CHAPTER LXVII
THE VICTORS AND THE VANQUISHED
It was to recall his people from the pursuit that the Prince of Wales set his banner on a bush, and ordered to "sound trumpets to the return." Nevertheless, it was not till after vespers that the chase was at an end, and that the English returned to their camp.
Ere this, however, the result of the conflict, so far as the French were concerned, was accurately known, and it was bruited about that, while not fewer than six thousand men of all sorts were left dead on the field, seventeen counts and a multitude of barons, knights, and squires were prisoners, with John of Valois and Philip his son. Indeed, when the English collected, they found they had twice as many prisoners as themselves. A very few persons of distinction among the English were missing. One of these was Roger, Lord De Ov.
Day drew to a close; the lights began to twinkle in the city of Poictiers; evening fell over the plains between Beauvoir and Mapertuis; and where lately the battle had raged with such vehemence all was now silent; and, while Ramsay and Douglas were deluding their captors, the Prince of Wales gave a supper in his pavilion to John of Valois and many of the French nobles, and knights, and squires who had been taken. Nor was there now any lack of good cheer among the English, most of whom had not tasted bread for three long days; for the French had brought with them plenty of provisions, not even neglecting to provide themselves with wine to celebrate the victory which they were not destined to gain.
Nor was it merely provisions which fell into the hands of the English. In fact, the French had come to Poictiers not only magnificently arrayed, but magnificently furnished with articles of luxury. Great and of high value was the spoil, including rich jewels, gold and silver plate, and trunks stuffed full of furred mantles, and belts weighty from their gold and silver. If it had not been known that the French came with a certainty of conquering, it might have been supposed that they had brought their wealth with them to bribe their victors to clemency.
When the hour of supper arrived the feast was spread, and the tables were covered with the viands that formed part of the spoil. Every preparation having been made, the prince conducted John of Valois and his son to the pavilion; and, having seated them at an elevated table, at which also were placed the Count of Tankerville and the Count of Ponthieu, he caused the French nobles, and knights, and squires who were captives to range themselves at the other tables; and, this done, he himself insisted on serving John with his own hand, and resisted all intreaties to sit down.
"No," said he, in the spirit of that chivalry of which he was the most renowned representative; "I do not deem myself worthy of such an honour; nor does it appertain to me to seat myself at the table of so great a prince or so valiant a champion as you have, by your actions, proved yourself this day."
"By Our Lady!" said the French knights admiringly, "it will, in truth, be said of the prince as has been said of his father, that he is a most noble gentleman who knows how to honour his enemies as well as his friends."
And the English, who had witnessed his interview with James, Lord Audley, highly applauded the sentiment.
But still John of Valois looked sad and disconsolate, and even the good wine which he himself had brought, with an idea of quaffing it under very different circumstances, failed to elevate his mood; and the prince, sympathising with his captive's melancholy, endeavoured to administer comfort.
"Sire," said he, "make good cheer, and let not your meal be the less hearty because God Almighty has not gratified your wishes as to the event of the day; for it has frequently been the fate of the most famous warriors to taste defeat as well as victory. Wherefore be not cast down, nor give way to despondence, seeing that my lord and father is a prince of noble and generous soul, and will show you every honour and friendship in his power, and will arrange your ransom reasonably, and on such terms that you will always henceforth remain friends."
John of Valois bowed courteously, but he did not utter a word; and he looked the picture of woe, for his intense pride had been wounded to the quick.
"Moreover," added the prince, still eager to console, "I do not speak to flatter you, but simply speak the truth, when I say that, of all the warriors of France, you have this day given your adversaries most to do, and won the highest renown; and all those on our side who have observed the actions of each party unanimously allow this to be your due, and, in reflecting on the deeds of arms wrought this day, they award you the prize and garland."
As the Prince of Wales concluded, there were murmurs of praise from every one present; and the French knights failed not to do justice to the chivalry of their youthful conqueror.
CHAPTER LXVIII
THE MARCH TO BORDEAUX
Next morning the Prince of Wales gave orders for resuming the march to Bordeaux, which had been, three days earlier, interrupted in so unwelcome a manner; and the English, packing up and loading their baggage and booty, decamped from the scene of their marvellous victory.
Meanwhile great alarm prevailed in Poictiers, and during the night the Lord of Roy entered the city with a hundred lances to guard it in case of attack. But the apprehension of the citizens was groundless, and the valour of the Lord of Roy was not put to the test. Some of the more fiery among the English, indeed, would have relished the excitement of taking the city by assault, but the prince, calm in triumph as he had been in danger, was more prudent.
"No," said he, "no need to attack fortresses by the way. Our numbers are few, and methinks we shall do great things if we convey the King of France and his son, and all our booty, in safety to Bordeaux."
Accordingly, the prince passed on, and, meeting with no resistance, proceeded by easy marches, through Poitou and Saintonge, and, on reaching Blaye, crossed the Garonne.
One day, during the march, the prince summoned me to his side, and, having intimated his intention of despatching me to England with intelligence of the victory won at Poictiers, he turned the conversation on Lord Audley.
"How fares the noble knight?" asked the prince.
"In truth, my lord," replied I, "he is still weak from loss of blood, but he has proved that his munificence is on a par with his valour."
"What mean you?" inquired the prince with curiosity.
"Just this, my lord," I answered, "that, when carried to his tent after the battle, he called the four squires who had attended him, and said, 'Gentlemen, it has pleased the prince to give me five hundred marks as a yearly inheritance, although for such gift I have done him very trifling service. What glory I may have gained has been through your means, on which account I wish to reward you. I therefore,' added Lord Audley, 'give and resign into your hands the gift which the prince has bestowed on me. I disinherit myself of it, and give it to you simply, without the power of revoking it.'"
On hearing this the prince was greatly interested, and sent for Lord Audley. Accordingly, the wounded knight was brought forward in his litter, and the prince, having received him very graciously, proceeded to the subject of the grant.
"My Lord James," said he, "I have been informed that, after you had taken leave of me and returned to your tent, you made a present to your four squires of the gift I presented to you."
"Sir," replied Lord Audley, "you have heard the truth."
"But," continued the prince, "if it be true, I should like to know why you did so, and if the gift was not agreeable to you."
"My lord," answered Audley, "I assure you it was most agreeable, and I will tell you the reasons which induced me to bestow it on my squires."
"Go on, my Lord James," said the prince, seeing that the knight hesitated.
"Well," continued Lord Audley, "these four squires who are here have long and loyally served me on many great and dangerous occasions, and, till the day I made them this present, I had no way of rewarding them; and never in my life were they of such help to me as at Poictiers; for, sir, I am a single man, and can do no more than my powers admit, and it was through their aid that I accomplished my vow, and should have paid for doing so with my life if they had not been near me. When, therefore, I consider their courage and fidelity, I should not have been grateful had I not rewarded them. Thank God, sir, I have sufficient to maintain my state, and wealth has never yet failed me. I can only ask pardon if in this I have acted contrary to your wishes, and promise that, as hitherto, my squires and myself will serve you faithfully."
"My Lord James," said the prince, "I do not in the least blame you for what you have done. On the contrary, I highly appreciate your bounty to the squires whom you praise so much."
"Sir, I thank you," said Lord Audley, glad to hear the prince was satisfied.
"Moreover," added the prince, smiling graciously, "I not only most readily confirm the gift you have made to your squires, but further insist on your accepting, for yourself, six hundred marks yearly, on the same terms and conditions as the former gift."
Lord Audley's heart was too full to admit of his answering, but his silence was much more eloquent than words could have been; and I, riding by the side of his litter, could not help saying to myself—
"This is indeed a rare kind of contest, where merit in the subject and munificence in the prince strive which shall be the greater."
On reaching Bordeaux, the Prince of Wales conducted John of Valois to the monastery of St. Andrew; and mighty were the feasts at which the clergy and citizens entertained the prince, and great was the joy with which they received his royal captive. Soon after their arrival the Cardinal of Perigord reached Bordeaux as ambassador for the pope. But the prince was highly enraged at the cardinal, on account of his men, under the Castellan of Amposta, having fought against the English at Poictiers, and, for a fortnight, sternly refused to see him. At length, through the mediation of the Captal of Buch, the cardinal was admitted to an interview, and exculpated himself so clearly that the young conqueror declared himself perfectly satisfied.
All winter the Prince of Wales remained with the English and Gascon lords at Bordeaux. There was much feasting, and most of the knights, who had acquired large sums as the ransom of prisoners, spent, in riot and merriment, all that their swords had gained them. But this I only know from report; for, within a few hours after the prince conducted John of Valois through the gate of Bordeaux, I was on the sea, and sailing for the English coast.
CHAPTER LXIX
THE PRINCE AND HIS CAPTIVE
No news could have excited more joy and enthusiasm than pervaded England when rumour carried through the land tidings that the English had, against fearful odds, won another battle on the Continent, and that the king's adversary was a captive in the hands of the king's son.
In every church thanks were solemnly offered for the victory of Poictiers; in every town and village the victory was celebrated with festivities; and on every hill bonfires blazed in honour of the conquerors. Nothing could exceed the respect paid to such of the warriors of Poictiers as, during the winter, returned from Bordeaux. I, being the first, came in for rather more than my full share of the glory; and, as the bearer of the earliest intelligence, I was knighted by King Edward, who did not on this occasion forget the service I had previously rendered in saving his daughter from the horns of the wild bull in the forest of Windsor.
And now there was much anxiety to ascertain what was to be done with John of Valois, and when the Prince of Wales was to bring him and his son to England. But on this point considerable obstacles arose. In fact, the Gascons were most unwilling that John should be taken away from Bordeaux, and did not hesitate to express themselves strongly on the subject.
"Sir," said they to the prince, "we owe you, as becomes us, all honour and obedience; but it is not our intention that you should carry the King of France from us, who contributed so largely to place him in the situation where he now is. Thank God, he is in good health, and in a good city; and we are strong enough to guard him against any force which France could send to rescue him."
"Gentlemen," replied the prince, "I do not doubt your power to guard him; but the king, my father, wishes him to go to England, and, as we are both very sensible of the services you have rendered, you may depend on being handsomely rewarded for them."
"Nevertheless," urged the Gascons, appearing to grow more stubborn every moment, "we cannot consent to his departure."
"What, in the name of the saints, is to be done?" asked the prince, taking Lord Cobham and Sir John Chandos aside.
"Sir," said Lord Cobham, "you must consider the avaricious nature of the Gascons in dealing with them."
"Yes," added Sir John Chandos, laughing, "there is only one way of dealing with such men: offer them a handsome sum of florins, and they will comply with all you wish."
Accordingly a hundred thousand florins were distributed among the lords of Gascony; and in April the prince embarked, with his captive, for England. Landing at Sandwich, they travelled on to Canterbury; and having remained there for three days, to refresh themselves and offer at the shrine of Thomas à Becket, they pursued their way, by short journeys, to London.
Meanwhile the news that the Prince of Wales and John of Valois had landed in England reached King Edward, and spread abroad; and, as they approached London, the public curiosity became great. At length, on the 24th of April, they entered London, John riding the white charger which, like himself, had been taken at Poictiers, and the prince bestriding a black pony, and treating his captive with marked respect. John was richly dressed, and wore a crown of ornament on his head; the prince was plain even to affectation, and his head was uncovered as he entered the city. But, after all, this was so much dumb show; and the populace instinctively felt such to be the case; and nobody could examine the countenances of the two with attention and intelligence without ceasing to feel much surprise that the man who, on the decisive day, had an army of sixty thousand, was a captive, and that the youth who, on the decisive day, had an army of eight thousand, was a conqueror. One had all the weakness of a Valois, the other all the strength of a Plantagenet.
Riding through London, while the crowd surged and swayed, in their eagerness to get a closer view, John and his son Philip were conducted to the Savoy, and, after being lodged in that palace, were visited by the king and queen, who did all in their power to console John in his captivity. Nor did the unfortunate man disdain their kind offices. Indeed, adversity had softened his temper, and he was disposed to make the best of circumstances. But it was different with his son. Young Philip's natural ferocity became more intense every hour, and some extraordinary scenes resulted from his unrestrained violence.
On the very day after the arrival of John of Valois in London, and while he was feasting with the court at Westminster, Philip made such a display of temper as shocked everybody who witnessed his conduct. Observing that the cup-bearer served King Edward with wine before his father, he started from the table, and attempted to box the cup-bearer's ears.
"Varlet!" cried he, foaming with fury, "you have no right to serve the King of England before the King of France; for, though my father is unfortunate, he is still the sovereign of your king."
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.
"My lord," said I, not without scorn of the thought of being suspected, "it has come to my knowledge that I have, in my absence, been accused of conspiring with the enemies of England. I am here to deny the charge, and to demand to be placed face to face with my accuser."
The prince did not answer even a word; but he ordered Lord De Ov to be summoned; and when my adversary appeared, which he did almost on the instant, I felt, with something like exultation, that at length there was a prospect of our quarrel being brought to a decisive issue, and that, with a just cause, I could not fail to conquer.
The prince, meanwhile, turned to me, and, with the frown still on his brow, said gravely—
"There stands your accuser."
And now I cannot relate what passed; but a furious dispute, which the presence of the prince scarcely served to moderate, certainly did take place; and I recited all the hostility Lord De Ov had evinced towards me, and the persecution to which I had been exposed at his hands, not forgetting the incident of Caen, on which I was loud, if not eloquent. But I did not stop even at this point. I traced the enmity to its origin. Vehemently I narrated all the wrongs which my father had suffered, and which I had vowed to avenge, and astounded the prince by stating in a voice of thunder, that this man, who now laboured to ruin my fair fame, bore the name and occupied the place which were mine by hereditary right. At length matters reached such a stage that I threw down my glove, and appealed to the god of battles; and Lord De Ov expressed his willingness to submit the quarrel to the arbitrament of the sword.
But for a time there appeared, notwithstanding my entreaties, some doubt whether a combat would be permitted under the circumstances. In fact, the prince, who was perplexed by the turn which the quarrel had taken, entertained serious scruples. Fortunately, however, he consulted his guest, the Count of Foix; and Gaston Phæbus, who enjoyed a high reputation for wisdom, after some meditation, decided in favour of allowing the duel.
"In truth," said he, "I think that this is a case in which an appeal to the god of battles ought to be permitted; for it is a case which no man, without great discretion and knowledge, could undertake to decide, one way or another; and at all times, the judgment of God is more likely to be just than the judgment of the very justest man."
"In the name of truth and justice," exclaimed the prince, "let the combat, then, take place; and may God and St. George defend the right!"
"Yes," replied the count; "it is decidedly a quarrel which can best be decided by a duel for death or life."
Accordingly, everything was settled; and, Monday being fixed on as the day for the mortal combat, the accuser and the accused were placed under arrest till the time appointed, and preliminaries were arranged for the trial by battle.
CHAPTER LXXIV
TRIAL BY BATTLE
I have said that it was the month of May, and the grass was green in the meads, the corn in ear, and the flowers in seed, when arrangements were made for the combat, which the Count of Foix had approved, and which the Prince of Wales had sanctioned; and, in a wide open space on the banks of the Garonne, the lists were erected and preparations made; and galleries were raised on one side for such lords as wished to be spectators; and, on the appointed day, the barons of Gascony and England and the citizens of Bordeaux came forth to witness a spectacle which promised much excitement.
It would hardly become me to relate my own exploits on such an occasion, even if my feelings had been such as to admit of my remembering distinctly what passed. But the truth is, that, calm as I might have seemed to observers, my anxiety was intense, and I scarce saw, scarce heard, anything around me, so completely was my mind bent and my attention concentrated on the coming conflict. I therefore deem it prudent to borrow an account of the duel from a chronicler who witnessed it without favour, and who described it with impartiality.
"At the hour appointed, Sir Arthur Winram and Roger, Lord De Ov, the two knights who were to perform this deed of arms, rode to where the tilts were to be performed, and entered the lists so well armed and equipped that nothing was wanting. Their spears and battle-axes were brought to them, and each being mounted on the best of horses, placed himself about a bow-shot from his antagonist; and they pranced about most gallantly, for they knew that every eye was upon them.
"Having braced their targets, and examined each other through the visors of their helmets, they spurred on their horses, spear in hand; and though they allowed their horses to gallop as they pleased, they advanced in as straight a line as if it had been drawn with a cord, and hit each other on the visors with such skill and force that all present allowed it was gallantly done. Lord De Ov's lance was shivered into four pieces, which flew to a greater height than they could have been thrown. Sir Arthur Winram likewise struck his antagonist, but not with the same success; and I will tell you why. It was because Lord De Ov had but slightly laced on his helmet, so that it was only held by one thong, which snapped at a blow, leaving him bareheaded.
"Each knight passed the other; and Sir Arthur Winram bore his lance without halting; and they returned to their stations, when Lord De Ov's helmet was fitted on again, and another lance given to him, while Sir Arthur grasped his own, which was not worsted. When ready, they set off full gallop (for excellent were their horses, and well did they know how to manage them), and again struck each other on the helmets, so that sparks of fire came out from them. Neither of their lances did this time break, and Sir Arthur received a very severe blow: and his lance hit the visor of his adversary without much effect, passing through and leaving it on the crupper of the horse, and Lord De Ov was once more bareheaded.
"After this tilting, the knights dismounted, and made ready to continue the combat with swords; and they made a very handsome appearance, for they were both stout and expert men at arms. Fighting on foot, they behaved with much courage. Sir Arthur Winram was, at the first, severely wounded, and his friends were much alarmed; but, notwithstanding this disadvantage, he fought so stubbornly that he struck down his adversary, and was on the point of thrusting his sword through his body, when the prince threw down his warder, and shouted, 'Hold! slay him not, unshriven and unabsolved. He is fairly vanquished.' Then Sir Arthur demanded of the spectators if he had done his duty; and when they replied that he had, the knight approached the prince, and after thanking him and the lords present for coming to see justice done, went, albeit sore wounded, to make his offering in the Church of St. Andrew."
I need not particularly narrate the events which followed this combat for life or death; how, in a few days after it was fought, the prince was convinced, by evidence which could not be doubted, that the plot in which I was accused of participating had no existence; and how King Edward, on hearing of everything connected with the business, swore that, come what might, justice should be done me, and that speedily. Ere the close of June my adversary had left Bordeaux for England, and so had I. But he returned to his native land to take the habit of a monk in a religious house which his ancestors had endowed; I to assume the name which I had received at the baptismal font, and, as son of Edward, Lord De Ov, to take possession of the castle and baronies in which, since the Norman Conquest, the chiefs of the house of De Ov had maintained feudal state.
CHAPTER LXXV
GLORY AND THE GRAVE
I had been some time in England when the Prince of Wales achieved the last of the great triumphs which enshrined his name in imperishable glory; and Englishmen learned with pride that, on the south of the Ebro, the heir of England had, against great odds, fought a great battle, and won a great victory, to decide the fate of Castille and Leon.
It was some time after I left the city of Bordeaux that a guest, whose appearance created much interest, and excited much curiosity, arrived at the court of Guienne, and, being in extreme perplexity, demanded the aid of the Prince of Wales. Already he was becoming known as Peter the Cruel. A few weeks earlier he had been King of Castille. But his bloodthirstiness and tyranny had disgusted his subjects; and his illegitimate brother, Henry of Trastamare, with the aid of Bertrand du Guesclin and the French, had found it no difficult matter to drive him from a kingdom where his unpopularity was so great. Exile, however, as Don Pedro was, he did not despair; for he knew that the Prince of Wales was at once the most chivalrous and most skilful warrior of the age, and he hoped to persuade the young hero to espouse his cause, to trample Henry of Trastamare and Du Guesclin in the dust, and to re-seat him on the throne from which he had been driven.
It speedily appeared that Don Pedro had rightly calculated his chances. Indeed, the prince, moved by generosity and compassion, became quite enthusiastic in his cause, and eager to aid him to the utmost. Nor was he without the power of so doing; for the country at that time was overrun with the "free companies," ever ready to hire their swords for pay; and Pedro promised, on his word as a king, that, in the event of being restored to his rights, money should be forthcoming to satisfy all demands. Nothing, indeed, could be more magnificent than his promises. It really seemed that every soldier who fought for him was certain to make a fortune, and might indulge in visions of boundless wealth. Not doubting the royal exile's good faith, the prince, after holding many councils, resolved to raise an army and march into Spain as Pedro's champion.
It must be admitted that the enthusiasm of the prince was not shared by all around him; and the Princess of Wales was one of those who entertained grave doubts as to the policy of the expedition. When tidings that the prince had finally decided on marching to restore Pedro was conveyed to her while at her toilette, she expressed herself strongly.
"I grieve to hear," said she, "that my husband has allowed himself to be imposed on by a man so criminal and so cruel."
"Ha!" exclaimed the prince, when her words were reported to him, "I see she wants me to be always at her side; but, by St. George," added he, "say what they may, I am determined to restore Castille to its rightful inheritor."
In fact, the die was cast; and the prince, having assembled an army of thirty thousand men, marched for Spain, and, having crossed the Ebro, came up with the foe between Navarretta and Najara.
Henry of Trastamare and Bertrand du Guesclin were not, however, warriors to yield without a struggle; and, to meet the crisis, they mustered an army of a hundred thousand men, and prepared to encounter the conqueror of Cressy and Poictiers in close conflict. Accordingly, on Saturday, the 3rd of April, 1367, the two armies met at Navarretta, and fought a severe battle. But nothing could withstand the Prince of Wales; and that day he well maintained the character he had won as a war-chief, and gained so complete a victory that, seeing their men scattered in all directions, Henry of Trastamare fled to France, and Bertrand du Guesclin surrendered himself prisoner to Sir John Chandos.
When the news spread over Europe that Don Pedro was restored to his throne by the arms of the heir of England, the French dreaded the prince more than ever; and high was the admiration which the tidings of his exploit created, especially in England, Flanders, and Germany, and even among the Saracens. But, while Christendom was ringing with his name, and sovereigns were bowing at the mention of it, and while the citizens of London were celebrating his victory with solemn shows, and triumphs, and feasts, the Prince of Wales was in melancholy mood. Already he discovered the truth of the words spoken by the princess. He had been grossly deluded by the miscreant whom he had befriended.
Never, indeed, was a champion more ungratefully treated by the man for whom he had conquered. No sooner was Pedro restored to his kingdom by the prince's victory at Navarretta, than he forgot all his promises as to paying the "free companies," and the prince, after waiting for a time in the expectation of justice, in a climate that was proving most injurious to his health, lost all opinion of Pedro's good faith, and, returning to Bordeaux, burdened with debt, endeavoured to raise the money to defray the cost of his expedition by the hearth-tax. Much discontent was the consequence. Indeed, the Gascons declared that they had always been exempt from taxation, and appealed to the King of France as sovereign of Guienne.
By this time John of Valois was dead, and Charles, John's eldest son, occupied the throne of France; and though, by the treaty of Bretigny, the provinces of Guienne and Languedoc had been conveyed in full sovereignty to England, Charles not only responded to the appeal of the Gascons, but resolved on citing the Prince of Wales, as his subject, before the Chamber of Peers.
Accordingly, Charles of Valois despatched a knight and a lawyer to Bordeaux, and, on being admitted to an audience, they proceeded to read the letter with which they had been intrusted, summoning the heir of England to appear without delay at Paris. The prince listened, eyed the Frenchmen, and shook his head.
"Well," said he in reply, "I will willingly attend on the appointed day at Paris; but, by St. George, it will be with my helmet on my head, and with sixty thousand men at my back!"
Much alarmed was Charles of Valois on learning how the Prince of Wales had treated his summons, and how, in spite of his malady, he had put on his armour, mounted his horse, and displayed his banner. But it soon appeared that he was no longer himself—that he was not the Edward of Cressy, or Poictiers, or Navarretta; and when the campaign terminated, and he returned to Bordeaux, such was his languor that the physicians counselled him to repair to England.
Agreeably to the advice of his physicians, the Prince of Wales, with the princess, and their infant son Richard, embarked at Bordeaux, and, having landed at Southampton, took up their residence at Berkhamstead. But the prince, though he recovered sufficiently to take a part in public affairs, never regained his strength; and it was suspected that he had been poisoned in Spain. At length, on Trinity Sunday, 1376, after languishing for years, he expired at the palace of Westminster.
Great was the grief, loud the lamentation, caused by the news that the hero of England had departed this life; and in celebrating his obsequies no ceremony was omitted that could do honour to his memory. Canterbury having been selected as the religious edifice where his bones were to rest, great preparations were made for his burial, and when the appointed time arrived, a stately hearse, drawn by twelve horses, conveyed the corpse from Westminster; and, with great pomp, the remains of him who had been the pride of England and the terror of France were laid in the south side of the cathedral, hard by the shrine of Thomas à Becket.
And so, mourned by the nation to whose grandeur he had so mightily contributed, Edward, Prince of Wales and Duke of Guienne, the flower of English knighthood, passed from glory to the grave, at a time when his father was on the verge of the tomb, and when his own son was scarcely out of the cradle. But it is not within my province to speak now of the dead hero's dying father, or of the prince's ill-fated son. My tale is told. With the death of the conqueror of Cressy and Poictiers ends "The Story of the Black Prince's Page."
PLYMOUTH
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
PRINTERS