Cressy and Poictiers

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 the wine which the drawer had brought me, when Thomelin of Winchester entered. I smiled in recognition, and mine host, observing me, stared as if he had seen a ghost.

"What! – eh! – Arthur, my lad!" exclaimed he, recovering himself, "can this possibly be you, and in the body?"

"None other than myself, good Thomelin," answered I laughingly, "and flesh, and blood, and bone to boot; you may take my word for it. But now tell me, for I long to learn, how fares my grandsire, and how fares my mother?"

"By St. Thomas!" replied he gravely, "not so well as they are wont to do, for they have heard that you had fallen in the wars, and are sadly grieved to think of it."

"And yet," said I half-laughing, "here you see me with a whole skin, and hardly a scar to bear witness to the perils I have passed."

"And you have come home, young man," interrupted the squire, speaking with a burr which sufficiently indicated his Northumbrian birth, and possibly his Danish origin – "you have come home at a time when so many are flocking to Calais to join the king and fight for his honour?"

"Even so, worthy squire," replied I, not without a spice of temper in my voice. "It is the fortune of war, and, certes, it is with no good will of mine own that I am in London and not before Calais. As ill-luck would have it, I was taken prisoner on the evening of the day of Cressy, and I only regained my liberty on condition of forthwith returning to England, and not again drawing my sword against Philip of Valois for a year and a day. What could I do?"

"Nothing but make the best of a bad bargain," answered the Northumbrian. "But assuredly you have reached England at a good time for a stripling who is afraid of his sword rusting in the scabbard; for seldom has England had greater need of stout hearts and strong hands than now."

"What mean you?" asked I, my curiosity as to the news of the day reviving.

"What!" exclaimed Thomelin, excitedly grasping my arm, "have you not heard that David Bruce, whom the Scots call king, has come over the Border with all his men of war and wild Galwegians, and that he is ravaging the West Marches with fire and sword?"

"Not a word of it," replied I, much amazed.

"It's not the less true, however, as I'm likely to know to my cost," observed the Northumbrian gravely.

"May the saints, and especially St. George and St. Edward, defend us!" exclaimed I, after a moment's pause; "and that this invasion of the Scots should happen when the king and so many of his nobles are beyond the seas, might provoke every English saint in the calendar. But let us hope for the best, seeing that the Lords Neville and Percy are at home in command of the Northern counties; and fame belies them if they are not the men to give the Scots a warm reception."

"I doubt it not, Arthur, my lad! – I doubt it not!" cried Thomelin with enthusiasm. "Shame be upon the Neville and the Percy if they did less than their very best at such a time, and in King Edward's absence, especially since Queen Philippa has left for York, to show them her countenance and aid them with her counsel. And, if they do not, methinks it will be the duty of every Englishman, no matter how humble a body he may be, to gird on his father's sword, and go northward to fight for his king's honour and his country's safety."

"Mine host," interrupted the young priest, breaking silence for the first time, "thou speakest of what thou knowest naught, and canst not comprehend. Why should the poor and the oppressed gird on their swords to defend a land where kings and nobles do as they list, and where men who are not kings or nobles are compelled to draw the water and hew the wood for others, and used worse than beasts of burden?"

"Beshrew me," said Thomelin, half in jest, half in earnest, "if it does not seem to me dangerous for a man to speak of kings and nobles in such a strain, even when he has a frock and cowl to protect him."

"Besides," urged I quietly, "I believe it is said in Holy Writ – I have heard, at least, that it is – 'Curse not the king, no, not in thy thought; and curse not the rich in thy bed-chamber; for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.'"

"What sayest thou to it, good friend?" asked Thomelin of the Kentish yeoman.

"For my part," answered the yeoman, speaking with great caution, "nothing have I to say against the king, who, doubtless, is a good king, and one likely to add much to the country's pride; and, for riches, let me say bluntly that I am not so poor as to deem the possession of riches a crime. But answer me this, Master Thomelin, how are men to live, if the king's purveyors continue, as now, to oppress and plunder at their pleasure? Answer me that."

"Well, yeoman, I'm sure I know not," replied Thomelin prudently. "But this I do know, that my kinsman, Adam of Greenmead, declared that when Edward I. reigned, and Eleanor of Castile was queen, the country people were not harassed by royal purveyors."

"No," cried the yeoman triumphantly, "not in my grandfather's time. That is what I tell my neighbours. But now a man trembles when a horn is heard, lest it should be that of the king's harbinger. One of them comes, and he cries he must have oats, and he must have hay, and he must have litter for the king's horses; and scarcely is he gone when a second comes, and he must have hens, and geese, and a variety of things; and a third comes at the heels of the second, and he must have bread and meat, and what not."

"My good friends," said the priest, springing to his feet, and speaking in a loud voice, and with eccentric gestures, "all this is vain talk. I tell ye that you must lay the axe to the root of the tree; for things cannot go on well in England, or ever will, until everything shall be in common, and the lords no more masters than ourselves. How ill they have used us, ye know; but for what reason they hold us in bondage they cannot tell. Are we not all descended from the same parents, namely, from Adam and Eve? And what can they show, or what reasons can they give, why they should be more masters than we? I tell you that things never will be well in England till there shall be neither vassal nor lord, and all distinctions levelled."