CHAPTER XLIII
THE PLAGUE OF FLORENCE
Not under circumstances the most joyous did King Edward reach England, after having baffled the ambition of Geoffrey de Chargny, and saved Calais from falling into the hands of Philip of Valois. Even while the tidings of his exploit on the morning of New Year's Day rang over England, and ministered to the national pride, Englishmen were in the utmost alarm at the approach of an enemy not so easily dealt with as the continental foe, so often trampled in the dust. Already that terrible pestilence, commonly known as "the plague of Florence," where, perhaps, its ravages were most terrible, had reached the shores no longer in danger from invaders in human form.
Never within the memory of man—never, perhaps, since the waters of the Flood subsided, and the Ark rested on the mountains of Ararat, and Noah and his sons came forth to repeople the earth, has Heaven so severely punished the sins of the nations as at the terrible period of which I write. From East to West an epidemic malady of unprecedented virulence ravaged the world, taking a wider range, and proving infinitely more destructive, than any calamity of the kind recorded in history, and spreading terror and desolation wherever it went.
It was in Asia, and in the year 1346, the year of Cressy, that this pestilence first appeared. But to Asia its ravages were not long confined. Entering Europe, it travelled rapidly westward, and, sweeping off Saracens, Jews, and Christians in its course, visited country after country and city after city. Already exhausted by war and humiliated by defeat, France suffered dreadful horrors. One-third of the inhabitants are said to have perished; and, in Paris alone, fifty thousand human beings fell victims.
Nor was victorious and prosperous England exempt from the visitation which fell so heavily on her vanquished and impoverished foe. Far different was the case. At first the pestilence made its presence felt on the coasts of Dorset and Devon; but on the coast it did not long linger. Finding its way, on the one hand, to Norwich, and, on the other, to Bristol and Gloucester—all three seats of the woollen manufactures, flourishing under Queen Philippa's patronage—it wrought terrible havoc in these hives of industry, and finally, taking possession of London, caused such mortality that the living could scarce bury the dead. In one churchyard—that of the Charter House—several hundred funerals took place daily.
All over Christendom there seemed to hang a curse. In many places the pestilence swept away a fourth of the population; in others a third disappeared during its prevalence; and, in several, not more than one inhabitant out of ten survived its inroads. Even the beasts of the field yielded to its influence. Sheep and cattle perished as well as human beings; and in some places the air was so polluted that it was all but impossible to inhale it without catching the infection. Under such circumstances every bond of attachment seemed to burst asunder. Servants fled from their masters, wives from their husbands, and children from their parents. Nothing could exceed the awe which was inspired by the invisible destroyer.
At length the calamity, after passing through various stages, reached the worst, and gradually a change took place, and men began to look around them, and once more breathe freely. Forthwith a great reaction took place: people said, "Let us eat, drink, and be merry"; and many who but lately, when their danger appeared imminent, had been calling on the rocks to fall on them and cover them, now hastened to break loose from all restraint, set all laws at defiance, rushed into excess without scruple, and fearlessly ate the bread of wickedness and drank the wine of violence.
At the same time, fanaticism, raising her head, sent forth her votaries, and the consequences were fatal and unfortunate in more ways than one.
A fierce persecution of the Jews at once commenced in France and other countries where they were to be found. Accused by the populace of having caused the plague by poisoning the rivers and fountains, the unhappy Hebrews were hunted, burnt, and massacred by thousands. Never has the multitude been animated by so savage a spirit as then urged them on to cruelty and bloodshed. Every Jew appeared to be marked out for destruction; and the spirit of persecution, spreading daily, became so fierce and general that the Jews, having no hope of escape elsewhere, crowded towards Avignon, and sought safety—nor in vain—in the territories of the Church and under the protection of the Pope.
Meanwhile it was prophesied that, for one hundred years, people with iron scourges were to come to destroy the Jews; and now there appeared, in Germany, a sect of enthusiasts, of both sexes, who carried the iron scourges, but who, instead of applying them to the backs of the Jews, applied them to their own. Finding their way from Germany into Flanders, and from Flanders into England, these men and women—known as Flagellants—travelled in companies, and set reason and decency at defiance. Believing, or pretending to believe, that their sufferings were agreeable to the Divinity, they appeared in the squares and public places of cities and towns, naked to the girdle, and, while chanting, in a piteous tone, canticles of the nativity and passion of the Redeemer of Mankind, scourged themselves with their iron hoops, to expiate, as they said, the sins of the world.
In the midst of all this confusion, and persecution, and fanaticism, an event occurred which produced consequences of importance. One August day that pale spectre, which visits the castles of kings as impartially as the cottages of the poor, appeared at Nogent-le-Roi, where Philip of Valois then was. In his palace at that town, which is situated on the Eure, five leagues from Chartres, Philip, at the age of fifty-eight, breathed his last. Immediately his eldest son, John, previously known as Duke of Normandy, was hailed as King of France, and a new scene opened.
CHAPTER XLIV
JOHN, KING OF FRANCE
Memorable as the name of John of Valois will ever be in history, as associated with a terrible defeat, and with the countless woes which that defeat entailed upon the nation he aspired to rule, he yet deserves the praise of the valiant for his personal courage, for his chivalrous character, and for his noble saying, that, "if truth and good faith were banished from all the world, they should yet be found in the breasts of kings."
At the time when Philip of Valois, leaving his kingdom exhausted by war and humiliated by disaster, expired at Nogent-le-Roi, John had reached the age of thirty, and won renown as one of the foremost knights of his day. His education in youth had been carefully conducted; he was thoroughly instructed in all the laws of chivalry; and he was not without experience in war. At Cressy, indeed, his sword had not shone in the battle so fatal to the princes of France and the potentates of Europe. But from his twentieth year he had figured as a leader of armies; and in Hainault, in Brittany, and in Gascony he had been matched against warriors of skill and valour. Nature, however, while endowing him with high qualities, had not only denied him those which make a fearless knight a great war chief, but given him many which prevented him from acting with calmness and judgment. Brave, gallant, dauntless in fight, and with a hand strong to smite, he lacked discretion and the faculty of calculating chances; and he was too proud, rash, vindictive, and impetuous to hearken in hours of danger to the counsel of those who were wiser than himself.
Such being the faults and failings of John of France, even flattery itself could not represent him as a man capable of playing for kingdoms and crowns with England's famous king, or with England's king's gallant son. But it was with no lack of confidence in himself, and with little apprehension as to the future, that, after having laid his father at rest among the old Kings of France near the altar of the church of St. Denis, he repaired to be crowned at Rheims.
It was on a Sunday in September that John, with his queen, Joan of Boulogne, was invested with the symbols of royalty in that cathedral which had witnessed the baptism of Clovis, and anointed with that oil which, according to tradition, was brought down from heaven in the holy ampulla to the good St. Remy of Rheims, when he was about to consecrate the conquering Frank, who, moved by the persuasions of his Christian wife, Clotilda, turned from the worship of Odin, and became "the eldest son of the Church." Nothing could have exceeded the grandeur of the coronation ceremony, nothing the magnificence of the feasts which John gave when he returned to Paris, and took up his residence in the Hôtel de Nesle. Impoverished as was the royal treasury, no expense was spared; and John really seemed to be mocking the claims of his dead father's conqueror by the display and noise which he made in assuming those regal honours of which, had he been a wiser man, he would have said, "I scarcely call these things mine."
Nor, at that time, could the danger be deemed so far distant as to encourage even the most credulous to indulge feelings of security. Doubtless there was a truce between England and France; but it was, to say the least, very brittle, and likely soon to be broken, and its existence did not prevent men from undertaking enterprises calculated to bring about a renewal of the war of which, so far, France had had so much the worse. Among others who had made themselves conspicuous in this way, Geoffrey de Chargny had highly distinguished himself.
It seems that Aymery de Pavie, after his unfortunate secret treaty for the sale of Calais, retired to Fretun, his castle in the neighbourhood, and there, with Eleanor de Gubium as his guest, lived at his ease. Fancying that the French had forgotten him, and deeming himself perfectly safe, he took no more precaution than if he had been in London or at Westminster. He lived long enough to rue his recklessness, but not much longer.
In fact, Geoffrey de Chargny, who, after the failure of his project in Calais, was carried prisoner to England, but subsequently ransomed and restored to his own country, never for a moment forgot the trick which Aymery de Pavie had played, and never for a moment gave up the idea of inflicting a severe punishment. Hearing, on his return to France, that the Lombard was living at ease in the castle of Fretun, Chargny, who had been reinstated in his post at St. Omer, did not let the matter sleep; but, collecting a band of men-at-arms, he left St. Omer one evening, and, reaching Fretun about daybreak, surrounded the place, and, passing the ditch, prepared to enter by force.
"Now," said Chargny to his comrades, "no plunder. Remember the truce. All we want is the perfidious Lombard."
Aymery de Pavie, who had stretched himself to rest with a feeling of absolute security, and with no idea that his perfidy was remembered to his disadvantage, was sound asleep, when he was awoke by one of his servants, who entered the chamber pale with fright.
"My lord," said he, "rise instantly; the castle is surrounded by armed men, who are attempting to enter."
"Enter my castle, and in time of truce!" exclaimed the Lombard, astonished. "By my faith, they shall repent their hardihood!"
Much alarmed, Aymery de Pavie sprang up and hastily armed himself; but it was vain. Ere he was ready even to strike a blow the toils were upon him, and, looking out, he perceived that the courtyard was filled with armed men. Escape was impossible; resistance was vain; he found himself roughly seized; and, after struggling for a moment as a cony struggles in a net, he yielded to fate, and was led forth a captive.
Highly gratified at the prospect of a speedy revenge, De Chargny conducted the Lombard and his fair companion to St. Omer, and resolved at once to strike the decisive blow. Immediately the knights and the people of the country were assembled; and the captive, having been led to the market-place, was put to death with much cruelty, amid the jeers of the crowd.
But no notice was taken of De Chargny's lawless adventure. It was John himself who took the step that roused Edward's wrath, and ultimately brought matters to a crisis. No sooner, indeed, did he feel the crown of St. Louis on his head than he was guilty of an act of despotic violence which, he ought to have seen, would involve a quarrel with an enemy whose active hostility, he might have been aware, it was madness under the circumstances to defy.
I have mentioned that when, in 1346, King Edward landed at La Hogue, and when the English, marching through Normandy, seized the town of Caen, one of the prisoners taken by them was the Count of Eu, Constable of France. Carried to England, the constable was lodged in the Tower of London. But his captivity was not without its consolation. Being a gallant knight and accomplished gentleman, he was always well received at the English court, and treated with much courtesy by the king and queen. Naturally, however, the count could not forget that he was a prisoner; and, expressing much anxiety to return home, he was released on his parole, and allowed to repair to France to raise the money necessary to pay his ransom.
Accordingly, the constable, little dreaming of the consequences, embarked for France, and, reaching the coast, made his way to Paris, and presented himself to the new king, whose father he had faithfully served. Whether or not he was really guilty of any disloyalty towards the House of Valois is difficult to decide. It was rumoured, however, that he confessed something of the kind to Walter de Brienne, Duke of Athens; and one Tuesday, when in the Hôtel de Nesle, he was suddenly arrested by the Provost of Paris, and imprisoned.
The constable was not long kept in suspense. Indeed, John of Calais dealt with the Count of Eu almost as summarily as Geoffrey de Chargny had dealt with Aymery de Pavie. On Thursday, about the hour of matins, he was conducted to the courtyard of the Hôtel de Nesle, and there, in presence of several earls and knights, beheaded as a traitor.
If John exhibited courage in the execution of the constable, he showed little of that prudence which he might have learned from reflecting on the fate of his father. The constable, as he well knew, was the King of England's prisoner, released on parole; and Edward would have belied his reputation if he had allowed his death to pass without demanding satisfaction. It soon appeared that the Plantagenet was in no humour to be set at defiance. When the news reached England, he made no secret of his intention to treat John as he had treated Philip, John's father.
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the king, as his anger rose and his eye flashed, "my adversary's son has put the Count of Eu to death. By good St. George! when this truce expires, I will show him how I can avenge the execution of my prisoners on parole."
CHAPTER XLV
RENEWAL OF THE WAR
It was not only the King of England whose enmity John of Valois, after taking possession of the throne of France, had provoked by indulging his vindictive temper. Hardly had he assumed the symbols of royalty, when, by neglecting to pay his daughter's dowry, he involved himself in a bitter quarrel with his son-in-law, whose friendship it was his interest to cultivate even at some sacrifice of pride.
Now this son-in-law happened to be no less remarkable a personage than the King of Navarre, who was also Count of Evreux, and who was known as Charles the Bad; and he at once proved himself a potent and unscrupulous foe. In fact, when his personal enemy, Charles de la Cerda, was appointed Constable of France, the King of Navarre showed his contempt for the authority of the King of France by seizing the constable at Aigle, and putting him to death; and, when cited before a Bed of Justice to answer for the crime, he gathered around him the Norman nobles, who were his friends and partisans, and set the royal summons at defiance. The quarrel, however, was accommodated, and a reconciliation took place. But between two such men there could not be any lasting amity. The King of Navarre was ever thwarting his father-in-law's government, and John accused his son-in-law of doing many things contrary to the honour of the crown and the welfare of the realm. At length John took his kinsman at advantage, and a step which brought matters to a crisis.
And the occasion was not ill-chosen for his purpose. Charles, the dauphin, having been invested with the duchy of Normandy, repaired to Rouen to take possession; and, in the great hall of the castle, he gave a feast to the King of Navarre, to John, Count of Harcourt, Navarre's favourite, and to other Norman nobles who were Navarre's friends. Suddenly, in the midst of the feast, John, who had ridden from Chartres with his marshal and his armed guards, entered the banqueting hall, and caused the whole party, with the exception of the dauphin, to be arrested and shut up in various chambers. Having then sat down at table, and leisurely dined, he ordered the Count of Harcourt and four other nobles to be carted to a field behind the castle, and executed before his eyes. Next day, after placing their heads on a gibbet in Rouen, he set out for Paris, carrying with him the King of Navarre, whom he imprisoned in the Louvre.
But it speedily appeared that he had acted rashly. Avengers instantly sprang up in the person of Philip of Navarre and Godfrey Harcourt. Philip of Navarre was brother of the incarcerated king, and Count of Longueville; Godfrey Harcourt was uncle of the beheaded count, and the same Norman baron who, in 1346, acted as marshal of the English army, and guided the English to the very gates of Paris. Both of them immediately entered into an alliance with Edward, acknowledged him as King of France, and did homage to him as such; and it became evident that John had drawn on the kingdom, whose destinies he had aspired to sway, a storm the effects of which were likely to be felt as far and wide as that which his sire had caused by the murder of the Breton nobles.
Ere this the truce between England and France was reckoned among the things of the past. It was in June that the truce expired; but it was not till the reapers had done their work, and the harvest was gathered into the barns, that England began to arm for a renewal of the war. Then, however, no time was lost. Three armies were mustered, and destined to attack France from different quarters. The first, under the king, was to land at Calais; the second, under the Prince of Wales, in Gascony; and the third, under the Earl of Derby, in Normandy, to co-operate with Philip of Navarre and Godfrey Harcourt.
In the autumn Edward landed with his force at Calais, having taken with him his two sons, Lionel of Antwerp and John of Gaunt, that they might see something of real war. But in this the young princes were disappointed. The king, indeed, marched twenty-two leagues into the country; and, reaching Hesdin, a strong town in Artois, he destroyed the outworks. But no enemy appeared to give him battle; and, finding that the country was wasted, and that an army could not be subsisted in its march, he was fain to return to Calais, and soon after found it prudent to abandon the idea of operations, and embark for England.
More fortunate than the king's expedition, but, like his, without glory, was that of the Prince of Wales. It was the month of October when the young hero landed in Gascony and raised his banner. Advancing as far as Toulouse, he there crossed the Garonne, and threw his army upon Languedoc. His enterprise was perilous; for the King of France had sent thither the Count of Armagnac with a force much superior in number; but the prince, far from being daunted by the intelligence, pushed on the more boldly, attacked Carcassonne, marched on to Narbonne, and, over-running the country without his foes showing their faces, returned to Bordeaux with much plunder and a host of prisoners.
Hardly had France recovered from the alarm created by the landing of the King and the Prince of Wales when the Earl of Derby debarked his fighting men on the coast of Normandy, and, entering the country of Coutantin, commenced operations in conjunction with Philip of Navarre and Godfrey Harcourt. At first the English earl and the Norman lords carried everything before them, taking towns and castles as they went. But their force did not exceed four thousand men; and when John, raising a large body of men-at-arms and infantry, came to the rescue of his adherents, the Earl of Derby, who was then at Verneuil, found it prudent to depart from that place, and, passing Aigle, made for Tubœuf.
Meanwhile, John, hurrying through Condé, marched straight to Verneuil, and followed the earl to Tubœuf. But there he halted, and, being informed that he could not, with advantage, pursue farther, as there were immense forests, in which the English and their allies could find refuge, he turned back, and, after taking all the towns and castles in Lower Normandy which belonged to the King of Navarre as Count of Evreux, he returned to Paris, congratulating himself on the success of his expedition. But, meantime, John's enemies were preparing for fresh enterprises; and he, ere long, received intelligence which kindled his ire.
"Sire," said a French knight, whose appearance proved the speed with which he had been riding, "I bring you tidings of your enemies."
"Ah!" exclaimed John eagerly. "Where are they?"
"It is of the young Prince of Wales I would speak, sire," continued the knight, who, knowing his master's fiery temper, was not without apprehension as to the effect which his communication might produce.
"Well, the young Prince of Wales," said John—"what of him?"
"Sire," replied the knight, hesitating no longer, "the Prince of Wales has left Bordeaux, and his army is fast advancing towards the fertile country of Berry."
"Berry!" cried John, stamping with rage. "By God and St. Denis! I will make him rue his audacity. I will go against him without a day's delay; and woe to him; for I swear, by all the saints, to give him battle whenever and wherever I can find him."
CHAPTER XLVI
A TOWN LOST AND WON
It was not my fortune to accompany the Prince of Wales in that expedition which, in the autumn of 1355, he made in the South of France. At this time I was with the King of England, at Calais, and engaged in the enterprise which circumstances, not under his control, compelled him to abandon, after reaching Hesdin and destroying the outworks.
Nevertheless, on Edward's return to Calais, it seemed that there was still some hope of the French once more bearding the lion of Cressy. In fact, John of Valois summoned an army to assemble at Amiens, and, advancing as far as St. Omer, sent his marshal to challenge the king to a general battle. But events proved that the French were not in earnest, and that the challenge was sent for no other purpose than to keep the king inactive at Calais until preparations could be made for the Scots crossing the Tweed, and ravaging the North of England, so as to compel Edward to cross the seas, and hasten to the rescue of his subjects.
At this crisis I was all vigilance; and, having my suspicions that John of Valois was playing the game which his sire had attempted with so little success, I exercised all my ingenuity to gain intelligence. My efforts were not in vain; and one day, while the king, still under the delusion that he was to have an opportunity of combating his enemies, was in the courtyard of Calais Castle, with his sons, Lionel and John, and looking on while the young princes were diverting themselves with chivalrous exercises, I carried to him the alarming intelligence that John of Valois, in order to induce his allies of Scotland to make a diversion in his favour, had despatched to that country a knight, named Eugène de Garentière, with sixty picked men-at-arms, and forty thousand crowns to be expended in mustering an army.
On hearing of this new danger, Edward entered the castle, and, after duly considering the matter, ordered me to depart instantly to England, to make with all speed to the North, and to warn Sir John Copeland to draw fighting men together, to exercise the utmost vigilance against surprise, and to be ready in case of a regular invasion, to take steps for giving the Scots battle.
"But," said the king, "it is rather a surprise than any regular invasion that I apprehend; for, after the result of their march to Durham, and their rout at Neville's Cross, they will shrink from any great enterprise, and recur to their old system of making sudden and rapid inroads."
I embarked for England without loss of time; and, so far as I was concerned, no delay occurred in the execution of the king's behest. But I was all too late to prevent mischief. As Edward had foreseen, the Scots did not occupy themselves with extensive preparations. Having shared the French crowns among them, the chief nobles and Robert Stuart, who acted as guardian of Scotland during the captivity of the King of Scots, determined on an immediate incursion, and accordingly sent a force to the Border, under Lord Douglas and Sir William Ramsay, a knight of prowess and courage.
But the Scots were cautious. In order to insure success it was necessary to resort to stratagem; and, well knowing that such was the case, Douglas, on reaching the Merse, halted at a place called Nisbet Moor, and sent forward Ramsay with a body of horse, who, fording the Tweed, pushed as far as Norham, burned the little town, defied the castle, and then, pretending to fly, allured Sir Thomas Dacre and an English force over the Border and into the Merse, and ultimately, fighting as they went, to Nisbet Moor, where, ready for action, the main body of the Scots lay in ambush.
And no sooner, indeed, did Dacre and his band reach this place than the Scots sprang upon them and made a fierce attack, with shouts of "Douglas! Douglas for ever! Ye shall die, ye thieves of England!" It was in vain that the English struggled against the numbers opposed to them. Surprised and surrounded, they were speedily overcome; and Dacre, after killing Haliburton and Turnbull, two Scottish knights of consequence, was forced to yield and surrender his sword.
Elate with this advantage, such as it was, the Scots determined to pursue their success. But they coveted something more substantial than barren honour, and, eager for spoil, they turned their eyes towards Berwick.
Natural it was that the Scots should have bethought themselves of the town which, at the beginning of his reign, and after his victory at Halidon, Edward had torn from their grasp; for, as a stronghold in English hands, it was to them an awkward neighbour. Not only did it form a formidable barrier in the East Marches to the incursions of the Scots, but checked their operations in other quarters; and the boldest of them shrank from the consequences of an inroad by the Middle or West Marches, when they reflected on the probability of the Captain of Berwick sallying forth in retaliation, at the head of his garrison, and sweeping the country to the gates of Edinburgh.
And, in another respect, it was a tempting prize; for the king, eager to repair the injuries sustained by its trade during the Scottish wars, had granted the town great privileges; and, availing themselves of their privileges, the townsmen had grown prosperous and rich. Such being the case, the Scots felt that there was nowhere a better chance of booty.
At this time Sir Alexander Ogle was Captain of Berwick, and Sir Robert Boynton governor of the castle. Neither of them seems to have been apprehensive of danger, and probably both of them deemed the place perfectly secure, even in case of an assault being attempted. On the first point, however, they deceived themselves, and on the second they forgot that they had to deal with men no less crafty than courageous.
It was late in the year 1355, and Thomas Stuart, who called himself Earl of Angus, having collected a fleet, embarked with a multitude of armed men, and on a dark night sailed into the mouth of the Tweed. The hour favoured his adventure. It was just as the first dawn of returning day was perceptible, and the town was hushed in repose, that the Scots, accompanied by Garentière and his Frenchmen, disembarked on the northern bank of the river, and moved stealthily and unobserved to the foot of the walls. Reaching a part called the Cowgate, and making use of scaling ladders, they climbed the walls, and, overpowering the sentinels, leaped into the town. But at this stage of affairs the alarm was sounded, and Ogle, rousing his men, appeared to oppose them sword in hand. A desperate conflict then took place in the streets and lanes; and the Scots, after slaying Ogle and two other English knights, remained masters of the town. But the Scots had purchased their victory dearly. Even taken at advantage, and overborne by numbers, the reputation which that famous garrison enjoyed had been well maintained. In yielding to numbers, they had proved their valour and prowess; and, when the sun rose and revealed the carnage, the conquerors found that, in the encounter, they had lost six knights of note, besides a host of inferior men.
Moreover, Ogle's resistance had been of infinite service to the inhabitants, for great, as may be supposed, was their consternation when they became aware that the Scots were upon them. Roused from sleep, and springing from their beds, the townsmen carried off the women and children, and ran for their lives in terror and despair. Some escaped by the gates, others ran to the castle; and the Scots found themselves in possession of the wealth, the thought of which had excited their cupidity and stimulated their ardour.
But the situation of the Scots was not, in all respects, pleasant. The castle held sternly out, and all their efforts to take it proved failures. Moreover, the garrison sent to ask the counsel and aid of Copeland; and, in concert with him, a plan was formed for introducing into the castle a number of English warriors, who might enter the town by what was called Douglas Tower, and recover the place by strength of hand.
However well conceived, the project came to naught. By some process intelligence of what was passing reached the Scots; and, on learning the intentions of the garrison, and after having been masters of Berwick for a week, they hastened to seize the Douglas Tower. Having done so, with the assistance of Garentière and his Frenchmen, they defended both town and tower so resolutely that no impression could be made.
But matters could not possibly remain as they were, and John of Valois soon had reason to congratulate himself on the success of Garentière's mission. So great was the importance of Berwick, that Edward, on hearing how affairs were, abandoned his schemes on the Continent, and embarked for England, to take measures for the recovery of the place, and, after staying three days in London, set out on his way northward.
It was on an early day in January, 1356, when the king, having kept his Christmas in Newcastle, and summoned the fighting men of the North to his standard, came before Berwick at the head of his army, accompanied by his two sons and Sir Walter Manny, while his fleet appeared in the Tweed. Repairing to the castle, while Manny set miners brought from Dean Forest to work, Edward prepared to let down the drawbridge and attack the town from the castle, while Sir Walter, with the aid of the miners of Dean, was employed in advancing a mine below the walls. But a brief period proved that neither operation was necessary. Indeed, when the Scots perceived the combination of art and force that was to be used against them, the sight was enough. With one voice they cried that it was time to surrender, and only begged that they might be permitted to march out with safety of life and limb.
Not wishing to drive matters between himself and the Scots to extremity, Edward, indignant and angry, as he might well be, at their unprovoked aggression, granted their prayer; and terms of capitulation having been agreed to, they were allowed to march out and return to their own country.
Nevertheless, after Berwick had in this way been lost and won, and when the townsmen, returning to their homes, complained loudly of the injuries they had sustained, the King of England considered it expedient to take precautions against future inroads; and, leaving men to garrison the town and repair the fortifications, he set out for the castle of Roxburgh, where he was to hold a conference with Edward Baliol, who, as legitimate heir of the ancient Kings of Scotland, still claimed the Scottish throne.
CHAPTER XLVII
"A DOUGLAS!"
At the castle of Roxburgh, situated hard by the confluence of the Tweed and the Teviot, and the scene of many a royal festival in the days of William the Lion and the Alexanders, the King of England remained for some time, revolving his plans for the settlement of Scotland; and there Baliol, now an old man and childless, and unprepared to assert his hereditary right to the crown and kingdom, made it over to Edward by formally delivering the crown which had been placed on his head at Scone, and some of the soil of the kingdom which his ancestors had enjoyed, and, at the same time, declared him heir to all the estates of the house of Baliol on both sides of the Tweed.
This ceremony, which was not destined to have much influence on the course of events, took place in the presence of the Bishop of Durham and the Abbots of Melrose and Dryburgh; and the king, learning that the Scots had assembled to oppose his progress, prepared to raise the banner of Scotland and march against them.
But it was generally the habit of the warriors of Scotland to conceal their movements; and Edward, having on this occasion only a vague idea in what direction the Scots were to be found, and becoming eager for intelligence, ordered that two squires should ride forth and reconnoitre. Accordingly I was sent, in company with Robert Salle, the youth of whom I have spoken as attached to Aymery de Pavie when Governor of Calais, with instructions to discover, if possible, at all risks, where the Scots were to be found.
Between Salle and myself a close friendship had sprung into existence during Edward's expedition to Calais; and as both of us had emerged from obscurity, and as we both owed to our skill and courage what reputation we enjoyed, we naturally sympathised on many points. But I did not fully share the antipathy which, in his more dreary moods, he, as the son of a mason, felt for men who had inherited high names and great possessions; and as I sometimes, under the influence of imagination, talked as if there was a gulf between us, we could not always avoid discussions of a more warm kind than was agreeable. On the present occasion our tendency in this respect was destined to lead us into an awkward predicament.
As may be supposed, our mission was not without perils, which only the utmost vigilance could guard against; and, considering how little we knew of the country, we certainly should have remembered our danger. But, young and adventurous, we thought lightly of the hazard as we rode on through mud and mire. At first we examined every hill and dale with searching eyes. But, when no human being appeared, we became more careless, and it was not till after pursuing our way for hours, and as we were skirting an extensive wood, that I instinctively felt that danger might be nigh.
"Beshrew me if I like the aspect of this place!" exclaimed I suddenly. "I would that Copeland, our northern hero, or some man familiar with the country, were here to guide us safely!"
"By St. George!" replied Salle, "I confess I begin to be somewhat alarmed; but, be the peril what it may, we hazard nothing but our lives."
"True," said I; "but life has its sweets, and I am not yet so weary of mine as to feel indifferent to the possibility of losing it—least of all, needlessly; for, as the Orientals say, there is no hope of living again, seeing that man is not a water-melon, and that, when once in the ground, he cannot grow again."
"And yet," remarked Salle, "I have heard that ancient sages were wont to say, 'Let no man be envied till his death;' and, for my own part, I see not how a warrior could better die than for his king and country."
"A noble sentiment, doubtless," said I, "and one to be carefully cherished; but methinks it is better to live to serve one's king and country in manhood and age than to die uselessly for them in youth. Moreover, you know, I have still to penetrate the mystery of my birth, and that is a motive for wishing to live."
"Tush!" exclaimed Salle querulously; "why harp for ever on that string? What matters it what has been a man's birth, if his heart is noble and his hand strong?"
"Little, mayhap," I replied; "still, I would fain have the consciousness of an interest in the past, and be at the bottom of the mystery, the solution of which might give me such an interest."
"You never will penetrate your mystery," said he in a conclusive tone.
"Now," replied I, repressing an angry feeling that stirred in my breast, "I hold not with you; for few secrets can escape an investigator who pursues the inquiry with determination; and it ever seems to me that there is a voice telling me that the truth which I pant to learn will one day be revealed; and, therefore, I continue the search after it with the ardour of a Knight of the Round Table in quest of the Sangreal."
"And what, I pray you, was the Sangreal?" asked Salle with a sneer.
"Nothing less than the sacred vessel from which the Redeemer of Mankind and his disciples ate the last supper," replied I, crossing myself devoutly; "and which Joseph of Arimathea brought, with the spear used at the crucifixion, when he came to England to convert the inhabitants to Christianity, and planted, near the abbey of Glastonbury, the miraculous thorn which blossoms every year at Christmas."
"And did the Knights of the Round Table succeed in their quest of this Sangreal?" inquired Salle.
"Yes, in truth did they," answered I, proud of my lore; "it was at length achieved by a knight named Galahad, aided by Sir Bors and Sir Percival, both champions of high renown in Christendom."
"On my faith," said Salle, almost contemptuously, "I never heard the names of these knights before, nor do I hold myself the less cheap that their names were unknown to me."
"And on my faith," exclaimed I, provoked to anger, "I did not deem that in England there existed a single aspirant to fame in arms who had not heard of the Sangreal."
"You forget that I was not reared daintily in kings' palaces," rejoined he, "but in a camp."
I bit my lip and refrained from replying to the taunt, but, as I thought of Cressy and Neville's Cross, my heart swelled with indignation.
It must by this time have been four o'clock, and we had been riding for hours without catching sight or hearing tidings of the enemy; when, just as this dialogue terminated, and we were turning a corner of the wood we had been skirting, we suddenly saw, before our eyes, an army marching northward. Reining instantly up, we drew back to escape observation, and as the winter sun, which was setting, flashed upon crested helms and rows of spears, the spectacle was inspiriting.
"Now," said I, pointing to the retreating host, "let him that is weary of life try a jeopardy."
"On my faith," replied Salle bluntly, "to me it seems that we are in sufficient jeopardy where we are;" and, pointing to a horseman who emerged from the wood, he added, "let us fly."
"It is too late," said I, looking round in alarm. "See you not that we are circumvented?" And as I spoke we were surrounded on all sides; for the horseman was a knight, and with him he had not fewer than thirty lances.
"Who are you?" asked the knight, riding forward and roughly seizing my rein; "speak, sirrah."
"Sir knight," answered I, endeavouring to be calm, "my comrade rejoices in the name of Robert Salle, and men call me Arthur Winram; and we are squires of England."
"On my troth," he exclaimed, eyeing me as if I had been an inferior being, "you speak boldly for one of your years and condition; and for your comrade, I trow that he is not dumb, that you, albeit the younger of the two, should answer so readily for him. But say at once what is your errand, and speak truly. Otherwise you will fare the worse; for trees are more plentiful here than carrion, and the Scottish ravens are not, for the time being, too well provided with food. Now I listen."
"In truth, then, sir knight," began I after a brief pause, "our errand is simple enough. We come from the camp of the English to look for the Scots."
"And you have found us," exclaimed the knight with a hoarse laugh; "and by St. Bride!" added he, "let me comfort you with the assurance that you shall not leave us at your pleasure."
"Gramercy for your courtesy, sir knight," replied I, my spirit rising. "And since you so relish our company, albeit our acquaintance is somewhat of the briefest, deign to say, I pray you, into whose hands we have had the fortune to fall."
"My name is Douglas," replied the knight sternly; "a name at which Englishmen are wont to tremble."
"Faith, sir knight," said I, with a smile which I doubt not was provoking, "if Englishmen ever were afflicted with that failing, they have had time to recover from it since Dupplin, and Halidon, and Neville's Cross."
"Varlet!" exclaimed the knight, his anger rising high, "bandy not such words with me, before whose father's sword Englishmen were wont to fly as deer before the hounds."
And in truth, as I afterwards learned, the knight was Archibald Douglas, the illegitimate son of him whom the Scots called "the good Sir James," and who, while on the way to Palestine with the heart of Bruce, was slain by the Saracens in Spain; and I, moreover, learned that the knight himself meditated an early pilgrimage to the Holy Land.
But at the moment I knew nothing of Archibald Douglas save the name, and that we were his prisoners. Giving us into the custody of his companions, he charged them to conduct us to a castle, the name of which I did not catch, to guard us well, and not, as they valued their lives, to allow us to escape.
"The varlets," he said, "have, if I mistake not, seen more than they would care to tell, and could give their king—upon whose head may my curse rest, now and for ever—such intelligence as would enable him to defeat all our plans." And as the knight spoke he rode off, with the greater part of his followers, towards the Scottish army, while we, under the escort of six of his men-at-arms, took our way towards the castle which was destined to be the scene of our captivity.
CHAPTER XLVIII
BURNT CANDLEMAS
It was said of the first Edward, that, while figuring conspicuously between a weak father and a wilful son, he needed no such foils to set forth his real worth; that, personally as well as intellectually, he towered above his fellows; that his step was another man's stride; that he was most judicious in all his undertakings, being equally wise to plot as valiant to perform; that, under Divine Providence, he was happy in success, at sea and on land, at home and abroad; and that, in all his actions, he proved himself capable of governing, not England only, but the whole world. Moreover, it is said that he was so fortunate with his sword at the opening of his reign, that, ere the close, he awed all his enemies with his scabbard, and the renown of his exploits; and if the praises bestowed on the first Edward cannot, on all points, with justice be rendered to the third, it is due to the memory of the hero of Halidon and Cressy to say that, after passing the thirty-fifth year of his life, he was one whose name was so terrible to his enemies—both French and Scots—that they would no more have thought of facing him in pitched battle than they would have thought of encountering his illustrious grandsire.
It was, therefore, with sensations the reverse of agreeable that the guardian and chief men of Scotland learned that Edward had reached Roxburgh with a formidable force. In fact, supposing that the king would shirk the hardships of a winter's campaign north of the Tweed, and anticipating that, after restoring the fortifications of Berwick, he would return to his capital, they drew to a head, and prepared, as soon as he turned his face southward, to renew their predatory incursions. On finding how much they were mistaken in their calculations, they resolved on leaving the country to its fate, and withdrawing, with what valuables they could remove, to the region lying beyond the Firth.
But, in order to carry their plan into execution, the Scots felt that it was necessary to gain time, and with this view they resorted to a device which did them little credit. In fact, they deliberately sent ambassadors to the king at Roxburgh, with proposals from Lord Douglas and other nobles to treat about submitting to his authority; and, having by this trick obtained a respite of hostilities, they employed the time in laying waste the country, and in accomplishing their removal to what was a place of comparative safety. Having done so, they were mad enough to exasperate the king by sending him a defiance.
It was rashly done, as the event proved too clearly. No sooner did Edward discover the trick that had been played upon him than he expressed the utmost indignation; and, when he received the message of defiance, his anger was fierce. Arraying his army in three divisions, the king left Roxburgh, with the banner of Scotland displayed before him, and a determination to make the country which had defied his power feel the weight of his hand. Advancing as far as Edinburgh, he there halted, and, indulging in the expectation that the guardian and Scottish nobles would pluck up courage to give him battle, awaited their coming; but those patriotic magnates, having exposed their countrymen to the utmost peril, thought only of their own safety, and left others to suffer, as they best could, all the horrors of war.
Meanwhile, the plight of Edward was not enviable. No provisions were to be had for love or money, and the fighting men of England, who when at home never drank water save by way of penance, had no other drink for fifteen days. Still, the king had the prospect of supplies; for his fleet, laden with provisions and necessaries, was expected to arrive in the Firth. But the elements proved hostile to the invaders. A violent storm arose, and the wind, blowing from the north, drove back and dispersed the ships so effectually, that the English lost all hope of being relieved by sea, and indicated a decided wish to turn their faces towards Berwick.
By this time, indeed, matters had reached such a stage that Edward had no alternative; and he gave orders for a retreat. Accordingly the army began its march southward, and the Scots had every prospect of getting rid of the invaders on cheap terms. But they had not learned to leave well alone. Day by day, and night by night, the retreating army was harassed by small parties; and so dexterous were the Scots in this kind of warfare, that not an Englishman could straggle from the ranks without the certainty of being cut off.
The king, whose blood now boiled with rage, expressed the utmost resentment; and, no longer making any effort to keep his temper, he discharged his wrath on the country through which he passed. Every town that lay in his way, whether great or small, was given to the flames; every village was reduced to ashes; and, for about twenty miles from the sea-coast, the country for a long period bore such traces of the conflagration, that the Scots have continued to describe the February of that season as Burnt Candlemas, in memory of the devastation which the English then wrought, while departing in anger from a land which they could not conquer.
For a time the Scots appeared bent on retaliation; and during the winter, notwithstanding Copeland's vigilance, they set many a Northumbrian village in a blaze. But the year was fruitful of events of which they little dreamt when, at the instance of John of Valois, they mounted their horses, fought at Nisbet Moor, and seized upon Berwick.
Ere Candlemas again came round great changes had occurred, and the continental ally to whom they had been so servile was too poor to bribe, and too powerless to succour. It was now February, and before October a great battle had been fought, and a great victory had been won, which prostrated the energies of France, daunted the ferocious spirit of Scotland, and rendered England even more celebrated than before, not only throughout Christendom, but among the Saracens and the nations of the East, as the cradle of heroes and the nursery of conquerors.
And there arose circumstances in considering which the Scots deemed it prudent to refrain from inroads, and Edward, even if he had felt a wish, had no occasion to chastise their audacity. Never, indeed, after the spring of 1356, did the king engage in war with that obstinate and refractory nation. It is possible that, even at that period, and while pursuing the enterprise, he was tired of struggles which could not be brought to a satisfactory issue; and that he was in reality bidding "Farewell to Scotland" when he left them to celebrate a "Burnt Candlemas."
CHAPTER XLIX
OUR CAPTIVITY
It was not in the direction taken by the Scottish army that we were conducted as prisoners by the Scottish men-at-arms, but to a castle standing on the banks of a stream called the Leader, and hard by the tower within the walls of which, in the thirteenth century, dwelt Thomas of Ercildoun, a bard of mighty fame, who enjoyed the reputation of being gifted with a prophetic faculty, and who is said, while at supper in the castle of Dunbar, to have predicted the death of Alexander, King of Scots, and who, on being asked when the war in Scotland would come to an end, answered, "When the cultivated country shall become forest; when wild beasts shall inhabit the abodes of men; when the Scots shall not be able to escape the English, should they crouch as hares in their form; and when they shall be drowned in their flight for fault of ships."
As we approached Mount Moreville, which, in earlier days, was the castle of Hugh de Moreville, a great Norman noble, who figured as Constable of Scotland, and founded the abbey of Dryburgh, and as we rode through the village that had risen under the protection of the stronghold of the Morevilles, night had for some time fallen, and darkness overshadowed the earth. But the rumour that Englishmen were being led to captivity brought forth men and women, and even children, who greeted us in harsh accents, with epithets of no complimentary kind, and loudly chanted a song, which I learned had, forty years earlier, been in fashion among the Scots, and which still retained much of its popularity, albeit it was a song of triumph over potent foes humiliated by a disaster which had been sternly and terribly avenged in three foughten fields:—