of Lord De Ov to fix his lance in the target of John de Helennes, while John's object was to strike his adversary's helmet – a mark much more difficult to hit, but which, when hit, makes the shock more violent and difficult to resist; and, when they met with all the force they were capable, Lord De Ov failed to fix his lance in the squire's target, while John, striking his antagonist fairly and truly on the helmet, brought him to the ground with such violence that the baron rolled over and over, grasping the grass with his hands as he did so. Upon this the squire sprang from his horse, and, drawing his sword, advanced on his prostrate foe.

"Surrender yourself, rescue or no rescue," said the squire, eager to insure himself a captive who, from his appearance, was likely to pay a handsome ransom.

"First tell me your name," replied Lord De Ov, who, seeing the necessity of making the best of circumstances, immediately placed his temper under control.

"My name is John de Helennes," said the squire, "and I pray you to tell me who you are."

"In truth," answered the other, "I am Lord De Ov, and have a handsome castle on the river Wear, near Durham."

"Lord De Ov!" exclaimed John de Helennes, who was delighted to hear that his vanquished foe was a personage of rank and wealth; "I well know your name as one of the great barons in the North of England; and you shall be my prisoner."

"Well," said Lord De Ov, "I willingly surrender myself, for you have fairly conquered me; and I will be your prisoner, rescue or no rescue."

"In that case," said John de Helennes, "I will place you in safety, and, as you appear to be wounded, I will take care that you are healed."

Having thus arranged matters to his satisfaction, John de Helennes sheathed his sword, and, having bound up the wounds of Lord De Ov, placed him on horseback, and led him at a foot pace to Châtelherault, and there rested for fifteen days while the captive lord's wounds were healed and medicine administered.

Gradually, under the kind treatment of his captor, Lord De Ov began to recover from his wounds and bruises; and when he was sufficiently strong to travel, John de Helennes placed him in a litter and conducted him safely to the ancient house of the Templars at Luz, where the cure was completed. But it was not until twelve months had passed that Lord De Ov was recovered so thoroughly as to think of returning to England. At the end of that time, however, though still somewhat lame, he prepared to depart from Picardy. Before leaving he paid, as his ransom, the sum of six thousand nobles; and, on the profit which he made out of his noble captive, John de Helennes became a knight. It is not necessary as yet to tell what became of Roger, Lord De Ov; it is sufficient to say that he was rapidly approaching the edge and crisis of his fate.

CHAPTER LXXII

MARRIAGE OF THE BLACK PRINCE

It was natural that the king and people of England should at this time feel anxious that the heir to the crown of the Plantagenets should unite his fate with some princess worthy of sharing his rank: and, ere this, several matches which seemed not unsuitable had been proposed. In the fifth year of King Edward's reign a marriage had been talked of between his son and a daughter of Philip of Valois; in the twelfth year of King Edward's reign a marriage was proposed between his son and a daughter of the Duke of Brabant, and in the nineteenth year of King Edward's reign, a marriage was proposed between his son and the daughter of the King of Portugal. But each of these matrimonial schemes came to naught, and the heir of England, after leading the van at Cressy, and winning the battle of Poictiers, still remained without a wife to share his counsels or a son to cheer his hopes. Nor did he evince any desire to form such an alliance as the nation, which regarded him with so much pride, seemed to expect; for, from boyhood, the Prince of Wales had cherished a romantic affection for his fair cousin Joan, Countess of Kent; and, circumstances having proved unpropitious to their union, he seemed to steel his heart against any second attachment. But destiny is stronger than circumstances; and, after years of melancholy reflection and vain regrets, the prince had, at length, an opportunity of wedding the lady of his heart.

Joan, Countess of Kent, was a princess of the house of Plantagenet, and one of the most comely and captivating women of whom England could boast. Indeed, at an early age her beauty won for her the name of the Fair Maid of Kent. She was daughter of Edmund, Earl of Kent, son of the first King Edward, and, having been born about the time when her father perished on the scaffold, during the domination of Queen Isabel and Roger de Mortimer, she was, of course, a year or two older than the hero whose heart she had so thoroughly captivated.

It is said that the course of true love never does run smooth, and of this the prince and his fair kinswoman were doomed to experience the truth. In fact, King Edward and Queen Philippa had other views for their son, and the obstacles in the way of a marriage were such that the prince despaired of overcoming them; and, while he, debarred from indulging in the passions of the heart, gave his time and thoughts to war and ambition, Joan, after waiting for a few years with the vague hope of some change occurring to render their union possible, bethought herself of making up for lost time, and so managed matters that she became the object of contention between two men, each of whom claimed her as wife. Of these, one was Sir Thomas Holand, a knight of Lancaster; the other was William, Earl of Salisbury, son of that fair countess in whose honour King Edward instituted the Order of the Garter.

Naturally the dispute was warm, and caused much scandal; for it appeared that Joan, after being solemnly betrothed to Salisbury, had given her hand to Holand, who, albeit of inferior rank, was a handsome and accomplished chevalier, and when Holand went to the continent Salisbury took possession of the bride. At length the pope was appealed to; and his holiness having settled the dispute by pronouncing the Countess of Kent to be wife of Holand, Salisbury indicated his acquiescence in the decision by marrying another woman.

Affairs having reached this stage, no hope remained to the Prince of Wales save to forget the past; and in this respect he, no doubt, did in some degree succeed. Nevertheless, the romance was not at an end. Soon after the battle of Poictiers, Holand went the way of all flesh, and Joan Plantagenet, now thirty-two, but comely and captivating as in girlhood, was free to give her hand to whom she pleased.

Of course such a woman was not likely to be without wooers, and it speedily became known that one of the nobles attached to the prince's service sought her in marriage. This noble was Roger, Lord de Ov. Nor, in aspiring to the hand of her who had been sung of as the Fair Maid of Kent, was he deemed guilty of presumption. Young, handsome, courteous in hall and strong in battle, with a great name and broad baronies, he was not the person whom the widow of a Holand was likely to reject on the score of dignity. But it appeared that the widowed countess was not to be so easily won; and the noble, finding that his suit did not prosper, implored the prince to interfere in his behalf. The result was not what might have been anticipated; for the lady rejected the advice with a disdain which was almost too much for the prince's patience.

"Fair kinswoman," said he, "it seems to me that you scarce know your own mind."

"My lord," replied the countess with much animation, "never did I know my mind better: when I was under ward I was disposed of by others, but now – "

"But now?" said the prince, whose imagination rapidly conducted him back to the time when he himself was the most ardent of her admirers.

"Now," continued she, making a great effort to speak out, "I am mistress of my own actions, and I cannot but call to mind that I am of the royal blood of England. I cannot therefore cast myself away beneath my rank; and I am fully resolved never to marry again, unless I can marry a prince of virtue and quality."

Needless would it be to dwell on the scene that followed. Suffice it to say that as the countess spoke the prince felt the old flame rekindle in his heart, and when she concluded he was kneeling at her feet.

But still the course of true love was not to run smooth. No sooner did the prince set his heart on a union with his fair kinswoman than formidable obstacles presented themselves. Both the Court and the Church were decidedly hostile. The king and queen were more averse than ever to their son wedding a woman whose reputation was not the better for the wear; and the Church objected, not only on account of the nearness of blood, but because the prince, by appearing as godfather to the sons of the countess, had for ever precluded himself from becoming her husband. Both obstacles, however, were overcome. After some delay the king and queen gave a reluctant consent; and, after some persuasion, the pope gave a dispensation and an absolution, to admit of the marriage being celebrated.

It was in the royal chapel at Windsor that the ceremony took place; and soon after the Prince and Princess of Wales departed for the castle of Berkhamstead. For a time they kept their state at that royal manor; but a Parliament being held in the winter to form establishments for the king's son, objected to the prince's residing in England.

"We consider," said the Parliament, "that the Prince of Wales keeps a grand and noble state, as he is well entitled to do, for he is valiant, and powerful, and rich. But he has a great inheritance in Guienne, where provisions and everything else abound, and we therefore deem that he ought to reside in his duchy, which will furnish him with the means of maintaining as grand an establishment as he likes."

On hearing that such an opinion had been expressed by the Parliament of England, the Prince of Wales at once consented to repair to Guienne, and immediately made preparations for the voyage. Before he and the princess left Berkhamstead, the king and queen visited them at that manor to say farewell; and it was on this occasion that Sir John Froissart heard the prophecy which he has inserted in his chronicle of the wars in England and France.

"A curious thing," says he, "happened on my first going to England, which I have much thought on since. I was in the service of Queen Philippa; and when she accompanied King Edward and the royal family to take leave of the Prince and Princess of Wales at Berkhamstead, on their departure for Guienne, I heard an old knight, in conversation with some ladies, say —

"'We have a book called Brut, which, among other predictions, declares that neither the Prince of Wales, nor any of King Edward's sons, will be King of England, but that the descendants of the Duke of Lancaster will reign.'"

But enough. Why should I forestal the day when England had to mourn the death of her hero, or anticipate the evil times on which his ill-starred son fell? At present all is hopeful and promising, and no shadows cross the path of the royal pair as they depart to embark for the land from which they are to return under circumstances so sad. Away melancholy memories, and let me still think of him as he was when he kept his state at the monastery of St. Andrew, ere he marched forth to win that victory which set his name once more ringing throughout Europe, and ruined his prospects to re-seat Don Pedro on the throne of Castille.

CHAPTER LXXIII

THE CHALLENGE

It was the month of May, and Gaston Phæbus, Count of Foix, was the guest of the Prince and Princess of Wales; and thither also had come Roger, Lord De Ov; and I, having just returned from an expedition to Angoulême, was seated at dinner in the city of Bordeaux, the day being a Wednesday, when Sir Richard de Pontcharden, the Marshal of Guienne, came to me, and said —

"Winram, know you of what things you are openly accused?"

"On my faith I do not, Sir Richard," replied I; "and beshrew me if I can guess to what you allude."

"In truth," said Sir Richard, kindly taking my hand, "I fully credit what you say. Nevertheless, I deem it right to warn you that, since your departure, there has been a plot discovered for delivering some towns up to the French, and that of this plot your name is bruited about as one of the authors."

I was literally struck dumb with amazement; and I gazed on the marshal in silence.

"Why gaze you on me thus?" asked he.

"By my sooth," replied I, suddenly recovering my speech, "I may well indeed be astonished at such a charge, considering that even the existence of such a plot was unknown to me. But who may be my accuser?"

"I know not," answered Sir Richard, significantly; "but this I do know, that the prince partly believes it, and that, were I in your place, I should hasten to the prince's presence, and demand his name forthwith."

"You are right," said I with energy. "Not a moment must be lost in meeting this calumny and this calumniator face to face, and, it may be, hand to hand."

And without hesitation I proceeded to crave an audience of the prince, and was, without delay, admitted to his presence.

As I presented myself, I felt how truly the marshal had spoken. It was evident that I was the object of strong suspicion. Even if I had not been warned, I should have felt instinctively that something was wrong. Never had young Edward's aspect been to me so grave or so ungracious. But I was too strong in the consciousness of my innocence to be cast down, even before the frown of a prince and a Plantagenet. In truth, I was perfectly calm; and, after bending my knee, I drew myself to my full height, and spoke clearly and boldly.