knees before the knight; but he at once made them rise and be seated
near him. Then they too strove to express their gratitude to him, and
promised to pray to God for him so long as they should live.
Bayard was much affected, and thanked them in turn for their kindly
ministrations. Then he said to them gently--
"Dear demoiselles, you know that fighting men are not ordinarily laden
with jewels and pretty things to present to ladies, but I have here a
sum of money which your lady mother hath just compelled me to accept. I
give thee each a thousand ducats to form part of thy marriage portion."
The damsels would fain have declined his generous offer, but he would
not hear nay; and he said to their mother, who had once more entered--
"Madam, these five hundred ducats I leave to thee to distribute amongst
the convents that have suffered most from the pillage. And I must now
make ready to depart."
Again they fell on their knees, this time pressing his hands and weeping
as if their hearts would break; and the mother exclaimed through her
tears--
"Too generous knight, God alone can reward thee!"
Then, amid tears and farewells, he departed.
On leaving these good ladies, the knight took his way to the French
camp, where he was received with as much joy as if he were a
reinforcement of ten thousand men.
Now at that time the French were masters of the Duchy of Milan, in
northern Italy, and the presence of the Spanish army in that part of the
country was adjudged by Louis to be a constant menace to his interests
there. The king was in France, but his nephew, the Duke of Nemours,
commanded the French army in Italy.
Scarcely had Bayard arrived in camp, when Nemours determined to give
battle to the Spanish. All was soon astir in the French camps, in
preparation; and Bayard and the duke were in high spirits.
Nemours admired the chevalier extravagantly. He was too truly great to
be envious of Bayard's fame, and nothing delighted him more than to hear
the knight's praises.
"My Lord Bayard," he said, shortly after the chevalier's arrival, "I am
told that the Spanish fear thee more than they fear any other man on
earth, and that they are constantly asking if thou art in camp. I wish
thou wouldst go out and show thyself to them."
"By thy leave," answered the knight, laughing, "I will pay them a little
visit to-morrow."
On the next morning, which was Good Friday, Bayard paid the "little
visit" he promised. He had a way of calling on his enemies very scantily
attended, and this time he took with him a mere handful of men.
The two armies were encamped within a few miles of each other before the
city of Ravenna, which the Spaniards had undertaken to defend against
King Louis's forces.
It is needless to say that the Spanish were not expecting Bayard's
visit. They were in readiness, however, for another skirmishing party of
French had descended upon them only an hour before. It seems that these
earlier visitors were being badly worsted when the fearless knight
appeared on the scene. In an instant the tide of victory turned. Bayard
rallied the flying French and reversed the pursuit, chasing the
Spaniards back to their garrison. Nor did he stop at that. Mindful of
the visit he had promised to make the enemy, he dashed into the midst of
their camp, knocked down tents and pavilions, laid men flat to right and
to left, and made good his escape before the Spanish had time to realize
what was happening to them.
When the laughing chevalier got back from his adventure, the Duke of
Nemours exclaimed in admiration--
"Thou art the man, Lord Bayard, for skirmishes. No one knows so well as
thou dost either how to begin or how to end them. Thou art our master in
the art of war."
Two days later, on Easter Sunday, the French and Spanish met in the
terrible battle of Ravenna,--one of the most cruel and bloody
engagements in all history. The field remained to the French,--sixteen
thousand out of an army of twenty thousand Spanish being slain or
captured; but the victory was too dearly bought, for the "best blood of
France" was the price paid for it.
Probably the knight Bayard forgot the gloomy predictions of the
astrologer of Carpi. He did not keep near the duke that day, but went
dashing about wherever his venturesome spirit led, performing almost
incredible feats of arms. But, alas! he came back from his last
brilliant charge to find the gallant Nemours dead on the field. The
noble duke had been fairly cut to pieces by the many strokes received in
his last brave stand against the enemy.
In the year 1513, Henry VIII., King of England, and Maximilian I. of
Germany, invaded northern France and captured several towns. In the
beginning of this campaign occurred what is known as the "Battle of
Spurs;" and this engagement is of special interest on account of
Bayard's part in it.
The English were investing the town of Terouana, in which there was
almost a famine.
A French force under the Lord of Chabannes had been sent to the relief
of the city, but it was found to be much too small to hurl against the
outnumbering allies in open battle. Still was it imperative to revictual
the suffering town, so Chabannes decided on a difficult stratagem.
A body of cavalry--under Bayard and others--was to feign an attack on
the besieging English, and then retreat rapidly, to draw the enemy in
pursuit, in order that other troops might take advantage of the
confusion, and provision the invested town.
This plan was put in execution; but the English and their German allies
played their unconscious part in their adversaries' program so well that
they not only pursued the decoy cavalry, but fell upon other companies
of French, throwing them into utter confusion.
As may be imagined, the seemingly ignoble flight of his cavalry was
galling to a spirit like Bayard's. To "the knight without fear" it was
almost impossible to refrain from fighting when an enemy was within
striking distance; and now, as had often been the case, his warlike
instinct got the better of his sense of obedience.
He was under orders not to fight, but to retreat at full speed when the
enemy should give chase. The latter command he obeyed; the former might
as well have been given to the storm. He would fly with his company
awhile,--till his fiery spirit could no longer be curbed,--then he would
wheel about and charge the pursuing English with such impetuous courage
that numbers would be compelled to fall back for an instant before his
matchless prowess.
At length the chevalier and his company reached a bridge which spanned a
swift torrent. He could not resist the temptation of making a stand
against the enemy, though he had a mere handful of men about him, so he
whirled his horse about and faced the foe. It mattered little how great
were the odds against him, for the spirit of battle possessed him. He
gave one glance at the remnant that rallied to him, then said to a
messenger quickly,--
"Go tell my Lord of Chabannes that I will hold this bridge and whip them
if he will but send me reinforcements."
The reinforcements did not come; but Bayard and his little company held
the bridge with sword and lance till they saw a large division of German
troops fording the stream in their rear. Seeing that they were thus
surrounded, and by overwhelming numbers, Bayard said to his men
cheerily--
"Let us give ourselves up, comrades; further resistance were but a
bootless sacrifice." Not the least noteworthy of Bayard's many fine
qualities were his rare good sense and his cheerfulness under
misfortune. If he won, he enjoyed his victory; if he lost, he accepted
defeat like a philosopher.
His men now followed his advice, each surrendering to the nearest enemy.
Now it chanced, in the confusion, that Bayard saw an exhausted German
throw himself down under a near-by tree and unbuckle his sword. In an
instant the chevalier sprang to him, snatched up the sword, and
presented its point to the officer's throat.
"Surrender or die!" he demanded of the astonished man-at-arms.
Not caring to give up his life, the officer surrendered himself captive
to the chevalier, saying,
"As I am without weapon, I render myself to thee. But tell me, pray, to
whom I have surrendered."
"To Captain Bayard," replied the chevalier, enjoying the joke, "and I am
in turn thy prisoner, by the result of this battle."
So saying, Bayard unbuckled his own sword and handed it to the fellow
with mock gravity.
The officer was mystified; but Bayard soon made him see the philosophy,
if not the fun, of the situation, and the two marched off together to
the English camp--each captive to the other--each bearing the other's
surrendered sword.
Here the chevalier remained for some days as prisoner to the man he had
captured. But he soon tired of this restraint, and one morning said to
his captor with suspicious gravity--
"My worthy friend, I am beginning to tire of doing nothing. Thou wilt
oblige me much if thou wilt have me escorted to the camp of my king."
The other was astounded.
"What? eh?" he exclaimed. "But thou sayest nothing of thy ransom!"
"Nor thou of thine," answered the knight, with a grave face. "Art thou
not my prisoner and bound to obey me? I have thy word of surrender, and
thou shalt keep it. If not, I shall challenge thee."
His captor hardly knew how to take this sally, or what answer to make to
it. However, he did know that the last thing in the world he desired was
a duel with the invincible Bayard, so he said--
"Sir Captain, let us report our case to higher authority. I will abide
by whatever decision is made."
So, according to agreement, the case was reported to the King of England
and the Emperor Maximilian, who were in camp together. Bayard, who had
a witty mind and a ready tongue, laid the matter before their Majesties
very drolly; and the judgment rendered by them goes to show that even
great princes can appreciate humorous situations. They agreed that as
Bayard and his captor-captive were prisoner each to the other, they were
"quits;" and that Bayard should have the liberty of returning to his
commander without ransom. King Henry, however, stipulated that the
knight should remain _en parole_ in Flanders for six weeks. Bayard
cheerfully consented to the terms, and being "le chevalier sans
reproche," kept his promise to the letter.
After this interview, the King of England secretly offered to take
Bayard into his own service, promising to load the knight with riches
and honors if he would desert the cause of France and cast his fortunes
with the English.
Bayard answered the King of England as he had before answered the Pope
of Rome,--
"I have but one master in heaven--God, and one upon earth--the King of
France."
On the first of January, 1514, Louis XII. died. He was succeeded by
Francis I., who was then only twenty years of age.
Francis, like his predecessors, was haunted by the idea of his Italian
rights, but was never able to maintain them for any great length of
time. One of his first acts of sovereignty was to raise a large army and
invade Italy to recover the Duchy of Milan, which had again been wrested
from France.
Bayard was with the king on this expedition. Indeed, he preceded Francis
into Italy, and by a brilliant stratagem took prisoner Lord Prospero
Colonna, Lieutenant-General of the Pope. Prospero it was who had boasted
that sooner or later he would take Bayard like a bird in a trap.
Soon afterwards, King Francis crossed the mountains with a great army,
and marched upon Milan, at that time defended by a large body of Swiss.
The two armies met in a hard-fought battle, and the French were
victorious, driving the Swiss entirely out of the duchy.
In this battle, as in many others, Bayard's splendid courage won the
day. No other knight could equal him in arms, and none other could so
rouse the spirit of the French soldiers; but his greatest service to
France that day was the lesson in chivalry he taught her boyish king.
Fired by the noble example of the chevalier, young Francis bore himself
in battle like a king indeed, and made old soldiers wonder at his
fortitude and courage.
When the battle was over, the gallant young king was the first to
ascribe the honor of the victory to Bayard, and the nobles and captains
agreed with him heartily.
Anxious to show conspicuous honor to the knight, King Francis then
astonished the assembled company--and none more than the chevalier
himself--by a most strange request.
"Bayard, my friend," he exclaimed in loving familiarity, "I wish to be
knighted by thy hand this day; for thou hast fought on foot and on
horseback, in many battles against many nations, and better than all
others. Thou art indeed the most worthy knight of all."
Never before had monarch honored a subject with such a request.
The modest chevalier sought to decline this embarrassingly great
distinction, saying that such honor belonged only to princes of the
blood, but the enthusiastic Francis would not take refusal.
"Nay," he exclaimed, "quote me neither laws nor canons, chevalier; but
do my will and command, if thou wouldst still be numbered amongst my
loyal servants and subjects."
"Since my king commands, I can but obey," answered the knight, simply.
Then the King of mighty France knelt at the feet of the unassuming
chevalier,--a picture to the world forever of how that manhood which is
without fear and without reproach is above the majesty of kings.
"Sire," said the chevalier--his great heart too full for many
words--"may this be as efficacious as if done by Roland or Oliver,
Godfrey or Baldwin, his brother. God grant that in battle thou mayest
never flee!"
He laid the flat of his sword on the king's strong shoulder; and when he
removed the blade, he kissed it reverently, saying--
"Glorious sword, that to-day hath knighted the greatest of kings, I will
henceforth employ thee only against the enemies of Christ's name. And
thou shalt be kept as a sacred relic and honored above all others."[2]
[Footnote 2: Unfortunately, this blade has been lost; but there is still
preserved another sword of Bayard's. It bears the two legends "Soli Deo
Gloria" and "Vincere aut Mors."]
Bayard's next service to King Francis was the defeating of an invading
army of Germans,--forty thousand strong.
In recognition of this and other great services, the king did all that
his jealous nobles could not prevent to show honor to the valiant
chevalier. He made Bayard a knight of the king's own order, and gave him
command of a hundred picked men-at-arms,--a privilege which belonged
only to princes of the blood.
The people of France went wild with enthusiasm over their hero, giving
gorgeous _fetes_ in his honor wherever he went; and the French
parliament actually sent a deputation of its members to congratulate him
upon the services he had rendered the king and the whole people.
Yet these were but empty honors compared to what the noble chevalier
deserved. As the astrologer had predicted, Bayard never received the
riches and great appointments he so conspicuously merited.
His last undertaking was another expedition into the troublesome Duchy
of Milan. During this campaign the Lord of Bonivet, Admiral of France,
was in command of the French, and Bayard and many other gallant captains
were under him.
The task before them was to subdue Milan, which had, with the aid of
Charles V., Emperor of Germany and King of Spain, again thrown off its
allegiance to France.
The French encamped before Milan in the little town of Biagras; but it
soon developed that they were no match for the powerful army of allied
Milanese, Germans, Spaniards, and Venetians. Moreover, their forces were
being daily depleted by sickness and desertion. Added to these
misfortunes were bad faith and bad generalship on the part of the
commander, Bonivet.
Matters in the French camp went from bad to worse, while on the other
hand the ranks of the emperor were being continually reinforced.
An attack from the powerful and well-equipped enemy was now daily
expected, so the admiral determined that there was nothing to do but
retire from his position at Biagras. In the retreat, however, he took
the post of danger with Bayard in the rear-guard, between the retiring
French and their allied foes.
As Bonivet had feared, the French had no sooner moved out of Biagras
than the hitherto passive enemy woke to action and gave pursuit.
It had been rumored in the emperor's army that the wonderful Bayard was
in the rear-guard of the French, and this report held the pursuers at a
respectful distance for some time.
On the morning of the second day, however, the allies determined to
force an engagement; and, supported by heavy artillery, made a furious
charge upon the retiring French.
If the allied foes had expected to rout the retreating forces, they must
have been sadly disappointed, for the French instantly faced about and
met their onset with stubborn valor. The odds were overwhelmingly
against the sons of France; but Bayard was among them, and where he was,
was always desperate courage.
In the very first of the engagement the Lord of Bonivet was wounded and
had to be carried from the field, thus leaving Bayard in command. As he
was being borne away, Bonivet said to the chevalier--
"I pray and conjure thee, for the honor and glory of France, to defend
the artillery and flags to-day. Thou alone canst save them!"
Bayard had had too much experience not to see that it was then
impossible to retrieve what the admiral had lost, but he answered
simply--
"Too late! But my life is my country's, and while I live, the flags and
the artillery shall not fall into the enemy's hands." That promise was
not broken.
Calm and collected in that supreme hour, the peerless knight put forth
his all for his beloved France. All that unexampled generalship and
courage and fidelity could accomplish in the face of overwhelming odds,
he performed that day.
Not content with merely repelling the attacks of the enemy, he charged
their advancing columns again and again, and with such fierce onslaughts
that each time they were compelled to give back. He had promised for the
honor and glory of his country to defend the flags and the artillery
that day; and while he lived not a flag was lowered nor a gun lost. But
alas for France that day!
Just as the fighting was hottest, and when it seemed that the
outnumbered French _must_ break, Bayard once more dashed forward against
the foe, as if by sheer force of courage, to wrest victory from
inexorable Fate. For one mad, glorious moment he and his company swept
irresistibly against the victors; the next, he was struck by a stone
from an arquebuse and mortally wounded.
With the cry "Jesus!" he reeled in his saddle. He would have fallen to
the ground had not some of his men rushed forward and helped him to
dismount. In their anxiety for him, his soldiers would fain have borne
him off the field; but Bayard, though dying, was Bayard still, and he
said to them--
"It is all over; but I do not wish in my last hour to turn my back to
the foe for the first time in my life. Place me beneath yonder tree with
my face toward the enemy."
Still did they beg that they might be allowed to bear him beyond danger
of capture--for the French had broken before the enemy when Bayard fell.
But the knight feebly answered them--
"Let me devote the short space that remains to me to thinking of my
sins. I pray you all to leave me for fear that you should be taken. My
Lord d'Alegre, commend me to the king, my master, and say to him that my
only regret in dying is my inability to render him further service."
As he ceased speaking, a body of Spaniards, under the Marquis of
Pescara, arrived where he lay. The gallant Pescara knelt beside his
wounded enemy, and with tears in his eyes exclaimed--
"Would to God, Lord Bayard, that I might have taken thee prisoner
unhurt! Thou shalt know how much I have always esteemed thy prowess and
thy virtues; for since I have held arms, I have never known thy equal!"
[Illustration: "As Bayard lay thus, there was hardly an officer among
the Spanish who did not come to speak kindly to him"]
The marquis then caused his own tent to be brought and placed for the
use of the wounded knight. Then he himself helped to lay Bayard in
bed. He smoothed the dying man's pillow, and kissed the hands that had
fought so valiantly against him. Pescara then placed a guard around the
tent and went himself and fetched a priest to console the dying
chevalier.
As Bayard lay thus, there was hardly an officer among the Spanish who
did not come to speak kindly to him. Among the distinguished men who
visited his bedside was the Constable of Bourbon, who shortly before had
deserted the cause of France for a position in the emperor's army. When
the constable beheld the expiring knight, he exclaimed--
"Ah, Captain Bayard, how it troubles me to see thee thus! I have always
loved and honored thee for thy great valor and wisdom. How I pity thee!"
Bayard looked at him steadily and replied--
"My lord, I thank thee, but thy pity is wasted. I die like an honest
man, serving my king. Thou art the man to be pitied, for bearing arms
against thy prince, thy country, and thy oath."
A little while longer he talked to them; then, feeling his strength
fleeting rapidly, he clasped his hands and prayed aloud--
"My God! my Father! forget my sins; listen only to Thine infinite
mercy----Let Thy justice be softened by the merits of the blood of
Jesus Christ--"
Death laid a gentle hand upon his lips; and the man who had dealt with
his fellow-man without reproach went fearless to his God.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
Sidney, thou star of beaming chivalry,
That rose and set 'mid valor's peerless day:
Rich ornament of knighthood's Milky-way;
How much our youth of England owe to thee!
EDWARD MOXON
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
(1554-1586 A. D.)
When Mary Tudor was Queen of England, and after she had become the wife
of Philip II. of Spain, there was born at "Penshurst Place," in the
valley of the Medway, the immortal Philip Sidney.
His mother's family were the powerful house of Dudley, and were among
the noblest in the land. The Sidneys were of high birth too,--not so
exalted as the Dudleys in point of lineage, but of impregnable honor and
integrity.
The little Philip's youth was spent under what would seem to have been
very happy circumstances. While he was yet only four years of age, Queen
Elizabeth came to the throne, and recalled the Sidneys from the social
and political exile to which her sister Mary had condemned them.
Philip's father, Sir Henry Sidney, was made Lord Deputy of Ireland, and
his mother became lady-in-waiting to the queen. Then, too, they owned
the beautiful and historic home, Penshurst Place, and had powerful
friends at court.
But there was another side to the picture. The Sidneys were not rich;
and holding the high position they did, they were obliged to live in a
way they could ill afford. This was bad enough; but, worse still,
Philip's affectionate parents were forced to spend many years of their
married life apart from each other and from their children. The mother
was, for the most part, at Whitehall or at Hampton Court with the queen,
and the father in turbulent, rebellious Ireland; while the children
were, perforce, left at home in the care of servants.
Though his loving father and mother were rarely at Penshurst, the little
Philip lived very happily there with his brothers and sisters.
He soon found other companions too,--companions who fired his young
blood and filled his boyish heart with dreams that were forever to haunt
him. Under the great trees at Penshurst he lay on the grass, by the
hour, and pored over stories of bygone days of chivalry. As he lay thus
and read, the present would fade from him, and the past with all its
glamour and its romance would steal up about him and claim him for its
own. The great trees that clashed their boughs together in the wind
became warriors struggling with each other; the blast of a hunting-horn
from the forest near by was Roland's call at Roncesvalles, while the
echoes that repeated the strain again and again were the answering
clarions of Charlemagne. Little delicate Philip Sidney no longer lay on
the grass in sunny England; in coat-of-mail and golden spurs he followed
the heroes of old,--now with the lion-hearted king at Arsur; now with
triumphant Godfrey on the walls of Jerusalem!