[Illustration: “ON, FOR THE LOVE OF THE DAUGHTER OF HOLLAND, DEATH TO
THOSE THAT DENY HER.”—_Page 87._]
“Fear not, lady, I be a lad this day”; and then placing her spurred foot
on the knee of her page, she mounted easily into her saddle. Once on the
back of her war-horse, her courage rose higher still, and seizing her
pennon in her hand, she drove her horse onward, shouting in her sweet
young voice,—
“On, for the love of the Daughter of Holland, and death to those that
deny her!”
Across the low bare fields and through the scrubby woods rode the small
army, which numbered barely a couple of thousand men. When the sun stood
high in the heavens and showed the hour of noon, though the wind was
keen and little comfort was to be had, they rested, for the sake of the
horses as well as the men.
Whilst they stopped thus, and with fires and food sought to take such
ease as they could command, a band of picked men, less than a score,
rode forward to gain what news they might of the enemy. Soon they could
be seen spurring quickly back, and they brought the welcome news that
“John the Pitiless” was encamped just without the town of Grocum, that
the men were scattered about as if preparing to halt for the remainder
of the day, and that they had learned from some faithful adherents of
the Princess Jacqueline’s, that her uncle had been able to muster scarce
five hundred men more than were in her own little army.
At this news all sprung to their saddles, since the brief winter’s day
was all too short for that which they had to do, and Jacqueline with
helmet on head and sword in hand, rode at their head.
Scarce an hour’s brisk riding brought them in sight of the army gathered
from among those who opposed the Princess. There was much confusion
evident among them, and it seemed as if they had but just learned of the
approach of the Daughter of Holland, and were preparing to hold their
own as best they might.
Straight as an arrow, forward to where his pennon showed the presence of
her uncle, rode Jacqueline.
No need to shout encouragement to the brave men at her back, yet ever
and again she would turn and call, “For love of Holland,” or “For the
Virgin and St. James,” and ever and anon would come back the answering
cry, “For love of Holland,” “For St. James.”
When almost within the flight of an arrow from the enemy, once again did
Jacqueline turn, and this time her cry was borne back on the wind with
the clearness of a trumpet,—
“For love of the Daughter of Holland.”
At this the hoarse shout that rose among her followers could have been
heard a league away. Still keeping her horse’s head straight for that
pennon she had marked so well, she sent her pages to the right and left,
bidding the soldiers spread in a wide circle, and never draw rein till
they had circled the enemy.
On they came like a whirlwind; the enemy, seeming not to know what
manner of tactics they were like to meet, formed a compact body.
The rushing mass of men and horses, with Jacqueline at their head, swept
madly on, nor paused nor swerved till they had flung themselves against
the enemy. In a moment all was frightful confusion, men unhorsed and
being trampled underfoot by the riderless steeds, and in many cases the
horses suffering themselves from wounds that had fallen on them instead
of their masters.
Twice, above all the tumult and din of metal when spear met shield or
helmet, could be heard the cry, “For the Daughter of Holland,” and each
time it brought the answering shout. At these moments even the enemy
seemed to waver, as if they had not dreamed that their hereditary
Princess could be there in the thick of battle in her own person.
Surrounded by the noblest of her kin and those of the highest rank among
her party, Jacqueline never gave a thought to her own safety.
From right to left she flew, encouraging here, supporting there,
bringing up laggards to harass a weak spot among the enemy’s forces, by
the sheer might of her presence striking awe among the foe.
At last one more stolid or more cruel than the rest rode straight at
her, his lance thrust at her breast. The good mail shirt she wore and
her trusty shield turned aside the blow, but so sharp was the shock that
she fell from her horse. Now indeed came in that training in
horsemanship on which her father had ever insisted, and in which she had
been practised since her earliest years. Still clinging to the bridle,
she managed to keep from falling, and with the aid of her faithful pages
who kept ever at her saddle, she managed to regain her seat.
“Now, by all I hold dear,” cried she, “no mercy shall be shown the
enemies of Holland and my house.”
From that moment with voice and example she inspired her weary men, till
with the fall of dusk on that December day they routed those that were
still left alive, and sent them flying over the waste country back to
Dordrecht.
Many of the enemies of Jacqueline and her house fell during this battle,
the most noted, and the most vindictive as well, being that William of
Arkell to whom her father desired to wed her in the interests of peace,
but who stubbornly refused our little Princess and always remained one
of her most bitter foes.
Her uncle, “John the Pitiless,” escaped and returned to Dordrecht with
the remnant of his forces. Nor was this the only effort he made to
capture her lands, but for years he pursued her relentlessly, and did
not hesitate at any means to gain his end.
Involved in endless wars and intrigues both with enemies within her own
land as well as those abroad, the battle at Grocum was the only time
when Jacqueline, Daughter of Holland, led her troops in person, and no
amount of persuasion could induce her to assume command again.
The night of the victory at Grocum, the little army encamped within the
city which they had wrested from the Burgundian party, and the
celebration of this happy event was accompanied with feasting and much
joy. A thousand healths were drunk to Jacqueline, Countess and
Commander, and there were toasts to future victories, and the rosiest
anticipations of success, the victors imagining that because of one
triumph their enemies would be vanquished.
When the Daughter of Holland laid herself down to sleep that night, her
mother, with a happy face, bent to kiss her good night.
“Mother, dear lady,” whispered this victorious Countess of sixteen, “I
pray you tell no one that last night I wept from fear!”