Treatment of Prisoners of War—Crœsus—Roman Triumphs—Sapor and
Valerian—Imprisonment of Bajazet—His treatment of the Marshal
Boucicaut and his Companions—Changes produced by the advance
of Civilization—Effect of Feudal Institutions—Anecdote from
Froissart—Conduct of the Black Prince towards the Constable Du Guesclin
and the King of France.
The wealth of Crœsus is proverbial, and the vicissitudes of his fortune
have been a favourite subject for moralists in all ages. In Mitford’s
History of Greece, as well as in that published in the Library of
Useful Knowledge, all notice of them is confined to the simple
statement, that he was conquered by Cyrus. The circumstances of his
treatment, however, as they are related by Herodotus, are curious; and
we propose, therefore, to translate them literally from that author,
leaving it to the reader’s discretion to reject whatever is evidently
fabulous.
It is well known that he was induced to make war upon Cyrus by an
ambiguous response of the Delphic oracle, which predicted to him,
“that if he made war upon the Persians, he would destroy a great
empire.” The oracle was a very safe one. Crœsus understood it, that
the Persian empire would be destroyed; but the credit of the god was
equally supported by the event which really took place, the defeat of
Crœsus and the destruction of his kingdom. Upon his defeat he took
refuge in Sardis, which was besieged and ultimately stormed. “So the
Persians captured Sardis and took Crœsus alive, after he had reigned
fourteen years; and led him before Cyrus, who caused a mighty funeral
pile to be built, upon which he set Crœsus in fetters, and with him
fourteen Lydian youths; whether it were in his mind to offer them to
some deity as the first–fruits of his conquest, or with intention
to perform some vow, or because he had heard of Crœsus’s piety and
therefore set him upon the pile, that he might know whether any god
would deliver him from being burnt alive. Howbeit, he did so: but while
Crœsus stood upon the pile, it struck him, even in this extremity of
evil, that Solon was inspired when he said that no man ought to be
called happy while he was yet alive.[95] And when this thought occurred
to him, after being long silent, he thrice repeated with groans the
name of Solon. Cyrus heard him, and bade the interpreters ask who this
Solon, whom he invoked, might be; and they drew near, and did so. But
Crœsus spoke not for some time, and replied at length, when he was
compelled, ‘One whom I would rather than much wealth, were introduced
to the conversation of all monarchs.’ But as he spoke unintelligibly
to them, they again asked what he meant; and when they became urgent
and troublesome, he related at length how Solon, an Athenian, came to
him, and having beheld all his treasures, set them at nought, having
spoken to such purpose, that all things had happened according to his
words, which yet bore no especial reference to himself more than to the
rest of mankind, particularly to those who trusted in their own good
fortune. So by the time Crœsus had given this account, the pile being
lighted, the outside of it was in flames. And when Cyrus heard from
the interpreters what Crœsus said, he repented, and reflected that he,
being but a man himself, was casting another alive into the flames who
formerly had been no whit inferior to himself in prosperity: and being
also in dread of divine vengeance, and considering that nothing human
is unchangeable, he ordered the fire to be forthwith extinguished, and
Crœsus, with his companions, to be taken down; but his officers, with
all their endeavours, were unable to master it. Then Crœsus, as the
Lydians say, discovering that Cyrus had changed his purpose, when he
saw that all were endeavouring, and yet were unable to quench the fire,
called loudly upon Apollo, entreating the god, if that he ever had
offered any acceptable gifts, now to stand by, and deliver him from the
present evil. And as he called upon the god in tears, suddenly clouds
collected in the serene sky, and the storm broke down, and a torrent of
rain fell, and extinguished the fire. Cyrus, therefore, being by these
means instructed that Crœsus was a good man, and beloved by the gods,
inquired of him, when he was come down from the pile, ‘Crœsus, who
persuaded you to invade my kingdom, and thus become an enemy instead of
a friend?’ And he said, ‘O king, I have done thus to further your good,
and my own evil fate: but the god of the Grecians, who puffed me up to
war, has been the author of these events. For no man is so witless as
to choose war instead of peace, when, in the one, fathers bury their
sons, and in the other, sons their fathers. But it was the pleasure of
the gods that these things should turn out thus.’
“Thus spoke Crœsus, and Cyrus released him, and kept him near his
person, and thenceforth treated him with much respect.”[96]
The evident intermixture of fable with this tale is calculated to
throw doubt upon the whole of it, and indeed it seems at variance
with the character of Cyrus. That Xenophon omits all mention of the
circumstances related would be a strong argument in disproof of them,
if they were calculated to advance his hero’s reputation; but in the
present case his silence is of little weight. The close resemblance,
however, between the preservation of Crœsus, and the miraculous
deliverance of the Jewish youths condemned by Nebuchadnezzar to
the furnace, might warrant us in suspecting that some account of so
impressive a display of Divine power had reached the western coast of
Asia, and that the careless or unfaithful annalists of those early
times transferred the scene from Babylon to Lydia, and substituted the
names best known in their own history for the barbarian appellations
of the Assyrian monarch and his prisoners. This idea may be supported
by the expression of Herodotus, that Cyrus condemned Crœsus to be
burnt “because of his piety, that he might know whether any god would
deliver him from being burnt alive.” Cyrus was neither cruel nor a
scoffer, so that we cannot suppose it to have been an impious jest,
and can as little imagine that it was a serious experiment on the part
of the Persian to try the power of the Grecian deities. It is not very
likely, therefore, that such a reason was invented to account for the
action; but the recorded preservation of the Jews, and the decree of
Nebuchadnezzar “that there is no other god that can deliver after this
sort,” may well enough have led to the inference that the monarch’s
object was to prove the power which in the end he was obliged to
confess.
No extraordinary quantity either of humanity or reflection was
necessary to have impressed on Cyrus’s mind, in the first instance, the
truths contained in Solon’s warning to his rival. But humanity towards
prisoners was no virtue of antiquity; and in this respect the practice
of European nations of modern times offers a striking contrast to that
of heathenism in all ages and regions. Our Scandinavian ancestors
and the North American Indians put prisoners to death for revenge,
or for the mere pleasure of inflicting pain: the rude Druids and the
comparatively polished priests of Mexico alike esteemed an enemy’s
blood the most grateful offering to their savage deities. The histories
of Greece and Rome abound also with acts of atrocious cruelty; while
the East is notorious alike for the frequent changes of her dynasties,
and for the unsparing policy which has prompted successive conquerors
to establish their own thrones by the extermination of all possible
claimants.
It is not fair, however, to select none but unfavourable examples; and
of favourable ones, few or none are more celebrated than the generosity
of Alexander and the virtue of Scipio. After Alexander had gained the
important battle of Issus (B.C. 333), in the Persian war,
Darius’s family fell into the victor’s hands.[97] They were treated
with the respect due to their rank and their misfortunes. “Not long
after, one of his queen’s eunuchs escaped to Darius, who, when he
saw him, first asked whether his children and his wife and mother
were alive. And hearing that they were so, that they were addressed
as queens, and enjoyed all the respect and attention which they had
possessed at his own court, he inquired in addition, whether his wife
had preserved her faith; and being satisfied on this point also, he
again inquired whether any insult or violence had been offered to her.
The eunuch affirmed with an oath, ‘O king, your wife remains even as
you left her, and Alexander is the best and most temperate of men.’
Upon which Darius lifted up his hands towards heaven, and prayed, ‘O
sovereign Jupiter, in whose hands are placed the fortunes of kings upon
earth, above all things do thou maintain the kingdom of the Medes and
Persians, which thou hast given to me! But if thou wilt that I be king
of Asia no longer, then intrust my power to none but Alexander.’”[98]
Closely akin to this in all its circumstances is the celebrated story
of the continence of Scipio, who has obtained immortal praise by
surrendering untouched to her lover a beautiful Spanish lady who had
been selected from the other prisoners and presented to him; and from
the admiration testified by all antiquity for the virtue displayed
alike by the Grecian and the Roman hero, we may form an opinion of
the treatment which captives generally endured. We have no wish to
detract from the praise which is justly due to them, or to undervalue
the merit of those who precede their age in humanity and refinement;
but it is worthy of observation that in modern times, far from such
conduct being regarded as an effort of virtue almost super–human,
infamy or death would be the portion of a general who acted otherwise.
These exceptions therefore do really serve to confirm the rule; and the
extravagant commendation which has been bestowed upon such self–denial
bears incontrovertible evidence to the general want of generosity in
conquerors, and to the unhappy condition of the conquered.
Few foreigners of regal dignity or exalted fortune fell into the power
of the Grecian commonwealths: of their treatment of each other’s
citizens we shall have occasion to speak hereafter. But the gigantic
grasp of Roman ambition comprehended the most powerful of the earth,
and made them drink deep of degradation. The usual lot of prisoners
of war was slavery; a practice bad enough, but common to the rest of
antiquity with Rome: the institution of triumphs is her peculiar glory
and distinction. Something may be said in palliation of a victor,
who, having possession of his enemy, obviates the danger of further
resistance or revolt by committing him to that narrow prison from
which alone there is no chance of escape. But when a Roman general’s
arms were crowned with success, the prisoners of highest estimation
were carefully reserved; and when all danger from their life was at
an end, and their degradation, as far as external circumstances can
degrade, was complete, after they had been led in chains before their
conqueror’s car, to swell his vanity and satiate the pride of Rome,
they were sent to perish unheeded and unlamented by the hands of the
executioner, and the thanksgiving due to the gods and the triumphal
banquet were delayed until the savage ritual was duly performed. “Those
even who triumph, and therefore grant longer life to the hostile
chiefs, that from their presence in the procession the Roman people
may derive its fairest spectacle and fruit of victory, yet bid them
to be led to prison when they begin to turn their chariots from the
Forum to the Capitol; and the same day puts an end to the conqueror’s
command and to the life of the conquered.”[99] They led the prisoners
to execution at the moment when the triumphal chariot began to ascend
the Capitoline hill, in order, they said, that their moment of highest
exultation might be that of their enemies’ extremest agony. There is
a needless barbarity and insolence in the whole proceeding which is
peculiarly disgusting; and which was aggravated by the solemn hypocrisy
of placing in the triumphal chariot a slave to whisper in the victor’s
ear, “Remember that thou art a man,” when in the same instant they
displayed so signal a disregard for the reverses to which humanity is
exposed, and such contempt for the lessons which that warning ought to
have taught.
We may take as an example the treatment of Jugurtha, king of Numidia;
for whom, indeed, so far as his own merits are concerned, no treatment
could have been too severe. “Marius, bringing home his army againe out
of Lybia into Italy, took possession of his consulship the first day
of January, and therewithall made his triumph into the city of Rome,
shewing that to the Romans which they thought never to have seen;
and that was, king Jugurth prisoner, who was so subtill a man, and
could so well frame himself unto his fortune, and with his craft and
subtilty was of so great courage besides, that none of his enemies
ever hoped to have had him alive. But it is said that after he was
led in this triumph, he fell mad straight upon it; and the pompe of
triumph being ended, he was carried unto prison, where the serjeants,
for hast to have the spoil of him, tore his apparel by force from off
his back: and because they would take away his rich gold earrings,
that hung on his eares, they pulled away with them the tippe of his
eare, and then cast him naked to the bottome of a deep dungeon, his
wits being altogether troubled, Yet when they did throw him downe,
laughing he said, ‘O Hercules, how cold are your baths!’ He lived there
yet six days, fighting with hunger, and desiring alwaies to prolong
his miserable life to the last hour: the which was a just deserved
punishment for his wicked life.”[100]
Marius, however, with all his military talents was but a rude and
blood–thirsty soldier. From Cæsar, on the contrary, who throughout
the civil wars displayed signal generosity and mildness of temper, we
might have expected a fairer estimate of the treatment due to a noble
enemy. But in his treatment of Vercingetorix those noble qualities are
exchanged for the haughty and selfish cruelty which the foreign policy
of Rome was most admirably calculated to produce. That prince, after a
most gallant and almost successful stand in defence of the liberties
of Gaul, being shut up in Alesia, and reduced to extremity by Cæsar,
surrendered himself to the victor’s mercy in hope of obtaining better
terms for his comrades. The scene is thus described by Dion Cassius:—
“Vercingetorix being still at liberty, and unwounded, might have
escaped; but hoping, for the sake of their previous friendship, to
obtain forgiveness from Cæsar, he went out to him without notice of
his coming. And while the Roman general was seated on the tribunal,
he appeared suddenly, so as to alarm some persons, for he was tall of
stature, and made a gallant appearance in his armour. All around being
hushed, he said nothing, but fell on his knee, stretching out his hand
in gesture of supplication. All others were struck with compassion,
both by the recollection of his former high state, and by the exceeding
piteousness of the spectacle before them. But Cæsar made that from
which he chiefly expected to derive safety, the heaviest charge
against him; for, dwelling on the return for his friendship, he made
the injury appear the heavier. And therefore he pitied him not in that
conjuncture, but for the present cast him into bonds, reserving him
until his triumph, after which he slew him.”[101]
But Rome, which had so often insulted the majesty of fallen royalty,
endured in the person of one of her emperors a greater degradation
than any which she had inflicted. When the emperor Valerian was taken
prisoner by Sapor, king of Persia, his life was spared, but spared
that his age might waste in the most humiliating slavery; and when the
haughty monarch mounted his horse, he used the prostrate body of his
royal captive for a footstool. That, said the haughty Sapor, was a real
triumph; not painting imaginary processions upon walls, as the Romans
did. To gratify the victor’s pride still more, he was compelled to wear
the imperial purple and decorations, and in this attire, laden with
chains, he followed in the train of Sapor, and exhibited to the whole
Persian empire a striking picture of the fallen pride of Rome. This
system of insult extended even beyond the grave: his skin is related
to have been dyed scarlet, and stuffed, and then placed in a temple as
an enduring monument of the shame of Rome. The Christian writers, who
alone relate all the particulars of Valerian’s humiliation,[102] see
in it the just vengeance of God for his persecution of our faith: the
reason, probably, that Gibbon seems inclined to consider the story as
a pious fiction. If so, however, it soon obtained currency, for the
Emperor Constantine, who flourished not much more than half a century
after the event, alludes to it in a letter to the king of Persia: “All
these emperors (the persecutors of Christianity) have been destroyed by
such a dreadful and avenging end, that since their times all mankind
doth usually wish their calamities may fall as a curse and punishment
upon those who shall study to imitate them. One of which persons I
judge him to have been (him, I mean, whom divine vengeance like a
thunderbolt drove out of our regions, and conveyed unto your country)
who by his own disgrace and ignominy erected that trophy so much
boasted of among you.”[103]
Somewhat similar to the indignities offered to Valerian was the
treatment which the Sultan Bajazet is said to have experienced from
Tamerlane after his defeat and capture.
Closed in a cage, like some destructive beast,
I’ll have thee borne about in public view;
A great example of the righteous vengeance
That waits on cruelty and pride like thine.[104]
Voltaire and other modern writers have discredited this story, chiefly
on the authority of D’Herbelot. It has been shown, however, by Sir W.
Jones, that the premises of that distinguished orientalist are false,
and his authority therefore falls to the ground. On the other hand,
Leunclavius, in his History of the Turks, professes to have heard from
an old man, who was in Bajazet’s service at the time of his defeat,
“that an iron cage was made by Timour’s command, composed on every side
of iron gratings, through which he could be seen in any direction.
He travelled in this den slung between two horses. Whenever Timour
and his retinue, on moving his camp, made ready for a journey, he was
usually carried before; and after the march, when they dismounted, he
was placed upon the ground in his cage, before Timour’s tent.” Poggio
also, himself a contemporary, mentions this strange imprisonment as an
undoubted fact.[105]
The English reader will find some countenance for the story in Edward
the First’s inhuman treatment of the Countess of Buchan. That lady
having dared, it is said, in virtue of hereditary privileges, to place
the crown of Scotland on the Bruce’s head, and afterwards falling into
the English monarch’s hands, was confined in a cage built upon one of
the towers of Berwick Castle, exposed, as it should seem, to the rigour
of the elements and the gaze of passers by. One of Bruce’s sisters was
similarly dealt with. So much for the devoted respect paid to women in
the age of chivalry, and that by a prince who, when young, was inferior
to none in knightly renown. But the demoralizing effects of absolute
power found a fitting subject to work upon in Edward’s stern and
unforgiving temper. The original order for the Countess’s confinement
is to this effect:—
“Ordered and commanded, by letters under the privy seal, to the
Chamberlain of Scotland, or his deputy at Berwick–upon–Tweed, that in
one of the turrets, upon the castle of that place, in such place as he
shall chuse, and shall be most convenient, he do make a cage of strong
lattice–work and bars, and well strengthened with iron–work, in the
which he shall place the Countess of Buchan.
“And that he shall so well and surely guard her in the same cage, that
in no manner shall she pass out from it.
“And that he do appoint one or two English women of the said town of
Berwick who shall be in no wise suspected, who understand to serve the
said Countess with meat and drink, and all things pertaining to her.
“And that he do so well and strictly guard her in the cage, that she
speak to none, and that no man or woman of the Scotch nation, nor any
other appear before her, but only the woman or women who shall be
assigned her, and those who shall have guard of her.
“And that the cage be so made, that the Countess may have there the
convenience of a fair chamber, but that it be so well and surely
ordered, that no danger may betide in respect of the custody of the
said Countess.
“And that he who has care of her be charged to answer for her, body for
body, and that he be allowed her expenses.
“In like manner it is ordered that Mary, sister of Robert Bruce,
sometime Earl of Carrick, be sent to Roxburgh, to be kept there in the
castle, in a cage.”[106]
The reader will not sympathise much with the harshness of Bajazet’s
durance, if he knows the character of that redoubtable conqueror. The
following passage will convey a fair idea of it, and presents a good
specimen of the style of the 15th century:—
“In the year 1396, Sigismond, King of Hungry, sent sweet and amyable
letters to the French king by a notable ambassador, a bysshop and
two knights of Hungry. In the same letters was contayned a greate
parte of the state and doyng of the greate Turke (Bajazet), and how
that he had sent worde to the King of Hungry, that he would come and
fight with him in the middes of his realme, and would go fro thens
to the cytie of Rome, and would make his horse to eate otes upon the
high altar of Saynt Peter, and there to hold his see imperiale. Thus
the King of Hungry in his letters prayed the French king to ayde and
succour him.”[107] In consequence of this application, a strong body
of French and other knights marched into Hungary, under command of
John of Burgundy, Earl of Nevers. They crossed the Danube, and after
a successful campaign were besieging Nicopolis in union with the
Hungarian forces, when Bajazet marched to the relief of that city.
The loss of the battle which ensued is attributed by Froissart to the
precipitance of the French knights, who led the van, and rushed madly
into combat, against the order of the King of Hungary, and without
waiting for his support. The biographer of the Marshal Boucicaut, on
the other hand, throws the whole blame upon the cowardly desertion of
the Hungarians. However this may be, the French charged in a body not
exceeding 700 men,[108] routed the first body of Bajazet’s cavalry, and
penetrated through a line of stakes, behind which the infantry were
formed. “Then the noble Frenchmen, like men already enraged at the loss
which they had endured, ran upon them with such valour and hardihood
that they frightened all. I may not say how they laid upon them. For
never did foaming boar, or angry wolf, shew a fiercer recklessness of
life. There the valiant Marshal of France, Boucicaut, among other brave
men, thrust himself into the thickest press, and well proved whether he
were grieved or no. For there without fail did he so many acts of arms,
that all marvelled, and there bore himself so knightly, that whoso
saw him still avers there never was any man, knight or other, seen to
do in one day more brave and valiant acts than he did then.”[109] The
Earl of Nevers, the Lord of Coucy, and the other French nobility well
approved their valour; but Boucicaut, if we may trust his biographer,
was the hero of the day. Mounted on a powerful war–horse, he spurred
forwards, and struck so fiercely to the right and to the left that he
overthrew everything before him. “And ever doing thus, he advanced so
far, which is a marvellous thing to relate, and yet true, as all who
saw it can bear witness, that he cut through the whole Saracen array,
and then returned back through them to his comrades. Heaven, what a
knight! God protect his valour! Pity will it be when life shall fail
him! But it will not be so yet, for God will protect him. Thus fought
our countrymen as long as their strength lasted. Ah, what pity for
so noble a company, approved so gentle, so chivalrous, so excellent
in arms, which could have succour from no quarter, so ran they in to
their enemies’ throats, so as is the iron on the anvil![110] For they
were surrounded and oppressed so fatally on all sides that they could
no longer resist. And what wonder? for there were more than twenty
Saracens against one Christian! And yet our people killed more than
20,000 of them, but at last they could exert themselves no more. Ah,
what a misfortune, what pity! Ought not those disloyal Christians to
have been hanged who thus falsely abandoned them? Shame fall upon them,
for had they helped the valiant French and their comrades with good
will, not Bajazet nor one of his Turks would have escaped death or
captivity, which would have been a mighty good to all Christendom.
“Great pity was there again the morrow of this dolorous battle. For
Bajazet, sitting within a tent in the midst of the field, caused to
be led before him the Earl of Nevers and those of his lineage, with
all the French barons, knights, and esquires who remained after the
slaughter of that field. Sad was it to see these noble youths, in the
prime of life, of blood so lofty as that of the royal line of France,
fast bound with ropes, disarmed, in their under doublets, conducted by
these ugly, frightful dogs of Saracens before the tyrant enemy of the
faith who sat there. He knew for certain, through good interpreters,
that the Earl of Nevers was grandson and cousin–german to a king of
France, and that his father was a duke of great power and wealth, and
that others were of the same blood and nearly related to the king. So
he bethought himself, that for preserving them he might have great
treasure: therefore he did not put them to death, nor any other of
the greatest barons, but made them sit there on the ground before
him. Alas! immediately after began the cruel sacrifice. For then were
led before him the noble Christian barons, knights, and esquires,
naked; and then, as they paint on the walls King Herod sitting on a
chair, and the Innocents cut in pieces before him, there were our
faithful Christians cut in pieces by these Saracen curs before the
Earl of Nevers and under his very eyes. So you may understand, you
who hear this, what grief went to his heart, good and kind lord as
he is, and what pain it gave him to see thus martyred his good and
loyal companions, and his people that had been so faithful to him,
and who were so distinguished for gallantry. Certes I think he was so
grieved at heart, that fain would he have been of their company in that
slaughter. And so the Turks led them one after another to martyrdom,
as men led in old times the blessed martyrs, and struck their heads
and chests and shoulders fearfully with great knives, and felled them
without mercy. Well may one know with what woful countenances they went
in that sad procession. For even as the butcher drags a lamb to the
slaughter, so were our good Christians, without a word being spoken,
led to die before the tyrant. But notwithstanding that their death was
hard and their case pitiful, every good Christian should esteem them
thrice fortunate, and born in a happy hour, to receive such a death.
For they must sometime have died, and God gave them grace to die in
the advancement of the Christian religion, the holiest and worthiest
death (as we in our faith hold) that a Christian can die; and also he
made them to be the companions of the blessed martyrs, the happiest of
all the orders of Saints in Paradise. For there is no doubt but that
they are Saints in Paradise, if they met their fate with good will. In
this piteous procession was Boucicaut, the Marshal of France, naked,
except his small clothes (petits draps). But God, who willed not to
lose his servant, for the sake of the good service which he was to do
thereafter, as well in avenging the death of that glorious company
upon the Saracens, as in the other great benefits which were to follow
from his talents and by his means, caused the Earl of Nevers to look
at the Marshal and the Marshal at him right sorrowfully, at the very
moment that some one was about to strike him. Then was the foresaid
Earl wonderfully vexed at heart for the death of such a man, and he
called to mind the great good, the prowess, loyalty, and valour that
were in him. So, on a sudden, God put it in his mind to clasp his hands
together as he looked at Bajazet, and he made sign that the Marshal
was to him as a brother, and that he should respite him: which sign
Bajazet soon understood, and released him. When this stern execution
was complete, and the whole field was strewed with the bodies of
these blessed martyrs, as many French as others of divers countries,
that cursed Bajazet arose, and ordered the Marshal, who had been so
respited, to be committed to prison in a large handsome town of Turkey,
called Bursa. So his bidding was done, and he was kept there till the
arrival of the said Bajazet.”[111]
Innumerable instances of the like ferocity might be produced from
Eastern history. Rowe’s polished and pious Tamerlane put to death
100,000 persons in the streets of Delhi. Few men have so well and
fairly estimated their own character, and the class to which they
belong, as did Nadir Shah, when to the remonstrance, “If thou art a
king, cherish and protect thy people,—if a prophet, shew us the way
of salvation,—if a God, be merciful to thy creatures,” he replied,
“I am neither a king to protect my subjects, nor a prophet to teach
the way of salvation, nor a God to exercise the attribute of mercy;
but I am he whom the Almighty has sent in his wrath to chastise a
world of sinners.” The following anecdote, striking in itself, is the
more interesting as an exception to a general rule: “In the year 1068
Alp Arslan, the second sultan of Persia, of the Seljukian dynasty,
defeated and took prisoner Romanus Diogenes, husband of Eudocia, the
reigning empress of Constantinople. He treated his prisoner with
extreme kindness and distinction; he uttered no reproaches that could
wound a humbled monarch, but gave vent to the honest indignation of
a warrior at the base and cowardly conduct of those who had deserted
and abandoned so brave a leader. We are told that he asked his captive
at their first conference, what he would have done if fortune had
reversed their lot. ‘I would have given thee many a stripe,’ was the
imprudent and virulent answer. This expression of haughty and unsubdued
spirit excited no anger in the brave and generous conqueror. He only
smiled, and asked Romanus what he expected would be done to him? ‘If
thou art cruel,’ said the emperor, ‘put me to death. If vain–glorious,
load me with chains, and drag me to thy capital. If generous, grant
me my liberty!’ Alp Arslan was neither cruel nor vain–glorious: he
released his prisoner, gave all his officers who were captives dresses
of honour, and distinguished them by every mark of friendship and
regard.”[112]
Far from wishing to cast an undue reproach upon the past by these
melancholy details of cruelty and suffering, we should have been glad
to relieve the narrative by more numerous instances of generosity
and mercy. But that these virtues are not the attributes of a savage
race, will readily be granted by all: that they are not necessarily
the fruit of refinement and civilization (if that term be applicable
to an advanced stage of art and knowledge, without a corresponding
improvement in moral wisdom) is shown by the universal experience of
the past, and nowhere more forcibly than in the history of Greece and
Rome. The progress of society seems only to have taught one lesson;
that it is better to make the conquered subservient to the profit
or amusement of the conqueror, than to put him to death, like any
other formidable or offensive animal. In man’s earliest and rudest
condition, as a hunter, slaves are worse than useless; for sustenance
is of more value than labour, and the precarious supply of the chase
is insufficient to provide permanently and plentifully for his own
wants. The avenging or preventing encroachments upon each other’s
hunting–ground is therefore a most frequent cause of warfare among
neighbouring tribes, and the massacre of the conquered is prompted
equally by revenge and policy. We find accordingly that in North
America a prisoner’s only chance of escape lay in being adopted
into the hostile tribe in the place of some one who had fallen in
battle. The still more savage practice of feasting upon prisoners
is sufficiently proved to have existed at a very recent period in
New Zealand. In other heathen countries they have been reserved from
indiscriminate slaughter, only to perish on the altars of false gods.
But labour becomes valuable, and the command of labour an advantage,
in proportion as men emerge from barbarism, and apply themselves
to agriculture, or a pastoral life; and when it is found out that
a prisoner’s services may be made worth more than his maintenance,
the policy of the victor changes, and he preserves an enemy whom
formerly he was almost compelled to destroy. Slavery, therefore,
is, in the infancy of nations, an index of increasing civilization,
and an amelioration of human misery, since the bulk of mankind have
ever hailed with joy a respite from death, even though existence be
attended with degradation and suffering. A generous spirit, indeed,
would be little gratified at receiving life upon terms of hopeless
servitude; yet even to such the introduction of slave labour lightened
the evils of defeat. When men were detained merely for the value of
their services, it was natural to release them if an equivalent for
that value were paid, and hence arose the custom of admitting prisoners
to ransom, which exercised a two–fold influence in favour of slaves:
first by enabling them to acquire freedom at the sacrifice of wealth;
secondly, by removing the utter hopelessness and degradation of their
state, and introducing a possibility that the slave and master might
some day be replaced in their original relation to each other. This
practice was familiar in the Homeric age, though revenge or the heat
of battle often caused mercy and interest to be alike disregarded.
Melancholy indeed was the fate of a captured city. The adult males were
usually slaughtered, the females and children reserved for slavery;
those even of the highest rank were employed as menial servants in the
victor’s household. “What evils,” says Priam, “does Jupiter reserve me
to behold on the threshold of age! My sons slain, my daughters dragged
into slavery, my chambers plundered, the very infants dashed against
the ground in mournful warfare, and my sons’ wives dragged by the
destructive hands of the Greeks. The dogs which I fed in my palace,
at my own table, to protect it, will tear me, even me, stretched dead
at the outer door, as they lie ravening in the vestibule lapping my
blood. To a young man it is becoming to lie slain in warfare, pierced
by the sharp sword; to such nothing that can happen in death is
unseemly. But that dogs should defile the grey head and the grey beard
of a slaughtered elder, this is the mournfulest thing that happens to
wretched mortals.”[113]
For the lot of those who were reserved, we may quote Hector’s parting
speech to Andromache.
I know the day draws nigh when Troy shall fall,
When Priam and his nation perish all:
Yet less forebodings of the fate of Troy,
Her king, and Hecuba, my peace destroy;
Less that my brethren, all th’ heroic band,
Should with their blood imbrue their native land;
Than thoughts of thee in tears, to Greece a prey,
Dragged by the grasp of war in chains away,
Of thee in tears, beneath an Argive roof
Labouring reluctant the allotted woof,
Or doomed to draw, from Hypereia’s cave,
Or from Messeis’ fount, the measured wave.
A voice will then be heard which thou must bear,
‘See’st thou yon captive, pouring tear on tear?
Lo! Hector’s wife, the hero bravest far
When Troy and Greece round Ilion clashed in war.’[114]
As time advanced the Greeks became more humane, and the treatment
of their prisoners improved; insomuch that about the year 500
B.C. it seems to have been usual among the Peloponnesian
states to admit each other’s citizens to ransom at a fixed sum of two
minæ, something less than eight pounds of our money;[115] and the
Athenians released certain Bœotians for the same sum.[116] The meridian
splendour of Greece, as we shall have future occasion to notice, is
more especially dimmed by the cold–blooded cruelty of her civil wars.
It is observable, however, that in the 10th year of the Peloponnesian
war, the mutual restoration of prisoners formed a condition in a treaty
of peace; and this, we believe, is the first instance on record at all
resembling the humane usage of the present day.
In the youth of Rome, as she gradually extended her dominion,
cities were depopulated to be refilled by her citizens, and their
inhabitants sold like cattle, by public auction.[117] In her days of
greatness, when whole kingdoms fell before her, the rights of conquest
were necessarily more leniently exercised; for nations cannot be
dispossessed and enslaved in mass. But the number of Greek and of
Syrian slaves in Rome shows that the independence of those nations
was not overturned without a corresponding loss of private freedom;
and those uncivilised countries, which could contribute little else
of wealth to satiate a Roman general’s extortion, saw droves of
their inhabitants sold into captivity to supply the labourers and
gladiators of an idle and dissolute empire.[118] The exemption of
modern Europe, from these horrors is chiefly referable to the influence
of Christianity, which, however ineffectual to purify the minds and
lives of a vast majority of those who have outwardly embraced it, has
given unquestionable proof of its intrinsic excellence by refining
and enlarging men’s views of morality and benevolence, wherever its
doctrines have not been altogether obscured and corrupted.[119] It is
true that in the reign of Justinian, Constantinople witnessed for the
first and only time the insolent splendour of a Roman triumph, granted
to Belisarius after the reduction of the Vandal kingdom; on which,
as on former occasions, the noblest of the conquered nation, headed
by Gelimer, their king, swelled the vainglorious procession. But the
changed spirit of the times is shown in the subsequent treatment of
them. To the king and his family a safe retirement and an ample estate
in Galatia were allotted; and the flower of the Vandal youth were
enlisted, and served with distinction in the Persian wars. Among other
claims to our gratitude, the clergy of the dark ages have the merit of
steadily resisting the practice of enslaving Christians. The working of
the feudal system was also beneficial in this respect. The aristocracy
of the land were also its soldiery; to make prisoners, therefore,
was a greater object than to kill, for the ransom of prisoners was
a never–failing source of revenue to the brave and powerful. And as
the inferior classes might not be reduced to domestic servitude, and
besides passed naturally with the land, whether as serfs, in absolute
and acknowledged bondage, or as vassals, free in name, but bound to the
soil by all the ties of property, the victor had no interest in the
detention of prisoners, except such as were able to purchase freedom.
The singular institutions of chivalry also exercised a strong influence
in humanizing warfare. Knighthood formed a bond of union throughout
Europe. Men fought for gain, for honour, for revenge; but victory,
which ensured all but the last, was seldom tarnished by cruelty,
except in instances of deadly feud. We are by no means inclined to
overrate the savage virtues of those times, or to deny that they
abound in examples of most flagrant cruelty and oppression; but we
contend, that compared with earlier ages, place even barbarism against
refinement, the half–savage Teuton against the polished Greek or Roman,
we see the tokens of a vast improvement in this respect. And we may
further observe that of the cruelties recorded a large proportion
are foreign to the question, being perpetrated in prosecution of the
cherished spirit of revenge, or to extract wealth from Jews, or others
of inferior rank, and not on prisoners of war. We do not plead this
in extenuation of those enormities; the evil passions of the heart
sprung up unchecked into a plentiful harvest of evil actions: but
of cruelty to their prisoners of war, the Europeans and the middle
ages were comparatively guiltless. Among them, for the first time in
history, the victor and the defeated mixed in social intercourse upon
terms of equality, without degradation being felt by the one, or an
undue and ungenerous superiority assumed by the other; each aware that
on the morrow the turn of fortune might reverse their situations,
and that disgrace attached to misfortune only when occasioned by
misconduct.[120] And the lofty, though fantastic notions of honour
which prevailed, tended still further to lighten captivity, when the
word of a knight was considered as sufficient surety for his ransom,
and prisoners were enabled to obtain their release upon parole. Nowhere
is this courteous and humane spirit more strongly marked than in the
wars of England and Scotland during the 14th century. Yet we might
expect to find the warfare of that century distinguished by more than
usual inhumanity. The perfidious aggression, the inveterate hostility
of Edward I., were calculated to raise in the Scotch a most implacable
resentment; while the obstinate resistance and successful reprisals in
which our northern counties were repeatedly devastated, were equally
well fitted to inspire the English with no friendly feelings towards
their northern brethren. A hundred years had elapsed since the first
quarrel, during which the sword had scarcely been sheathed, the fire
of burning villages scarcely quenched. We might reasonably then expect
to find these wars carried on “à outrance;” to find no mercy in their
battles, no gentleness or generosity in their intercourse. But the
account of Froissart is very different.
“Englysshmen on the one partye, and scottes on the other partye, are
goode men of warre, for when they mete there is a hard fight, without
sparynge; there is no troo bytwene them as long as speares, swordes,
axes, or dagers wyll endure, but lay on eche upon other; and whan they
be well beaten, and that the one parte hath optaygned the victory, they
then glorifye so in their dedes of armes, and are so ioyfull, that
such as be taken, they shall be raunsomed or they go out of the felde,
so that shortely eche of them is so content with other, that at their
departynge curtoysly they will saye, Gode thank you, but in fyghtynge
one with another there is no playe, nor sparynge; and this is trewe,
and that shall well apere by this sayde rencounter (of Otterbourn), for
it was as valyauntly foughten as coulde be devysed.... This batayle was
fierse and cruell, tyll it came to the end of the discomfiture; but
whan the scottes saw the englysshmen recule, and yelde themselves, than
the scottes were curtes, and sette them to their raunsom, and every
manne sayde to his prisoner, Sirs, go and unarm you and take your ease,
I am your mayster; and so made their prisoners as goode chere as though
they had been brethern, without doyng them any damage.”[121]
Another anecdote of the same battle, from the same graphic and
delightful historian, will serve to illustrate more than one of the
points to which the reader’s attention has been drawn. Sir Matthew
Reedman, the governor of Berwick, fought under Percy at Otterbourn and
endeavoured to escape when fortune declared against the English.
“Now I shall shewe you of sir Mathue Reedman, who was on horsback
to save himselfe, for he alone coulde not remedy the mater: at his
departing sir James Lynsay was nere to hym, and sawe how sir Mathue
departed, and this sir James, to wyn honour, folowed in chase sir
Mathue Reedman, and came so nere hym, that he myght have stryken hym
with his speare if he had lyst; than he sayd, Ah sir knyght, tourne,
it is a shame thus to flye: I am James of Lynsay: if ye will not
tourne I shall stryke ye on the back with my spere. Sir Mathue spake
no worde, but strake his horse with the spurs sorer than he dyde
before. In this maner he chased hym more than thre myles, and at last
sir Mathue Reedman’s horse foundred and fell under hym: than he stepte
forthe on the erthe, and drewe oute his sworde, and took corage to
defende hymselfe: and the scotte thought to have stryken him on the
brest, but sir Mathue Reedman swarved from the stroke, and the speare
poynt entred into the erthe: then sir Mathue strake asonder the spere
with his sworde; and whan sir James Lynsay sawe howe he had loste his
speare, he caste awaye the tronchon, and lyghted afote, and toke a
lytell batayle–axe that he caryed at his backe, and handeled it with
his one hande, quickely and delyverly, in the whiche feate scottes be
well experte, and than he set at sir Mathue and he defended hymselfe
properly. Thus they tourneyed toguyder, one with an axe, and the other
with a swerde, a long season, and no man to lette them: fynally, sir
James Lynsay gave the knyght suche strokes, and helde hym so shorte,
that he was putte out of brethe in such wyse that he yelded hymselfe
and sayde, Sir James Lynsay, I yelde me to you. Well, quod he, and I
receyve you, rescue or no rescue. I am content, quod Reedman, so you
deale with me lyke a good companyon. I shall nat fayle that, quod
Lynsay, and so putte up his swerde. Well, sir, quod Reedman, what wyll
you nowe that I shall do? I am your prisoner, ye have conquered me; I
wolde gladly go agayne to Newcastell, and within fyftene dayes I shall
come to you into Scotlande, whereas ye shall assigne me. I am content,
quod Lynsay: ye shall promyse by your faythe to present yourself within
this thre wekes at Edenborowe, and wheresoever ye go, to reporte
yourselfe my prisoner. All this sir Mathue sware, and promysed to
fulfyll. Than eche of them toke their horses, and toke leave, eche of
other. Sir James returned, and his entent was to go to his owne company
the same way as he came, and sir Mathue Reedman to Newcastell. Sir
James Lynsay could nat keep the ryght waye as he came: it was darke,
and a myst, and he hadde nat rydden halfe a myle, but he met face to
face with the bysshoppe of Durham and mo than v hundred Englysshmen
with hym: he myght wel have escaped, if he had wolde, but he supposed
it had been his owne company that had pursued the Englisshmen: whan he
was among them, one demaunded of hym what he was. I am, quod he, sir
James Lynsay. The bysshoppe herde those words, and stepte to hym, and
sayde, Lynsay, ye are taken; yelde ye to me. Who be you? quod Lynsay.
I am, quod he, the bysshop of Durham. And fro whens come ye, sir? quod
Lynsay. I come fro the batayle, quod the bysshoppe, but I strake never
a stroke there; I go back to Newcastell for this night, and ye shall
go with me. I may nat chuse, quod Lynsay, sithe you will have it so:
I have taken, and I am taken; such is the adventures of armes. Whom
have ye taken? quod the bysshop. Sir, quod he, I toke in the chase sir
Mathue Reedman. And where is he? quod the bysshop. By my faythe, sir,
he is retourned to Newcastell: he desyred me to trust hym on his fayth
for thre wekes, and so have I done. Well, quod the bysshop, lette us
go to Newcastell, and there ye shall spake with hym. Thus they rode to
Newcastell toguyder, and sir James Lynsay was prisoner to the bisshop
of Durham.”
“After that sir Mathue Reedman was retourned to Newcastell, and hadde
shewed to dyvers howe he had been taken prisoner by sir James Lynsay;
than it was shewed him howe the bisshoppe of Durham had taken the
sayd sir James Lynsay, and how that he was thene in the towne as his
prisoner: as sone as the bysshoppe was departed, sir Mathue Reedman
wente to the bysshoppes lodgyng to see his mayster, and there he founde
hym in a studye, lyeng in a wyndowe, and sayd, What, sir James Lynsay,
what make you here? Than sir James came forth of the studye to hym,
and gave hym good morowe, and sayd, By my fayth, sir Mathue, fortune
hath brought me hyder; for as sone as I was departed fro you, I mette
by chaunce the bysshoppe of Durham, to whome I am prisoner, as ye
be to me. I beleve ye shall nat nede to come to Edenborowe to me to
make your fynaunce: I think rather we shall make an exchaunge one for
another, if the bysshoppe be so contente. Well, sir, quod Reedman, we
shall accorde ryght well toguyder: ye shall dyne this daye with me; the
bysshop and our men be gone forthe to fyght with your men. I can not
tell what shall fall; we shall know at their retourne. I am content to
dyne with you, quod Lynsay. Thus these two knyghtes dyned toguyder in,
Newcastell.”[122]
Some danger unquestionably there was, that where the marketable value
of prisoners was so clearly recognised, humanity would be forgotten
in avarice; a lapse of memory which our acquaintance with Algiers
and other piratical states proves not altogether impossible. One
of the causes which prevented this, the union and equality produced
by knighthood, has been alluded to; and we may find another in the
high–spirited notions of personal honour which prevailed.[123] To
refuse a prisoner his liberty upon payment of ransom, either directly
or covertly, by demanding a sum disproportionate to his rank and means,
was held dishonourable; for a knight would have esteemed himself
disgraced if it could be suspected that he retained an enemy in prison
through fear of meeting him in the open field. “After that the Prince
of Wales was returned from Spain into Acquitayne, and his brother,
the Duke of Lancastre, into Englande, and every lorde into his owne,
sir Bertram du Guesclin was styll prisoner with the prince, and with
sir Johan Chandos, and coulde nat come to his raunsome, nor fynaunce,
the whiche was sore displeasaunt to kyng Henry,[124] if he might have
mended it: and it so fortuned after, as I was enformed, that on a
day the prince called to hym sir Bertram du Guesclin, and demaunded
of hym how he dyde; he answered and sayd, Sir, it was never better
with me; it is reason that it shulde be so, for I am in prison with
the most renowned knyght of the worlde. With whome is that? sayd the
prince. Sir, quoth he, that is with Sir Johan Chandos; and, sir, it is
sayd in the realme of Fraunce, and in other places, that ye feare me
so moche, that ye dare nat let me out of prison, the whiche to me is
full great honour. The prince, who understode well the wordes of sir
Bertram du Guesclin, and parceyved well how his own counsayle wolde in
no wyse that he shuld delyver hym, unto the tyme that king Don Peter
had payed him all suche sommes as he was bound to do. Than he sayd to
sir Bertram, Sir, then ye thinke that we kepe you for feare of your
chivalry; nay, thynke it nat, for I swere by saint George, it is nat
so; therfore pay for your raunsome an hundred thousand fraunkes, and ye
shall be delyvered. Sir Bertram, who desyred gretly to be delyvered,
and herde on what poynt he might depart, toke the prince with that
worde, and sayd, Sir, in the name of God so be it, I wyll pay no
lasse. And whan the prince herde hym say so, he wolde than gladly have
repented hymselfe; and also some of his counsayle came to hym, and
sayd, Sir, ye have nat done well so lightly to put him to his raunsome.
And so they wolde gladly have caused the prince to have revoked that
covenant; but the prince, who was a true and noble knight, sayd, Sithe
that we agreed therto, we wyll nat breke our promise; it shulde be to
us a grete rebuke, shame and reproche, if we shulde nat put him to
raunsome, seyng he is content to pay such a grete somme as an hundred
thousand fraunkes.”[125]
The following story of William Rufus, which is told by William of
Malmsbury, illustrates the character of the man, rather than the spirit
of the age. Helias de Flechia laid claim to the city of Mans, part of
that monarch’s continental possessions. He was taken and brought before
William, who said insultingly, “I have you, sir.” “You have taken me by
chance,” said the baron; “could I escape, I should find something new
to do.” The hot–headed king, shaking his fist, replied, “You rascal,
what would you do? Troop, shog off, make yourself scarce—you may do
what you can; and by the face of St. Luke, if you get the better of me,
I will ask you nothing for this favour.”[126]
In conclusion we give a celebrated passage from English history, which
is strongly and pleasantly contrasted with the early part of the
chapter. It is well known that the king of France was taken prisoner by
the Black Prince at the battle of Poictiers. “The day of the batayle at
night, the prince made a supper in his lodginge to the frenche kyng,
and to the moost parte of the great lordes that were prisoners: the
prince made the kynge, and his son, the lorde James of Bourbon, the
lorde John D’Artois, the erle of Tancarville, the erle D’Estampes, the
erle Dampmertyne, the erle of Gravyll, and the lorde of Pertenay, to
syt all at one borde, and other lordes, knyghtes, and squiers at other
tables; and alwayes the prince served before the kyng as humbly as he
coude, and wolde nat syt at the kynges borde, for any desyre that the
kynge could make: but sayd he was nat sufficient to syt at the table
with so great a prince as the kyng was; but than he sayd to the kyng,
Sir, for goddes sake make none yvell, nor heavy chere, though god this
day dyd not consent to folowe your wyll: for syr, surely the kyng my
father shall bere you as moche honour and amyte as he may do, and shall
acorde with you so reasonably that ye shall ever be frendes toguyder
after; and sir, methinke ye ought to reioyse, though the journey[127]
be nat as ye wolde have had it, for this day ye have wonne the hygh
renome of prowes, and have past this day in valyantnesse all other of
your partie: sir, I say natte this to mocke you, for alle that be on
our partie that saw every mannes dedes are playnly acorded by true
sentence to gyve you the price and chapelette. Therewith the frenchemen
began to murmure, and sayd among themselves how the prince had spoken
nobly; and that by all estimation he shulde prove a noble man, if Gode
send him lyfe, to perceyver in such good fortune. Whan supper was done,
every man went to his lodgyng with their prisoners: the same night
they put many to raunsome, and beleyved them upon their faythes and
trouthes, and raunsomed them but easily, for they sayde, _they wolde
sette no knyghts raunsom so hygh, but that he might pay at his ease and
mayntaygne still his degree_.
“The same wynter the prince of Wales, and such of Englande as were
with him at Bardeaux, ordayned for shippes, to convey the frenche
king and his son and all other prisoners into Englande. Then he took
the see, and certayne lordes of Gascoyne with hym: the frenche kyng
was in a vessell by hymselfe, to be the more at hys ease, accompanyed
with two hundred men at arms, and two thousand archers: for it was
showed the prince that the thre estates, by whom the realme of France
was governed, had layed in Normandy and Crotoy two great armyes to
the entent to mete with hym, and to gette the frenche kyng out of his
handes if they might: but there were no such that apered, and yet thei
were on the see xi dayes, and on the xii day they aryved at Sandwych;
then they yssued out of their shyppe, and lay there all that nyghte,
and taryed there two dayes to refresh them; and on the therde day
they rode to Canterbury. When the kynge of Englande knew of their
commynge, he commaunded them of London to prepare theym, and their
cyte, to receyve suche a man as the frenche kyng was: then they of
London arrayed themselfe, by companyes, and the chief maisters clothing
different fro the other; at saynt Thomas of Canterbury the frenche
kyng and the prince made their offerynges, and there taryed a day, and
than rode to Rochester, and taryed there that day, and the next day
to Dartforde, and the fourth day to London, wher they were honourably
receyved, and so they were in every good towne as they passed: the
frenche kynge rode through London on a whyte courser, well aparelled,
and the prince on a lyttell black hobbey by hym: thus he was conveyed
along the cyte till he came to the Savoy, the which house pertayned to
the heritage of the duke of Lancaster; there the frenche kynge kept hys
house a long season, and thyder came to se hym the kyng and the quene
ofttimes, and made him great feest and chere.”[128]
It has been said that the Prince’s conduct was too ostentatiously
humble; that in refusing to sit at table with the King of France, and
in making him the principal object of attention in their entry into
London, he exceeded the modesty of a conqueror, and exposed himself
to the charge of hypocrisy. The censure is, we think, erroneous, and
arises from ignorance of the feelings of the times. The humility of the
Black Prince was that of a vassal in presence of his feudal lord, due,
not because he owed allegiance to the King of France, but because that
monarch was the peer of the King of England, and in courtesy entitled,
especially as a visitor, though a forced one, to an equal measure of
respect from his subjects. The victor merely overlooked the fortune
of war, and paid to his royal prisoner the homage which he would have
shown to his father, and which the King of France would have received
from the heir to his own crown.
EXTRACT FROM THE LIFE OF MESSIRE BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN.
(_Referred to in the Note, p. 104._)
“One day the Prince of Wales was risen from dinner, and gone into
a private chamber with his barons, who had been served with wine
and spices. So they began to speak of many a bold deed of arms, of
love–passages, of battles, and of prisons, and how St. Louis to save
his life was made prisoner in Tunis, from whence he was ransomed for
fine gold, paid down by weight. Until the Prince, who spoke without
caution, said, ‘When a good knight well approved in battle is made
prisoner in fair feat of arms, and has rendered himself, and sworn to
abide prisoner, he should on no account depart without his master’s
leave. And also one should not demand such portion of his substance,
that he be unable to equip himself again.’ When the Sire de Lebret
heard these words, he began to take heed, and said to him, ‘Noble Sire,
be not angry with me if I relate what I have heard said of you in your
absence.’ ‘By my faith,’ said the Prince, ‘right little should I love
follower of mine sitting at my table, if he heard said a word against
my honour, and apprised me not of it.’ ‘Sire,’ said he of Lebret, ‘men
say that you hold in prison a knight whose name I well know, whom you
dare not delyver.’ ‘It is true,’ said Oliver de Clisson, ‘I have heard
speak of it.’ Then the Prince swore and boasted, ‘that he knew no
knight in the world, but, if he were his prisoner, he would put him to
a fair ransom, according to his ability.’ And Lebret said, ‘How then do
you forget Bertrand du Guesclin, that he cannot get away?’ And when the
Prince heard this, his colour changed; and he was so tempted by pride,
anger, and disdain, that he commanded Bertrand to be brought before
him; with whom he wished to make terms, in spite of all who had spoken
of the matter, and would fain not let him be ransomed, unless they
themselves should fix the amount. Then certain knights went and found
Bertrand, who, to amuse himself and forget his weariness, was talking
with his chamberlain. Which knights saluted him. And Bertrand arose
towards them, and showed a fair seeming, saying ‘that they were come in
good time.’ Then he ordered the aforesaid chamberlain to bring wine.
The knights answered ‘that it was right fitting they should have much
wine, good and strong; for they brought him good, joyful, and pleasant
news with good will.’ Then one of them who was wise and discreet said,
‘that the Prince sent for him to appear in his presence, and he thought
that he would be ransomed by help of those friends he had at court, who
were many.’ ‘What say you?’ said Bertrand; ‘I have neither halfpenny
nor penny, and owe more than ten thousand livres, that have been lent
me, which debt has accrued in this city while I have been prisoner.’
One of them inquired of him, ‘How have you accounted for so much?’ ‘I
will answer for that,’ said Bertrand; ‘I have eaten, drunk, given,
and played at dice with it. A little money is soon spent. But if I be
set free, I shall soon have paid it: he saves his money, and has it
in good keeping, who shall for my help lend me the keys of it.’ And
an officer who heard him said, ‘Sir, you are stout–hearted, it seems
to you that every thing which you would have must happen.’ ‘By my
faith,’ said Bertrand, ‘you are right, for a dispirited man is nothing
better than beaten and discomfited.’ And the rest said, ‘that he was
like one enchanted, for he was proof against every shock.’ Then he was
brought to the chamber where was the Prince of Wales, and with him John
Chandos, a true and valiant knight. And had they chosen to believe
him, they would long before have disposed of the war: for he gave much
good advice. And also there were Oliver de Clisson and other knights,
before whom came Bertrand, wearing a grey coat. And when the Prince
saw him, he could not keep from laughing, from the time he saw him.
Then he said, ‘Well, Bertrand, how fare you?’ And Bertrand approached
him, bowing a little, and said, ‘Sir, when it shall please you, I may
fare better: many a day have I heard the rats and mice, but the song of
birds it is long since I heard.[129] I shall hear them when it is your
pleasure.’ ‘Bertrand,’ said the Prince, ‘that shall be when you will;
it will depend only on yourself, so that you will swear, and make true
oath, never to bear arms against me, nor these others, nor to assist
Henry of Spain. So soon as you will swear this, we will fully set you
free, and pay that you owe, and besides give 10,000 florins to equip
you anew, if you consent to this; else you shall not go.’ ‘Sire,’ said
Bertrand, ‘my deliverance then will not come to pass; for before I do
so, may I lie by the leg in prison while I live. God willing, I will
never be a reproach to my friends. For by Him who made the world, I
will serve with my whole heart those whom I have served, and whose I
have been from my outset. These are the good King of France, the noble
Dukes of Anjou, of Berry, of Burgundy, and of Bourbon; whose I have
been, as became me. But so please you, suffer me to go. For you have
held me too long in prison, wrongfully and without cause; and I will
tell you how I had gone from France, I and my people meaning to go
against the Saracens. And so I had promised Hugh de Carvalay, intending
to work out my salvation.’ ‘Why then went you not straight without
stopping?’ said the Prince. ‘I will tell you,’ said Bertrand in a loud
voice. ‘We found Peter,—the curse of God confound him! who had long
since thrice falsely murdered his noble Queen, born of the noble line
of Bourbon, and of the blood of my Lord, St. Louis, which lady was
your cousin by the best blood in your body. Straightway then I stopped,
to take vengeance for her, and to help Henry; for well I know, and
surely I believe, that he is the right king and the true heir of Spain.
And also to destroy, and put to an end, Jews and Saracens, of whom
there are too many in these parts. Now through great pride you have
come to Spain to the best of your ability, both through covetousness of
gold and silver, and that you may have the throne after the death of
Peter, who reigns wrongfully, by which journey you have, in the first
place, injured your own blood, and troubled me and my people: whence
it has come to pass, that after you have so ruined your friends, and
you and your people have been all famished, and suffered great pain
and labour, Peter has deceived you by cheating and trickery, for he
has not kept faith nor covenant with you, for which, by my faith, I
thank him heartily.’ When Bertrand had related his reasons, the Prince
rose, and could not help saying that on his soul Bertrand was right,
and the barons said that he had spoken truth. Then was there great
joy stirring all round and about, and they said of Bertrand, one to
another, ‘See there a brave Breton.’ But the Prince called, and said
to him, ‘You shall not escape me without paying a good ransom; and yet
it vexes me that you obtain such favour. But men say that I keep you
prisoner because I fear you; and to the end that every one may cease to
suspect this, and may know that I neither fear nor care for you, I will
deliver you on payment of sufficient ransom.’ ‘Sir,’ said Bertrand,
‘I am a poor knight of little name, and not so born as that I should
find help in plenty. And besides, my estate is mortgaged for purchase
of war–horses, and also I owe in this town full ten thousand florins.
Be moderate, therefore, and deliver, me.’ ‘Where will you go, fair
Sir?’ said the Prince. ‘Sir,’ said Bertrand, ‘I will go where I may
regain my loss, and more I say not.’ ‘Consider then,’ said the Prince,
‘what ransom you will give me: for what you will shall be enough for
me.’ ‘Sir,’ said Bertrand, ‘I trust you will not stoop to retract your
meaning. And since you are content to refer it to my pleasure, I ought
not to value myself too low. So I will give and engage for my freedom
one hundred thousand double golden florins.’ And when the Prince heard
him his colour changed, and he looked round at his knights, saying,
‘Does he mean to make game of me that he offers such a sum? for I
would gladly quit him for the quarter.’ ‘Bertrand,’ said he, ‘neither
can you pay it, nor do I wish such a sum; so consider again.’ ‘Sire,’
said Bertrand, ‘since you will not so much, I place myself at sixty
thousand double florins; you shall not have less, sobeit you will
discharge me.’ ‘Well,’ said the Prince, ‘I agree to it.’ Then said
Bertrand loudly, ‘Sir, Prince Henry may well and truly vaunt that he
will die King of Spain, cost him what it may, and he will lend me one
half my ransom, and the King of France the other; and if I can neither
go nor send to these two, I would get all the spinstresses in France to
spin it rather than that I should remain longer in your hands.’[130]
And when the Prince had heard him he thus said: ‘What sort of man is
this? He startles at nothing, either in act or thought, no more than
if he had all the gold which is in the world. He has set himself at
sixty thousand double florins, and I would willingly have quitted him
for ten thousand.’ And all the barons also marvelled greatly. ‘Am I
then at liberty?’ said the gallant Bertrand. And Chandos asked him
whence the money should come. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I have good friends, as
I shall find, I am certain.’ ‘By my faith,’ said Chandos, ‘I am much
rejoiced therefore, and if you have need of my help, thus much I say,
I will lend you ten thousand.’ ‘Sir,’ said Bertrand, ‘I thank you. But
before I seek anything of you I will try the people of my own country.’
The news of this matter went through the city of Bordeaux. There you
might see all persons, great and small, citizens, and artisans of all
sorts, run towards the mansion of the Prince to see Bertrand. And
when the Prince’s knights saw the people assemble thus, and knew the
cause of their coming, they brought the said Bertrand to lean out at
a window, who laughed heartily at the matter. And when the commoners
saw him from a distance, they said, ‘He is a downright enemy! cursed
be the hour that he escapes alive. He has done much evil, and will do
worse.’ And others said, ‘Have we idled and yawned, and run away from
our business, to look at such a squire as this? May God bless him not!
for he is an ugly fellow, and unable to pay the ransom at which he is
valued.’ ‘Whence should he draw it?’ said others; ‘he will never pay a
single penny of his own, but will pilfer it through the broad land.’
And those who knew Bertrand better said to them, ‘Now argue not so much
in using such words, for there is no better knight in the world, and
none that better knows how to make war. And there is no castle, however
strong, however high the rock on which it stands, that would not
soon surrender if he went thither to assault it: and, throughout the
kingdom of France, there is no man nor woman, however poor, who would
not contribute, if he needed it, rather than that he should remain in
prison.”[131]
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