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."