CHAPTER XXXI
THE LUCK OF JOHN COPELAND
It was not merely to the king and the Prince of Wales, and the nobles and knights of England, that the news of Queen Philippa's victory was a subject of high interest. Every squire, page, and groom, heard the glad tidings with delight; and as rumour carried through the English camp intelligence so flattering to the pride of Englishmen, there arose one long shout of joy and rejoicing. For my own part, I had to tell the story hundreds of times, and, for twenty-four hours at least, found myself a person of no slight consequence.
I know not what the Calesians thought of the excitement among the besiegers; but the cheers that everywhere rose loud and high might have intimated to them that the English had received news that boded little good to the beleaguered town. Nevertheless, they held out resolutely; and, in spite of the prince's prediction, King Edward evinced no inclination whatever to storm the place.
"No," said the king in a conclusive tone; "I now feel more secure than ever of my prize. It is true that Philip of Valois may come to relieve the place; and, truth to tell, I desire not mine adversary's presence. But, if come he does, it shall be at his peril."
However, Philip of Valois made no sign of moving to the rescue of his friends. In fact, it seemed that the ill-fated prince had played his last card when he urged the King of Scots to invade England; and the disastrous issue of the enterprise had ruined his projects.
In such circumstances, it appeared that, if distress did not force the Calesians to surrender their stronghold, the English army might remain all the winter before the walls without any change in the aspect of affairs. Such being the case, the pledge I had given not to draw my sword for a year and a day became less irksome; and I was gradually reconciling my mind to the condition on which I had recovered my liberty, when, towards the coast in the neighbourhood of Calais, the wind blew a ship on board of which was no less important a personage than John Copeland, the captor of David Bruce.
And here I must pause to relate how the Northumbrian squire, after possessing himself of the King of Scots, at the cost of two of his front teeth, at Merrington, and mounted him on horseback, fared with his royal captive; and how his sagacity enabled him, without losing hold of his prisoner, to evade the consequences of having aroused Queen Philippa's wrath to the highest pitch.
No sooner had Sir John Neville reached the camp before Calais, and presented Philippa's epistle to her royal husband, than, as I have already intimated, I was interrupted in my colloquy with the prince, and by Lord De Ov hastily and not very courteously summoned to the royal presence, and closely interrogated as to the circumstances under which the King of the Scots was taken prisoner and carried northward. I told my story without concealment or exaggeration, and was gratified to perceive that King Edward, albeit blaming Copeland for having been rash, gave him credit for having acted with honourable intentions.
But, unhappily, the aspect of the affair did not improve with time. In fact, Copeland seemed bent on ruining himself by carrying his enterprise too far.
It appeared, on inquiry, that, after capturing David Bruce, Copeland hurried him away towards the castle of Ogle, on the river Blythe, and, after reaching that fortress, placed him under a guard so strong as to preclude the probability of escape or rescue. So far the matter was not so awkward. But when a knight, despatched by the queen, presented a letter, in which he was commanded to give up his captive, he answered in defiant terms.
"The King of Scots," said he to the knight, "is my prisoner, and I will neither give him up to man nor woman, except to my own lord, the King of England. But," added he, "you may depend on my taking proper care of him, and I will be answerable for guarding him well."
Naturally such a message exasperated Philippa beyond measure; and, in high wrath, she wrote to King Edward, complaining that Copeland had acted so outrageously, and set her commands so utterly at defiance, that she could not brook his insolence.
The king was somewhat perplexed. Sympathising, in a slight degree, with the queen's indignation, but reluctant to act severely towards Copeland, he perhaps felt some hesitation as to what he should do. It was necessary, however, to decide without delay; and the king deemed it most prudent to send orders to Copeland to repair forthwith to Calais. The squire hastened to obey; and, having left David Bruce vigilantly guarded in his castle of Ogle, ere long presented himself at Calais, and, having desired to be conducted to the king, soon found himself face to face with the husband of the royal lady whose resentment he had provoked.
It was a memorable moment when Copeland and the king met, and for an instant the squire's brave heart must have beat quick as he looked on his sovereign's countenance; but Edward's manner was sufficiently gracious to assure him that he had lost but little favour, and that he was not likely to meet with strong reproof.
"Ah, welcome!" exclaimed the king; "welcome, my brave squire, who, by his valour, has captured my adversary, the King of Scots!"
At this point, Copeland, perceiving how the interview would probably terminate, fell on his knees.
"My lord," said he gravely, "if God, in His great kindness, has given me the King of Scots as a prisoner – having permitted me to conquer him in arms – no one ought to be jealous of it, for God can, when He pleases, send His grace to a poor squire as well as to a great lord."
"Go on, John," said the king in a tone of encouragement; "I listen."
"Well, my lord," continued the squire more boldly, "do not take it amiss if I did not surrender the King of Scots to the orders of my lady the queen; for I hold my lands of you, and my oath is to you, not to her, except it be through choice."
"Rise, John," said the king, after musing for a moment, "and assure yourself that the loyal service you have done us, and our esteem for your valour, are so great as to serve for an excuse, were any needed; and shame fall upon those who bear you an ill-will. However, you will now return home, and take your prisoner, the King of the Scots, and convey him to my wife."
"Right willingly, my lord," replied Copeland, who saw that everything would end as he wished.
"And, by way of remuneration," added the king, coming to the point, "I assign lands, as near your house as you can choose them, to the value of five hundred pounds sterling a-year, for you and your heirs, and I nominate you a squire of my body and household."
"My lord, how can I express my thanks for your favours?" cried the squire in ecstasies.
"As for that," said Edward, "seeing that you are a brave warrior, I ask you to furnish twenty men-at-arms; and, on that condition, I grant you a pension of a hundred pounds yearly, to be paid out of the customs of Berwick."
It was on the third day after his arrival at the camp before Calais, and when he was about to embark to return to England, that Copeland sought me out to say "Farewell."
"Well, sir squire," said I, laughing, "it seems that, after great hazard, you have managed everything to your heart's content."
"Assuredly," replied he. "I ever predicted that such would be the issue; and now nothing remains to be done in the business but to return home, assemble my friends and neighbours, and convey the captive king to York, with some such excuse to my lady the queen as will soothe her woman's pride."
"So far," observed I, "you certainly have had luck on your side."
"Ay, boy," said he, smiling grimly, "you now see I understand better than you how to get fame and fortune."
"God's truth!" exclaimed I, "after what has passed I should be a dolt to dispute it. But all men have their peculiar gifts; and I opine that it is only a man born and bred in the north who could have planned such an achievement, and carried it out so shrewdly."
"Well spoken, my brave youth," said Copeland; "and I believe you likewise have gifts that might make a man of you, if you went the right way about it; but trust me that all your fine dreams of chivalry and ambition to perform fine feats of arms will not easily get you five hundred a-year in land, and a pension of a hundred a-year out of the customs of Berwick."
"Perhaps, not; but my dreams, as you call them, may result in something better – in my name being recorded by chroniclers, and celebrated by minstrels."
The Northumbrian squire laughed loud at what he deemed my fantastic notions, and laid his hand on my arm.
"Hark ye, boy," said he, looking in my face. "I know something of mankind, and I venture to predict of you, that – young and foolish as you are – you will live and learn how to climb the tree, so as ever, when you fall, to fall as a cat does – that is, on your feet; so that I have faith in your future."
"Many thanks for your compliment," said I, half scornfully.
"But listen," continued Copeland kindly. "When this siege is over, and you tire of idling at Windsor or Eltham, and sigh for strife and real warfare, come north to my castle on the Blythe; and, if you meet not with dainty chivalry, you will meet with a hearty welcome, and enemies who will give you work to do, when we mount our steeds, and ride forth together to couch our spears against the Scot."
"Many thanks for your courtesy," replied I, as he shook my hand ere parting; "and, if I avail myself of your offer, I trust you will not fail to put me in the way of making my fortune by capturing a king."
CHAPTER XXXII
ARRIVALS
About three days before the Feast of All Saints there was much commotion in the camp before Calais. Everything wore a gayer aspect than on ordinary occasions, and an unwonted degree of excitement lighted up the grim faces of the English soldiery. In fact, there had just taken place an important arrival in the person of Queen Philippa; and, even had she come alone, the heroine of Neville's Cross would have been received with enthusiasm. But she was not unaccompanied when she came to Calais; for with her came a great number of ladies, who gladly left England and their homes to see their fathers, husbands, brothers, and kinsmen who were engaged in the siege.
It appears that, so far as the King of Scots was concerned, everything had ultimately been settled to Philippa's satisfaction. On reaching England, Copeland, as he had intended, assembled his friends and neighbours, conducted David Bruce to York, and there, in the king's name, presented his royal captive to the queen with such handsome excuses, that she expressed herself quite satisfied. Nor, after having settled that matter, did Philippa linger in the North. Having provided for the defence of York, Durham, and other towns in the province beyond the Humber, she immediately set out for London, carrying the royal Scot in her train.
Arrived in the capital of England, the King of Scots was, with much ceremony, conducted to the Tower. Twenty thousand soldiers escorted the prisoner; the companies of the city, in their appropriate dresses, took part in the procession; and David Bruce – riding a tall black horse, that he might be seen of all men – slowly passed through London, and disappeared from the crowd within the gate of the great metropolitan fortress.
Measures having been taken to render the prison absolutely secure, and to preclude everything like a possibility of escape, Philippa left London for Dover; and, embarking with a favourable wind, she soon reached Calais. On the arrival of the queen, King Edward held a grand court and ordered magnificent entertainments for the ladies who had come with his royal spouse.
Naturally, the court and the entertainments caused much talk, raised much curiosity, and excited much interest in the camp. But they were not the only subjects of conversation which Philippa's arrival furnished. From England with the queen came her eldest daughter, Isabel, then a girl of fifteen, and fair to look upon; and everybody whispered that she was destined as the bride of the Count of Flanders. At all events, it was known that the Flemings were most anxious that their young count should espouse the English princess; and it was believed that the King and Queen of England were, for many reasons, as eager as the Flemings that the match should take place.
At that time I may mention that the Count of Flanders was still at the court of Philip of Valois, brooding over the death of his father, and dreaming of vengeance. The Flemings, however, were not daunted by this circumstance, which certainly did not favour this project. To the French court they sent such messages as they believed would lure their prince home.
"If," said they, "you will return to Flanders, and follow our advice, we will make a great man of you."
The young count listened, reflected, yielded, and returned to the dominions over which his father had exercised sovereign sway.
At first everything went smoothly enough. The chief towns of Flanders made much of their count, and laid such rich presents at his feet that his eyes were dazzled, and so far all was well. But on one point they were determined – namely, that they – and not he – should select his bride, and that the bride should be none other than the English princess who was now, with her mother, in the camp before Calais.
Unfortunately, as it happened, the Count of Flanders had two strong objections to the matrimonial union which his subjects were so anxious to bring about. In the first place, he wished to marry a daughter of the Duke of Brabant; and, in the second place, he was utterly averse to marry Isabel of England.
"I will never," said he, almost in tears – "I will never marry a daughter of the man whom I hold responsible for my father's death."
"But," said the Flemings, "this English alliance will best enable us to resist the oppressions of the French, and our connexion with England is much more profitable than could be a connexion with any other country."
Nevertheless, the Count of Flanders remained obdurate; and the Flemings, equally stubborn in their way, not only adhered to their purpose, but gave their hereditary ruler to understand that he was neither more nor less than a prisoner – nay, more, they intimated that he was likely so to continue until he listened to reason, and consented to be guided by them.
"You will never," said they, "have your liberty, unless you take our advice; and if your father had taken our advice he might have been one of the greatest princes of Christendom, instead of being – what he became – a vassal of France."
Naturally, the count found his position extremely perplexing, and his captivity wearisome, and, under the influence of continual importunities on the part of the Flemings, his resolution began to give way.
"Well," said he, one day, "I begin to think you are in the right, and that the advantages to be gained from an alliance with England are very great."
Gratified to hear the count express himself in such language, the Flemings relaxed his bonds, gave him a little more liberty, and allowed him to recreate himself with field sports, especially that of hawking, which was his favourite pastime. But he felt that he was still a prisoner. Whenever he rode out to fly his hawk, he found himself vigilantly guarded; and, ere long, to relieve himself from a predicament which daily became more awkward, he consented to do all that the Flemings required of him, and, with the best grace he could assume, intimated his willingness to espouse the English princess, whose name he disliked, and whose face he had never seen.
And now, for a time, matters went on as favourably as the Flemings could have desired, and ambassadors were sent to Calais to inform the King and Queen of England that the count was ready to espouse the princess. Edward and Philippa were delighted beyond measure with the intelligence, and did not conceal their satisfaction.
"What good sort of people the Flemings are!" exclaimed they gratefully.
Meanwhile, the Earl of Northampton and the Earl of Arundel, having been sent into Flanders, made all arrangements in the most skilful manner. In vain the Duke of Brabant threw obstacles in the way, invoked the interference of Philip of Valois, and did everything in his power to put a stop to these negociations. The Flemings were neither to be coaxed nor coerced from following their project; and at length it was agreed that a conference should take place between the King and Queen of England and the Count of Flanders, attended by the chief men of the country. Bergues St. Vinox was fixed upon as the place of meeting, and thither from Calais went the king and queen with a brilliant train and in great state, to take their prospective son-in-law by the hand.
On reaching the place appointed for their conference, the King and Queen of England found the Count of Flanders, who, with the leading men of the chief towns, had come with great pomp to bring the business to a conclusion. Courteous salutations having passed, King Edward took the count aside, and spoke to the boy of the death of his father at Cressy.
"As God shall help me," said the king solemnly, "I never heard, on the day of the battle, that the Count of Flanders was among my foes, nor on the morrow that he had been there."
With this assurance the young count appeared satisfied, and the subject of the marriage was, without delay, introduced. No dispute arose; and, certain articles having been agreed on and sworn to, the Count of Flanders was formally betrothed to Isabel of England, and engaged to espouse her at an early date. The day, indeed, was put off till King Edward should have more leisure. But the king and the count separated apparently in high good-humour with each other, and no doubt was entertained that, at an early period, the marriage would be celebrated with a pomp and splendour becoming the rank of the parties.
It was while the king and queen were absent at this conference, that I, lounging listlessly about the camp, met Sir Thomas Norwich, with whom I had recently become as friendly and familiar as our different ages and ranks would admit of our being. Many a time the good knight had spoken jocularly of my encounter with the Count of Flanders, and now he resumed the subject, which, at the moment, was by no means the most agreeable in the world.
"Boy Winram," said he, "you have been so far lucky in your career; but I fear me you will fall into the background, now that this count is coming to wed the king's daughter."
"By my hallidame!" replied I, "such is the thought that haunts me. But change of fortune seems to be the lot of human beings all over the world; and Fortune, who so frequently turns her wheel against princes and men of high rank, also condescends at times to play her tricks with those of lower degree. So I submit. But of one thing, sir knight, connected with this affair, I feel fully assured."
"What?"
"That Louis of Flanders has a French heart, and that he will never take the hand of an English bride with hearty good-will."
"Dangerous words, which you had better not repeat," said Sir Thomas, looking cautiously round.
"Mayhap they are dangerous words," replied I; "but look to the end, and you may see them come true."
CHAPTER XXXIII
NO ROAD
Autumn deepened into winter, and winter was succeeded by spring; and spring ripened and mellowed into summer, with its long, bright, merry days: and every month rumour brought to the camp of the English before Calais tidings that Philip of Valois was coming with a mighty army to relieve the beleaguered town. But month followed month, and season succeeded to season, and still Philip failed to make his appearance; and the warriors of England, growing somewhat vain-glorious, exclaimed with sneers that "hawks come not where eagles hold eyrie;" and the Calesians, on the verge of famine, well-nigh gave way to despair, when suddenly, on a summer day, news reached the camp that the foe, so long looked for, was at last coming, with princes, dukes, and counts, and an overwhelming force at his back, to save Calais and avenge Cressy.
It was a little before Whitsuntide, when Philip of Valois, having summoned all the knights and squires of France to assemble at Amiens, repaired to that city with his sons, the Dukes of Normandy and Orleans, held a grand council of war, and, after much deliberation, resolved to march to the relief of Calais. But, with some vague idea of the difficulties to be encountered – for all his ideas of war were vague – he sent ambassadors to Flanders, and asked for part of his army a free passage through the Flemish territory, his object being to send troops by way of Gravelines, that they might reach Calais on that side, fight with the English and reinforce the garrison. But the Flemings, not to be tempted from their fidelity to the King of England, decidedly refused to comply with the request; and Philip, baffled as to this part of his project, determined to push forward his enterprise by advancing towards Boulogne.
At Arras, however, he took up his quarters for a short time to gather in the forces which were hastening to his standard; and from Arras he advanced slowly to Hesdin, his army and baggage extending over three miles of country. Resting at Hesdin for a day, he moved forward to Blangy, and, having again halted at that place to mature his plans, he threw off hesitation, passed through the country of Faukenberg, and leading his men straight to Sangate, posted them on the hills, between Calais and Wissant.
It will readily be imagined that, at this time, the excitement in the camp of the English was high. Impressive, moreover, was the spectacle which the army of Philip presented to those who rode out to watch their movements. Night had fallen when the French took up their ground, and I can bear witness that it was a beautiful sight to see their banners waving and their arms glistening in the moonlight.
"A most noble army, my lord," remarked Sir Thomas Norwich to the Prince of Wales, with whom and a body of riders he had come to view the approach of the foe.
"A most noble army on my faith!" replied the prince, with admiration. "But," added he, after a pause, "it can avail Calais naught. The position of my lord the king is too strong to be attacked with advantage by mortal man, and Philip of Valois must either retire without striking a blow, or prove himself mad by rushing on destruction, and leading his followers like sheep to the slaughter."
Nor, in speaking in a tone so confident, was the prince guilty of aught like presumption. Nothing, in truth, which skill, and prudence, and labour could do to render the English army absolutely secure, had been left undone by the English king. At the commencement of the siege there were two roads by which the French might have approached Calais. One of these was by the downs along the sea-shore, and the other by the bridge of Nieullet, which afforded a passage over the marshes and ditches further up the country. But neither one nor the other had been neglected. Along the shore Edward posted his fleet, with archers, and artillery, and bombards, the noise of which frightened the enemy; and at the bridge of Nieullet he posted his cousin, the Earl of Derby, with such a force of archers and men-at-arms as were likely to keep it against all comers.
Not wholly informed as to the position of the English or perhaps, when at a distance, contemptuous of their power, Philip of Valois, while encamped at Sangate, sent his marshals to examine the country, and ascertain the most favourable passage towards the foes whom he came to crush; but they returned, with dismay in their faces, to inform him that no attempt could be made without the certainty of an infinite loss of men.
"But," cried Philip, after hearing them, "why not cross the marshes between Sangate and the sea?"
"Because, sire," answered the marshals firmly, "the marshes are known to be impassable, and the idea is not seriously to be entertained."
"Well," exclaimed Philip angrily, "by St. Denis! it seems that I cannot get to my adversary the King of England, but that is no reason why he should not come to me."
And, after pondering for a day and a night, he commanded four of his lords, one of whom was Eustace de Ribeaumont, to go to King Edward and challenge him to leave his camp, and fight on the hill of Sangate.
According to their instructions, the four lords mounted their steeds, passed the bridge of Nieullet, and, on reaching the English camp, found the king surrounded by his barons and knights. Dismounting, they approached, with many reverences, and stood before the king.
"Gentlemen," said Edward, smiling, "ye are welcome. Pray tell me what is your errand, for I would fain know at once."
"Sire," said Eustace de Ribeaumont, speaking for all, "the King of France informs you, through us, that he is come to the hill of Sangate in order to give you battle, but he cannot find any means of approaching you."
Edward looked round on his barons and knights, and, as he did so, he smiled complacently.
"Therefore," continued Ribeaumont, "the King of France wishes you to assemble your council, and he will send some of his, that they may confer together, and fix on some spot where a general combat may take place."
"Gentlemen," said Edward dryly, "I have already taken counsel with my barons and knights, and my answer to the demand of Philip of Valois is brief. I perfectly understand the request made, through you, by my adversary, who wrongfully keeps possession of my inheritance, which, be it known to you, weighs much upon me. You will, therefore, tell him from me, if you please, that I have been on this spot near a twelvemonth. Of this, I am assured, he was well informed; and, had he chosen, he might have come here sooner. But, God's truth! he has allowed me to remain so long that I have expended large sums of money, and have done so much that I must be master of Calais in a very short time. I am not, therefore, inclined in the smallest degree to comply with his caprices, or to gratify his convenience, or to abandon what I have gained, or what I have been so anxious to conquer. If neither he nor his army can pass by the downs nor by the bridge, he must seek out some other road. I am not bound to find him a way."
The French lords bowed low on receiving King Edward's answer, and, having mounted their horses, were courteously escorted to the bridge of Nieullet, and sent on to their own camp. On reaching Sangate they related to Philip of Valois the result of their mission, and gave such an account of the formidable preparations made to oppose them, that the bold countenance of the Valois fell.
"By heavens!" exclaimed he, gesticulating violently, "this passes all patience; but, one day, I will make mine adversaries dearly rue all they are doing."
Having uttered his threat, which the unhappy man was not destined to execute, Philip acknowledged the impossibility of any successful attempt to raise the siege of Calais, and forced himself to the determination of abandoning the enterprise which had created so much stir throughout France. Breaking up his camp, he marched, much crestfallen, from Sangate, and away in the direction of Amiens, there to disband his army. But the English were not inclined to let him off so easily. Attacking the rear of the retreating force, they wrought the French much mischief, and brought off prisoners, horses, and waggons full of wine and other provisions.
Meanwhile, the Calesians were in the last stages of distress, and when they saw Philip depart, leaving them to their fate, they uttered a long wail, expressive of horror and grief. It was, indeed, abundantly evident that all hope of succour had vanished, and, at the instance of the despairing inhabitants, John de Vienne, governor of the town, mounted the walls, and, displaying a flag, made a signal that he demanded a parley.
"Now," said King Edward joyfully, "the fruit is at length ripe, and the wind is about to do its work."
And he ordered Sir Walter Manny to hold a parley with the French governor.