CHAPTER XXVIII
NEVILLE'S CROSS
On the morning of that day when the embattled hosts of England and Scotland stood facing each other at the Red Hills, the prior and monks of Durham, occupying a hillock hard by, elevated the corporax cloth of St. Cuthbert in sight of both armies, and, kneeling around, prayed earnestly to their patron saint.
On the spot then occupied by the prior and monks a graceful monument of stone now commemorates a famous battle and a signal victory. It was, in fact, erected by Ralph, Lord Neville, to commemorate the conflict in which I was in part an eye-witness, in part an actor, and wherein were wrought high feats of arms, which I am about to describe, for the encouragement of all valiant hearts, and to show them honourable examples.
About three hours after sunrise the silence which reigned for a brief period was broken by a flourish of trumpets, followed by the shouting of warriors and the clangour of mail. Impatient to prove himself worthy of bearing the name and wearing the crown of Bruce, the young King of Scots ordered his trumpets to sound a charge, and, ere the sound died away, the High Steward, at the head of his battalion, composed wholly of cavalry, and armed with axes and broadswords, advanced upon that part of the English army arrayed under the banner of Lord Percy.
At the same moment the archers in front of Lord Percy's men-at-arms took several steps forward, and a shower of arrows darkened the air. But the effect was not what was expected. Galled by the shafts, and exasperated almost to madness, the High Steward and his cavalry charged forward with shouts of wrath and scorn, drove the archers back upon the men-at-arms, and, plying axe and broadsword with ferocious vigour, succeeded in throwing the whole battalion into such confusion that Lord Percy in vain said, "My merry men, fight on!" and, ere the battle had lasted an hour, victory seemed so decidedly to incline to the Scots, that I, as a looker-on, felt a degree of alarm I should in vain attempt to express in words.
"The saints defend us!" exclaimed D'Eyncourt, who held the queen's rein.
"All will be lost," cried Lord Ogle. "O for one hour of my lord the king!"
"No," said the queen, calm in the great peril, "the field is yet ours. Boy page," turning towards me, "ride fast to the Lord Baliol; tell him to throw his cavalry on the Scottish van, break their ranks, and disperse them; but no pursuit. Away! quick! or he will have to fight, not for victory, but for life."
I bent my head low; I gave my horse the spur, and, without wasting a moment, communicated Philippa's command.
"The queen is right," said Baliol thoughtfully. "Gentlemen," said he to his followers, "let us charge the High Steward, drive back the enemy, but no pursuit. Strike for King Edward and England! On, on! A Baliol! a Baliol!"
And the tall horsemen of the North spurred against the Scots.
The effect was instantaneous. The rush was not to be resisted. Abandoning the advantage he had gained, the High Steward exercised all his skill to make good his retreat, and Baliol, without following, allowed him to go off unmolested. In fact, Baliol's brilliant charge had turned the fortune of the field; and as Lord Moubray and Sir Thomas Rokeby attacked Lord Douglas and the Earl of Moray, Baliol turned his eyes towards the place where the Lords Neville and Hastings were contending, with inferior numbers, against the centre of the Scottish army, led by the king, and composed of the flower of Scottish chivalry, and the French auxiliaries whom Philip of Valois had sent over the sea with malicious intent.
So far, the warriors forming the king's division had borne their part bravely in the battle. But now their plight was perilous in the extreme; for the withdrawal of the High Steward had left them fearfully exposed, and Baliol, with his hereditary and personal antipathy to the house of Bruce revived by the excitement and carnage of the day, wheeling round, charged the main body of the Scots on the flank with such force that French auxiliaries and Scottish chivalry gave way, and the battalion, shaken to its centre, reeled, divided, and broke into confused fragments; while high above the din sounded the war-cries of Neville and Hastings, and over the field rang shouts of "St. George and victory! Strike for King Edward!"
By this time the position of David Bruce was desperate; for the rear of his army, under Lord Douglas and the Earl of Moray, fiercely attacked by Moubray and Rokeby, and confined by hedges and fences, was precluded from escape, and utterly routed. At the time, therefore, that the King of Scots found himself worsted by Baliol, and looked around for aid, the High Steward had disappeared from the field; Douglas was a prisoner; and Moray a corpse.
The royal Scot was perplexed in the extreme. But let me do the unhappy king justice. No craven fear was in the heart of the son of Bruce as, in the hour of despair, he gathered around him the remnants of his host, and made a last struggle with his victorious adversaries. Forming his remaining troops into a circle, he faced his foes with a courage worthy of his birth, and, disdaining the thought of surrender, fought no longer for victory, no longer even for life, but for a death that would admit his name to a place in the roll of heroes.
But the aspirations of the King of Scots after a warrior's grave were not to be gratified. His doom was not to die that day. He was not to escape the fate he had defied.
It was about the hour of noon; and I, having done what in me lay to render complete the triumph of that day, was riding over the field, strewn with corpses and slippery with gore, when, on reaching Merrington, my attention was attracted to a spot where around a warrior on horseback, fighting desperately against a multitude, a conflict still raged. It was the King of Scots making his last futile efforts to avoid captivity.
Already he had been wounded in two places; his sword had been beaten from his hand, when an arrow brought him to the ground. As he regained his feet, Copeland, who was on the watch, sprang from his charger.
"Yield, sir king – rescue or no rescue," said the Northumbrian.
"Never," answered the royal Scot; "I will rather die than surrender."
"Nay," urged Copeland, "you have done all that a brave man could."
"Varlet!" exclaimed the king, turning fiercely upon Copeland, "it is not for such as you to judge what a king ought to do in the hour of despair."
And, as he spoke, he raised his gauntleted hand, and struck the Northumbrian in the mouth with such force that two of a set of teeth which were none of the most fragile were broken by the blow.
"Now, by St. John of Beverley!" cried Copeland, "were you the foremost king in Christendom, I should not longer brook delay to indulge your humour."
And throwing himself upon the royal Scot, the Northumbrian grasped his vanquished foe with a hand of iron.
"Now yield," said he sternly.
"I do yield, since with me it may not better be," answered the king; "but I swear to you, by my father's soul, that I would rather die by your hand."
"Tush, sir king," said Copeland compassionately; "you will think otherwise on the morrow. Life has its sweets."
"Not with hope and liberty gone," said the royal prisoner. "But conduct me to your queen."
"Sire," said Copeland, "you are my prisoner as much as if I were prince or peer, and I will conduct you where I think proper, and to no other place, save at the command of King Edward, my lord."
Copeland now summoned his men, and, having mounted the Scottish king on one horse, was about to spring on another when I accosted him.
"Whither," asked I, "are you carrying your captive?"
"Boy," answered Copeland significantly, "I believe that is a secret your tongue will be all the less likely to tell if not committed to your ears. Adieu!"
"But what will the queen say?"
"I know not; but this I do know, that I will answer for his safe keeping to my lord, King Edward, and to no other person, man or woman."
CHAPTER XXIX
ROYALTY IN A RAGE
Great, as may be supposed, was the anxiety, and great was the consternation, which pervaded the town of Durham, and extended along the banks of the winding Wear, on that day when the battle of "Neville's Cross" was fought at the Red Hills.
From the hour at which Philippa mounted her white palfrey, and rode towards the Park of Auckland, monks, and merchants, and women were equally agitated. The monks who had not accompanied the prior to kneel around the corporax cloth of St. Cuthbert ascended the highest towers of the cathedral, and, with eyes strained towards the embattled hosts, sang hymns, and prayed earnestly that the patrimony of their patron saint might be saved; merchants crowded the house-tops, or paraded the streets, and excitedly lamented the danger to which their families, and booths, and wares were exposed; and women wrung their hands, and bewailed their prospective fate if the town was sacked, and they themselves delivered over to the mercy of foes who, at other places, had proved that they knew nothing of mercy – perhaps not even the name.
It was an awful crisis, as every one felt; and not even the oldest inhabitant could remember such a display of anxiety and dread in a town which was supposed to be guarded by a patron saint of marvellous potency.
At length the danger passed; and when it became known that the conflict, maintained for hours with fury, had terminated in the rout of the invading host, the joy and thankfulness were not less conspicuous than the dismay and consternation had been. Shouts of triumph were on every tongue; and everybody was eager to express gratitude to Heaven for deliverance from those evils that fall to the lot of the vanquished. Nor was any time lost in giving formal expression to the sentiments which filled all hearts. When I, after the memorable scene in which John Copeland enacted so prominent a part, rode into the town, I found that the Lords Neville and Percy and the other war-chiefs – with the exception of Ralph, Lord Hastings, slain on the field – had attended the queen and the prelates to the cathedral, and were, in that sacred edifice, rendering thanks to God and St. Cuthbert for the great victory that had been vouchsafed to their arms.
The religious ceremony having been performed with an earnestness which the circumstances were eminently calculated to inspire, Philippa and the Lords of the North returned in procession to the castle. While there endeavouring to estimate the extent of their victory, and while ascertaining the number and rank of the prisoners, many and grave were the inquiries made by the queen and her captains as to the fate of the King of Scots.
Now it happened that I was the only person capable of affording information on this very important subject; and, albeit not without apprehensions that the consequences of carrying off such a captive with so little ceremony might prove somewhat awkward to Copeland, I felt and deemed it a duty to speak the truth plainly. Having, therefore, intimated that I could throw light on the point as to which so much curiosity was manifested, I was conducted to the hall in which the council was held, and, approaching the queen, bent my knee, not, as I flattered myself, without some of the grace which I had often marked and admired in the castle of Windsor.
"Rise, page," said Philippa gravely, "and, whatever you have to say, say briefly."
"Madam," began I simply, "what I saw with my own eyes that only I wish to relate."
"Proceed."
"Having followed the chase as far as the rising ground which, I since learn, goes by the name of Merrington, I there came upon a party who were preventing the King of Scots from making his escape; and there I myself saw the said king surrender to John Copeland, whom I know to be an esquire of Northumberland, and I believe a stout and valiant man in war."
"His name is not unknown to me," said the queen. "But wherefore conducts he not the captive to our presence?"
"Gracious lady," replied I, much confused, "it irks me to say aught ungrateful to your ears; but since it would ill become me to conceal the truth, I am under the necessity of adding that I saw John Copeland not only take the King of Scots prisoner, but ride off with him from Merrington."
"And whither?"
"Madam, I know not," replied I, driven to desperation; "and albeit it would ill beseem me to answer for another, nevertheless, I cannot but deem that this squire means naught disloyal; for, on putting the question, he only answered that he would keep his captive safe, and account for him to our lord the king."
Not before could I have believed Philippa capable of so much wrath as she displayed on hearing this. Never, in truth, had the eye of living man seen the excellent queen in such a rage. All the fire of her ancestors seemed to burn within her at that moment; and, though she did not stamp her foot, or clench her hand, or express her indignation in loud exclamations, her bent brow and flashing eye sufficiently attested the ire which Copeland's conduct had kindled in a bosom seldom agitated with angry emotions. Recovering, in some degree, her serenity, but with her countenance still flushed with offended pride, she turned towards the lords, and, looking round the circle – which did not fail to sympathise with what she regarded as an insult to her dignity as the Queen of England, and the heroine of the day – she seemed to appeal to them for aid to vindicate her privileges.
"Madam," said Lord Percy, in reply to her look, "have patience for a brief space, and this matter shall be set to rights."
"Yes," added Lord Neville, "Copeland is rude and headstrong; but he is a right loyal squire, who, in his day, hath done England good service, and cannot but mean well."
"May it so prove, my lords," said the queen recovering her equanimity; "I will exercise what patience I can. Meantime, be it yours to take measures for ascertaining whither he has carried the King of Scots; and I will, with my own hand, write a letter commanding him to bring the King of Scots to me at York, and telling him that he will disobey me at his peril – for he has not done what is agreeable to me in carrying off his prisoner without leave, and that he will have to explain his conduct fully ere he can hope for my pardon."
"Madam," replied Lord Percy, "what you command shall be done without loss of time; and I much mistake my merry men if, used as they are to track foes, they put your grace's patience to a long test."
"And," added Lord Neville earnestly, "I entreat your grace to suspend judgment as to Copeland's conduct, for well I know him to be leal and true, and could even take upon myself to be his warranty for explaining everything to your satisfaction."
With this the conference came to a close; and the lords moved off to celebrate their victory, and make preparations for disbanding the army that had saved England in the day of need. At a later hour I was summoned to the queen's presence, and went, not without a feeling of alarm that I might, in some measure, be involved in Copeland's disgrace. I soon found, however, that my alarm was groundless, and that I was not to be punished for the rash imprudence of another.
"Page," said Philippa as I entered, "I have sent for you to say that I hold you have done good service in informing me of the outrage of which this Northern squire has been guilty; and I doubt not but that my lord the king will so account it. Nay, answer not, but listen. At daybreak, Sir John Neville, son of the lord of that name, sets forth to journey to Calais, to carry thither news of the victory which has this day been sent us by God and St. George. It is but right that my lord the king should have all information as to the manner in which a royal prisoner was taken and lawlessly carried off. Be ready, therefore, to join Sir John Neville's train and accompany him when he takes the road."
With the best grace I could, I expressed my deep sense of the honour which the queen was pleased to confer upon me; and next morning, about cock-crow, I was riding out of Durham with Neville and his men, and, in their company, taking the way south to embark at Dover for the stronghold before the walls of which lay, in hostile array, the gallant prince whom I had the distinction of serving and the brave warriors at whose side I had fought at Cressy.
It was true that, in thus leaving England, I was deprived of the opportunity of visiting my grandsire's homestead, and this somewhat damped the joy which I felt at the prospect of figuring once more in the prince's train. But I was young, and too sanguine to dwell long on a subject which was rather suggestive of melancholy reflections.
"What matters it," soliloquised I, as I rode along, "whether I appear there now or hereafter? Mayhap the delay is favourable; and when the time does come, I may have won some more significant symbol of renown in arms than aught that decks a page's livery to gladden the heart of my stout grandsire, and to cheer, if but for a moment, the heart of my sad, sad mother."
Little, as I thus mused, did I foresee the awfully painful circumstances under which I was destined next to approach the homely grange, and set foot in the humble hall whose roof had sheltered my childhood.
CHAPTER XXX
AT CALAIS
I must now ask the reader to waft himself in imagination from Durham to Calais – to suppose that Sir John Neville and Arthur Winram have taken shipping at Dover, and landed near the camp of the besiegers – and that, while the knight has, without the loss of a moment, proceeded to the tent of the king, the page has repaired to that of the prince, to account for his prolonged absence from duty, and to tell of the wondrous things which, in the interval, he has seen and done.
At the door of the pavilion, over which floated the young hero's standard, I encountered Sir Thomas Norwich, who eyed me with a start of surprise.
"What, page!" exclaimed he; "where, in the name of all the saints, have you been?"
"It is a long story."
"Ah! I see. You have been indulging in some more such mysterious adventures as you had at Caen."
"Yes, sir knight," replied I, shaking my head wisely, "such adventures, and so many, that I would fain, with your permission, see my lord the prince to recount them for his diversion."
"A murrain upon you, boy!" exclaimed Sir Thomas, frowning. "Deem you that my lord has so little to think of, that he can find time to listen to your talk about trifles?"
"Lead me to my lord's presence," said I, in a conclusive tone, "and I will stake my head on my intelligence proving of moment enough to secure me an audience."
The air of mystery which I assumed was not lost on the good knight; in fact, I believe his curiosity was highly excited. In any case, without more ado, he drew aside the curtain of the pavilion, and I speedily found myself in the presence of the heir of England.
At that time the Prince of Wales, who was buoyant with all the enthusiasm of youth, and dreaming constantly of the feats of arms performed in other days by paladins and heroes of romance, and not without an ardent ambition to emulate their achievements, was somewhat weary of the inaction of a siege which, being slowly and cautiously conducted, furnished no opportunity of performing the daring deeds in which his soul delighted. Naturally, therefore, anything that gave novelty to the scene was acceptable. As I entered, he was listening to Sir William Pakington, his secretary, who, for his amusement, read aloud from the book called "Tristrem"; and the glance of surprise which his countenance wore as he turned towards me was accompanied with an expression which seemed to intimate that I was welcome.
"Wonder upon wonders!" exclaimed he; "can this be my page Winram – Arthur Winram?"
"The same, my lord, and at your highness's command."
"Methought you had fallen in the battle," said the prince, smiling; "or beshrew me if, at one time, I did not fancy that, like your famous namesake, King Arthur, you had been carried away to Elfland by the faëry queen."
"No, my lord; Elfland may, for aught I know, be a pleasant abode for such as have the fortune to get there; but I have not been beyond the haunts of living men."
I then rapidly related the adventures of which I had been the hero from the time at which the young Count of Flanders had been rescued from my grasp by Philip of Valois, while flying from Cressy, to the hour when the King of Scots had been taken prisoner by John Copeland, while flying from Neville's Cross. The prince listened with attention, now and then putting a question to make me explain events more fully; and when my narrative came to an end, he rose, and for a few moments paced the floor of the pavilion in a reflecting mood.
"By good St. George!" exclaimed he, stopping suddenly, "this news of the defeat of the Scots comes in good time to scare the blood out of Philip's body, and to encourage my lord the king to take this place by storm before the winter sets in. It seems," continued he, "that when this Scottish invasion was bruited about, his holiness the Pope remarked that 'the Scots were the only antidote to the English.' I marvel what he will say now. Two such victories against such odds, and in so many months!" he added, "surely neither history nor song tells of a nation so highly favoured in hours of peril."
"Not that I wot of, my lord," replied I, whose information on the subject was not by any means so extensive as to entitle me to speak with anything like authority.
"Nevertheless," said the prince earnestly, "would to God that you had taken young Louis of Flanders prisoner! There is no prince or lord in Christendom whom my lord the king more eagerly desires to bring over to the English interest; and the exploit would have made your fortune."
"My lord, I did my best," answered I calmly; "and, so long as we fought single-handed, I did not despair. But when so many adversaries appeared, I deemed that I was wise in saving my own life at the expense of a little rough handling to a man of his rank."
The prince laughed gaily, and was about to speak, when, at that moment, the curtain was drawn, and Lord De Ov entered. As he did so, we exchanged glances of mutual defiance; and my hand insensibly stole to the handle of my dagger.
"My lord, pardon my interrupting your conversation," said he, bowing to the prince; "and you, Master Winram, if that be your name," continued he, scowling on me, "you are commanded to repair to the king's tent, and report yourself to the page in waiting; and mayhap," continued he maliciously, as we issued from the pavilion, "you will be able to explain how it came to pass, when strict orders were issued before Cressy that no man should leave the ranks in pursuit, that you alone disobeyed the order."
"My lord," replied I haughtily, "I am prepared to explain all that to the king or the Prince of Wales, if I am questioned; but to you, or such as you, I cannot hold myself in any way responsible."
"Varlet!" cried he, boiling with rage, "but that you are on your way to the king, I should chastise your insolence on the spot."
"Be patient, my lord," replied I, repressing my rising wrath with a stern effort, "and the day will come when you will have no such excuse. Ay – mark me! – the day will surely come."
As I spoke, we parted; and while he stood gazing on me with a face in which antipathy, to the strongest degree, was expressed in the bitterest manner, I pursued my way with an air of calm defiance.