Other matters of more general interest occurred soon after the events
we have narrated in the last chapter, and imperatively called the
attention of the citizens of Ghent from the unhappy druggist and his
son. Strange rumours of a battle fought and lost beneath the walls of
Nancy, circulated in the good town during the evening of the ninth of
January. No one, however, could trace them to their source. No
messenger had arrived in the city from the army of the Duke of
Burgundy; and the wise and prudent amongst the citizens, after a few
inquiries concerning the authority on which these reports rested,
rejected them as false and malicious.
They were borne, however, in the evening, by Maillotin du Bac, to the
ears of the druggist Ganay; and the chance of such an event was
eagerly canvassed between them, as well as the course of action to be
pursued in case the tidings should prove true; which, as they
calculated all the probabilities, and suffered their wishes in some
degree to lead their judgments, they gradually persuaded themselves
was even more than likely.
Long and anxious were their deliberations; and it was verging fast
towards the hour of three in the morning when the Prevot left the
dwelling of the rich merchant. It was a clear, frosty night, with the
bright small stars twinkling in thousands through a sky from which
every drop of vapour and moisture seemed frozen away by the intense
cold. The world was all asleep; and the sound of a footfall in the
vacant streets was enough to make even the journeyer himself start at
the noise his step produced, so still and silent was the whole scene.
The sinking moon, though she still silvered over with her beams the
frost-work on the high roofs of the various buildings, and poured a
flood of mellow splendour down the long streets that led to the
westward, cast the broad shadows of the principal buildings completely
over all the other parts of the town, leaving no light but that which
was diffused through the whole air by the general brightness of the
sky, and its glistening reflection from the thin film of ice upon the
canals.
There is always something sublime and touching in the aspect of a
large city sleeping calmly in the moonlight of a clear quiet night,
with all its congregated thousands reposing beneath the good
providence of God. But the mind of Maillotin du Bac had reached that
point of obduracy at which the sweetest or the most solemn, the most
refreshing or the most awful of the pages in Nature's great monitory
book are equally unheeded. Wrapping his cloak round him, to guard
against the cold, he walked on, close to the houses, and turned into
the first small narrow alley that he found, in order that no watchful
eye, if such existed, might trace him from the house of the druggist.
Thence, again deviating into one of those lateral streets that lead
along by the side of the principal ones, he continued his course over
the stones, rendered black and slippery by the intense frost.
All was still. Not a sound fell upon the ear, except every now and
then the distant crowing of a cock heard through the clear air from
the country beyond the walls. After a little, however, as the Prevot
walked on, he caught the tramp of a horse's feet sounding afar off,
and, in a few minutes, the challenge of the sentries at the Alost
gate, the clang of the portcullis, the fall of the drawbridge, a brief
murmured conversation at the gate, and then again the sound of the
horse's feet advancing at the slow pace which the state of the
pavement rendered necessary, down the principal street. All this he
heard clearly and distinctly; for the sound must have been small,
indeed, which, in the calm still winter air of the night, did not
reach his practised ear.
He was now too far from the house of the druggist for his appearance
in the streets, even at that late hour, to lead to any suspicion of
their connexion, especially as his official duties were always a fair
excuse for conduct that in other men might have led to doubt and
question. At the same time the very habits of his life gave him a
propensity to investigate every occurrence, however slight, so that
the sound of some one entering the city, at such an hour of the night,
instantly attracted his attention, and his curiosity at once led him
to take a short cut into the street down which the horseman was
riding. It was one of those which, running nearly east and west, was
still illumined by the pale light of the moon; and the eye of
Maillotin du Bac, which never forgot the form that it had once rested
upon, instantly perceived and recognised an armed cavalier riding
towards him, whom he had known as a boon companion in the army of the
Duke of Burgundy.
His resolution was instantly taken to accost him; and, stepping out of
the shadow, as the cavalier approached, he exclaimed, "Why, how now?
What news, Paul Verdun? How long have you left the camp?"
"Who the devil art thou?" was the first reply of the cavalier, who
appeared to have drank more wine than was beneficial to his faculties
of perception; "Who the devil art thou? What! Master Prevot? Give you
good day; give you good day--night, that is to say--or day it may be,
too; for, by my faith, it is after cock-crow. What, going your rounds?
Ever watchful, Master Prevot, eh? What news of the good city?"
"Nothing stirring, nothing stirring," replied Maillotin du Bac; "no
news at all, except that the eschevins hanged a man yesterday, without
my help. But what news of the camp, I say; and how came you from it?"
"Ay, there is the mischief," said the soldier.
"What! no new defeat?" interrupted Maillotin du Bac, his wish, very
likely, being father to the thought.
"Defeat! No, no; no defeat, man!" answered the soldier; "never were we
better. A glorious army, posted strongly, the town almost reduced by
famine, and nothing but a handful of raw Switzers come to relieve it.
There will be a battle before many days are over; and Duke Charles
will cut up the churls like mincemeat. But the mischief is, that I
should be sent away before it is fought."
"So, then, there has been no battle after all," exclaimed the Prevot.
"Well, God send it a good issue, when it does come. Good night, good
friend, I must on upon my way."
"Good night! good night!" replied the soldier; "faith, I must on my
way, too; for I have letters from the duke, and from the Count de
Chimay, for my good Lord of Imbercourt, and, somehow, I met with
three good companions at Alost, who wasted my time over their cursed
pottle-pots. Good night, good night," and so saying, he rode on.
"Ha!" said the Prevot to himself, as he walked towards his own
dwelling; "so, that scheme is all vain, and we must try the other,
though it will be both difficult and dangerous to get any one to give
him the dose. I had rather that it had been something public, too, if
it had but been to wring his pride."
Thus muttering as he went, the Prevot now trod his way homeward. The
soldier and his war-horse were admitted into the court of the Lord of
Imbercourt's hotel. The streets of Ghent resumed their solitude and
silence; and the night between the ninth and tenth of January ended in
peace.
No small activity was observable, however, the next morning in the
precincts of the court. By seven o'clock the Lord of Imbercourt was on
horseback, and proceeding towards the palace, at which Margaret
Duchess of Burgundy, and sister to Edward IV. of England, had arrived
the day before. The Princess Mary, too, was expected from the side of
Bruges. But, nevertheless, two messengers were sent off, at different
times, in that direction; and it was supposed that they bore her the
intelligence of an approaching battle, and recommended her immediate
return to the city.
The news which had been brought by Paul Verdun, and the certainty
that, at the time of his departure from the Burgundian camp, no battle
had been fought, spread rapidly amongst the citizens, and was received
by every different individual with different feelings, as he was well
or ill affected to the reigning family. The certainty, however, that
an immediate struggle was about to take place between Charles the Bold
and his determined and hitherto successful adversaries, the Swiss, of
course kept the minds of the people of the city in a state of
agitation and excitement; a state the most detrimental, morally and
physically, that it is possible to conceive for any town or any
people. Business was neglected, if not suspended; political gossipings
supplied the room of activity and industry; anxiety, suspicion, and
irritation took the place of calm labour and tranquil enjoyment; the
slightest piece of news, whether false or true, was sought and
received as a boon; the wildest tale found some to believe it; and a
small lie, by the industrious augmentation of many, soon swelled into
a mountain of falsehood.
Towards evening the Princess Mary arrived at the palace; and while the
good people of Ghent proceeded to distort amongst themselves the news
of her return in every different way that suited their fancies--some
saying that she had come back with only a single squire, some that she
had brought with her a force of a thousand men-at-arms--that fair girl
herself, after dismounting in the court-yard, together with exactly
the same train which had accompanied her during the whole course of
her progress, ran lightly up the wide flight of steps which conducted
to the apartments of her amiable step-dame, and in a moment after was
in the arms of Margaret of York.
"Bless thee, my sweet child! bless thee!" said the fair Englishwoman,
pressing her husband's daughter to her bosom; "thou art come to
comfort me; for I am very sad, and my heart is full of forebodings."
"Nay, nay, madam, never fear," replied the princess; "you are sad and
anxious because you know my lord and father is likely to risk a
battle, and I, of course, am anxious too; but still we must not
despond. Remember, madam, how often he has fought and conquered."
"It is not for the battle that I fear," replied Margaret of York; "my
early days, and my early recollections, have been, and are, of nothing
but stricken fields, and battles lost and won; and the tidings of
approaching strife would give me no apprehensions, did not those who
are on the spot breathe doubts and suspicions which have sadly shaken
my hopes, dear Mary. In a word, with the duke's letters, received last
night, came a despatch to the good Lord of Imbercourt from the Count
de Chimay. He speaks vaguely and doubtingly; but he evidently
apprehends treason, and as evidently points to Campo Basso as the
traitor--your father's most trusted and favourite servant."
"I would fain see the letters," replied the princess: "may I beseech
you, madam, to let the Lord of Imbercourt be sent for?"
The desire of the princess was immediately obeyed; and in a short
time, Imbercourt returned to the palace. His words were few, and
tended merely to express his congratulations on the princess's safe
return, without touching upon the fears which had been more openly
spoken by the Duchess of Burgundy. There was, however, a degree of
settled gloom upon his countenance, and a restless anxiety in his eye,
which showed that his apprehensions were perhaps greater even than her
own. He immediately laid before the Princess Mary the letters which he
had received the night before, and which, as far as positive fact
went, merely stated that the Burgundian army, in great force, lay in a
strong position beneath the walls of Nancy; that a small army of Swiss
and Germans were encamped opposite to them, and that a battle was
likely soon to take place. The duke's letter was short and general;
that of the Count de Chimay was more particular; and Mary read over
both with deep and eager attention.
"There is much matter for fear," she said, as she laid them down, "in
both these despatches. May God defend us, and avert the dangers that
threaten!"
"That there is much to raise apprehension in the letter of Monsieur de
Chimay, I acknowledge, madam," replied the Lord of Imbercourt; "but I
see nothing in that of our noble sovereign the duke which should give
us any alarm."
Mary raised her eyes with a timid glance towards the face of Margaret
of York, as if fearful of causing her pain, or of increasing her
alarm. But the Duchess instantly perceived her hesitation, and
exclaimed: "Speak, speak, dear Mary! let us not have a thought
concealed from each other."
"Well, then," replied Mary, the tears starting in her eyes--"I must
say I see more, far more, cause for apprehension in _this_ letter than
in _this_;" and she laid her hand first upon the letter of her father,
and then upon that of the Count de Chimay. "The one," she proceeded,
"speaks vaguely of traitors to be feared in my father's camp; the
other shows me much cause to fear for my father himself. Oh, my lord!"
she added, laying her left hand upon the arm of Imbercourt, while,
with her right, she pointed to a number of blots and erasures,
sentences begun and not finished, or phrases entirely altered, in the
despatch from her father: "Oh, my lord! do you not see a great
alteration here? The time was when the brief, clear sentences of
Charles of Burgundy, unstudied and rough though they might sometimes
be, proceeded at once to the point, without change or hesitation, and
expressed with force and precision the exact meaning, which was too
distinct in his mind, ever to be doubtful in his words: but look at
that letter, my lord. Did you ever see anything like that from the
hand of the duke before?"
Imbercourt was silent, and gazed upon the paper with a stern and
mournful glance.
"My lord, my lord!" continued Mary, "my father is ill; and, with
Heaven's blessing, I will set out to-morrow to see him and console
him."
"Nay, lady," replied Imbercourt, "you must not forget that you are
left here by our sovereign lord, as his representative in Flanders;
and indeed you must not quit your post. Before you could arrive, too,
a battle will have been fought. I will yet trust that the noble duke
will win it gloriously; and you know him too well to doubt," he added,
with a faint smile, "that a battle won will do more to console him
than the sweetest voice that ever whispered comfort in the ear of
man."
"I do indeed, I do indeed!" replied Mary; but no smile accompanied her
words; for that truth had been often felt too bitterly during the
course of her past life. "I do indeed; but yet the only thing that can
detain me here while my father, ill at ease, and shaken both in body
and mind, lies in his weary leaguer before Nancy, is the doubt which
is the superior duty: to join him there, or to remain in the situation
in which he has placed me."
"Nay, nay, Mary," said Margaret of York; "your duty binds you to stay
here, and mine calls me hence. You can trust my lore both for your
father and yourself; and, as soon as may be, I will join him, though
haply my coming unbidden may call on me some harsh words, as when last
I saw him at Dijon."
"Bear with him, dear lady! oh, bear with him!" exclaimed Mary. "It is
but the haste of an impatient spirit chafed by unwonted reverses. He
knows the worth of your love too well to chide with any bitterness.
But hark!" she proceeded, "what noise is that in the court? For God's
sake, my Lord of Imbercourt, look out and see! for since I took upon
me the sad task of holding the reins, which require a far stronger
hand than mine, I have met with so many sorrows and misfortunes, that
every sound alarms me. Hark! there are many people speaking." In
obedience to her command, Imbercourt approached the casement which
opened above the lesser court of the palace, and, throwing back a part
of the lattice, he looked out upon what was passing below. The first
object that his eyes fell upon was the form of the old Lord of
Neufchatel, in the act of dismounting from his horse by the aid of two
stout attendants, whose dusty armour and jaded horses evinced that
they, like their master, had travelled far and fast. The old nobleman
himself, however, displayed strong traces of battle as well as
wayfaring. His helmet was off, and its place supplied by a small
furred cap, from underneath which, a mingled mass of bandages and long
gray hair, dabbled with dust and blood, made its appearance; while his
left arm, supported in a torn and soiled scarf, showed that the fight
had been severe ere he left it.
Imbercourt at once guessed the event which he had come to communicate,
well knowing that an aged and wounded cavalier would not have been
chosen as the messenger of victory, and while, with slow and painful
efforts, the old lord dismounted, the counsellor withdrew from the
window, doubting whether he should meet him on the stairs, and delay
the tidings that he bore, till Mary was more prepared to receive them,
or whether he should suffer him to see the princess, and let the shock
pass over at once. His course, however, was determined by Mary
herself, who marked the conflict in his mind by the changing
expression of his countenance.
"What is it, my lord?" she exclaimed; "speak boldly! Are they again in
revolt?"
"Who, madam?--the men of Ghent?" demanded Imbercourt. "Oh! no, no!
nothing of the kind. It is apparently a wounded officer bearing news
from the army; and I fear----"
Mary waved her hand: "Bid him hither!--quick!" she cried. "Suspense is
worse than any tidings. Quick, my lord! Bid him hither, without pause
of idle ceremony."
Imbercourt withdrew to obey; and while Mary gazed with eager eyes upon
the door, Margaret of York fixed her glance with melancholy interest
on her fair step-daughter, more anxious for Mary of Burgundy--in whom
she had found as much affection as she could have expected from a
child of her own bosom--than even for a husband, who had never greatly
sought her love, and who had neglected her as soon as he found that
she was destined to be childless. But a short time elapsed between the
Lord of Imbercourt's departure and his return; but moments of
apprehension would weigh down many long days of joy; and to Mary of
Burgundy his absence seemed interminable. At length, however, he came,
followed slowly by the old Lord of Neufchatel, unable, from wounds,
and weariness, and exhaustion, to walk without the support of several
attendants.
Even anxiety conquered not the gentleness of Mary's heart; and though
she began by exclaiming, as he entered, "Well, my lord, speak!" she
instantly paused, and continued, "Good Heaven! you are sadly wounded,
sir. Bring forward that chair; send for the chirurgeon of the
household. Sit you down, my Lord of Neufchatel. How fare you now?"
"Better than many a better man, madam," replied the old knight, more
full of the disastrous tidings he bore, than even of his corporeal
sufferings; "many a one lies cold that could fill the saddle
now-a-days fax better than old Thibalt of Neufchatel."
"Good God! then, what are your tidings?" cried Mary, clasping her
hands. "My father?--speak, sir!--my father?"
"Is well, I hope, lady," answered the old soldier; "but as for his
army----"
"Stop, stop!" exclaimed the princess; "first, thank God for that! But
are you sure, my lord, that he is safe?"
"Nay, nay, I cannot vouch it, lady," he replied; "his army, however,
is no more. Fatal, most fatal, has been the duke's determination. All
is lost in the field. The army of Burgundy is, as I have said, no
more; and where the duke is, I cannot say, though I saw him galloping
towards the left when I quitted the field, which was not amongst the
first. Ah! had he but taken my advice," he added, with a rueful shake
of the head; a slight touch of natural vanity obtruding itself, even
then, in the midst of sincere grief of mind, and pain, and exhaustion
of body: "Ah! had he but taken my advice, and not that of either the
black traitor, Campo Basso, or of Chimay, and such boys as that! But,
lady, I am faint and weary, for I have ridden harder to bear you these
news, though they be sad ones, and to bid you prepare all sorts of
reinforcements to check the enemy, than ever I thought to ride from a
field of battle."
"But tell me, my lord," said Margaret of York, stepping forward, as
Mary, overwhelmed with the tidings, sat gazing mournfully in the face
of the old soldier, while her mind was afar; "but tell me, my lord,
how all this has happened. Speak, for I have a right to hear; and my
ear, alas! has been, from the cradle, too much accustomed to the
details of battle and bloodshed, for my cheek to blanch or my heart to
fail. Say, how went this luckless day?"
"Faith, good madam, I must be short with my tale," replied the Lord of
Neufchatel, "for I know not how, but my breath fails me.--My lord the
duke--God send him safe to Ghent! had sworn by all the saints, that no
house of stone should ever cover his head till he had slept in Nancy,
which, as you know, we had besieged some days. The enemy, in the
meanwhile, lay over the water a league or two beyond St. Nicholas, and
day by day increased in number, while day by day the forces of the
duke fell off; for we had famine and disease, and--worse than
all--traitors in the camp. But his Grace would not be warned, though
many a one strove to warn him; and at length, on the Sunday morning,
just five days since, the Swiss and Lorrainers, with their German and
French allies and Italian traitors, marched boldly up towards our
camp. Faith! it was a fair sight to see them come in two great bodies;
one by the river, and the other by the high road from Neufville.
Churls though they were, they made a gallant array. So then they came
on. But, madam," he added, rising and supporting himself by the back
of the chair, "I love not to think of it! Good sooth, it makes my
heart swell too much to tell the whole just now. We were soon hand to
hand: the artillery roaring, bolts and arrows and balls flying, the
trumpets braying, and the men-at-arms charging gallantly. But still,
as I looked round, I saw the ranks of Burgundy wax thin; and still the
Swiss churls pushed on; and I beheld many a stout soldier fall, and
many that had fought well turn his back. Well, as I was thinking what
might best be done, my lord the duke rode up; and, speaking softly as
a woman, he said--'My good old friend, I pray you join De Lalaing,
and, with your men-at-arms, make one good charge upon the flank of
yonder boors.' It was soon done and over. We went down like the shot
of a mangonel, but we were driven back like the same shot when it
bounds off from a wall of stone. One churl shivered my helmet, and
nearly split my skull with his two-handed sword. Another shot me in
the arm with his hand-gun. All my poor fellows but two or three died
around me bravely; and they who were left took my horse by the bridle,
and were carrying me off, when, by our Lady! I saw one of the base
Italians who had betrayed us all, despatching my poor Squire Walter as
he lay tumbled from his horse upon a little mound. He had served with
me in nine stricken fields, and many a chance affray; he had never
quitted me for well nigh twenty years, so I could not quit him then.
No, lady, no! but shaking the bridle from their hands that would have
stayed me, I turned me round, and struck one more good stroke for
Burgundy. But the poor lad was dead! God have his soul--the poor lad
was dead!" and as he spoke, the old knight dashed the tear from his
eye with the back of his brown hand.
"Little is there more to tell, madam," he proceeded, after a moment's
pause. "By this time the battle had changed to a flight and a pursuit.
There were not ten men who held together on the field. Shame to him
who turns his back while one hope lasts; but no shame to him who flies
from a lost field. I saw the duke galloping to the left; and as I knew
the country well, I spurred for the bridge of La Buissiere, and sad it
was to see the road all strewed with dead and dying. But when I came
near the bridge, the matter was still worse, for there was that foul
traitor, Campo Basso,[4] with a barricade of carts and wagons, cutting
off the fugitives from his betrayed master's host. When I looked
forward, there were the Italian devils--when I looked behind, down
were coming the German swine. On the one hand was the hill, with the
Swiss pikes gleaming over the top, and on the other was the river. The
water afforded the only chance; so in we plunged. Our horses were
strong and unwounded, and we struggled through, though many a gallant
gentleman sunk close before our eyes. But, lady," he added, once more,
as the excitement of detailing the battle passed away, "I am growing
faint again, and in good sooth I have little more to tell; therefore,
by your Grace's leave, I will retire."
Mary answered not a word, but gazed upon the old man with the same
fixed painful glance; but the duchess bowed her head, and the Lord of
Neufchatel, with the aid of his two attendants, moved towards the
door.
Before he reached it, however, he paused, and turning round
exclaimed--"Faith! I had forgot the very errand which made me make
such haste; for I have travelled with scarcely an hour's rest, in
order to bid you take instant measures to secure the country, for that
wild young wolf of Lorraine will be upon the frontier speedily; and
even as I passed by Brussels I heard strange tales of movements in
France. You, my Lord of Imbercourt, look to it with all speed; for,
believe me, not an hour is to be lost."
Thus saying, he turned and left the chamber, while Imbercourt advanced
to the princess, and besought her to be comforted. She answered
nothing, however; and only by a melancholy wave of the hand, expressed
how deep were her apprehensions.
"Nay, Mary, my sweet child," said the duchess, "give not way to
despair: remember, there is a God of mercy above us, who sees all, and
rules all, for the best."
Mary of Burgundy cast her fair arms round her stepmother, and
exclaiming, "My father! oh, my father!" burst into a passionate flood
of tears.
"Leave us, my Lord of Imbercourt," said the duchess. "Let me beseech
you to take all the measures necessary for our security; and send out
messengers to gain more intelligence of this sad defeat. Call those
whom you can best trust to council; and, for God's sake, suffer not
your mind to be overcome at the moment that all its energies are most
required."
Imbercourt bowed and withdrew: but there were circumstances in the
situation of the country which rendered it impossible for him to act
or think with that calm tranquillity which he had displayed at other
times. A deep and heavy gloom fell over him from the first moment that
the loss of the fatal battle of Nancy met his ear; and he never seemed
wholly to recover his former energies.
He took care, however, to summon to the side of the princess, in her
hour of need, all those who, he thought, might give consolation and
support. Messengers were instantly despatched to the Lord of
Ravestein, the Duke of Cleves, the Bishop of Liege, and several
others, whose relationship to the house of Burgundy afforded the best
security for their taking an interest in its fate; and Imbercourt
endeavoured, as far as possible, to increase the military force within
the town of Ghent, without exciting the watchful jealousy of the
inhabitants; but the country was totally drained of men, and few, if
any, could be added at a short notice to the force within the town--at
least, few of those feudal troops on which alone reliance could be
placed.
In the meanwhile, during the evening and the early part of the night
which followed the arrival of the Lord of Neufchatel, post after post
came in from the side of Alost and Brussels, bringing new details and
rumours of the battle; and each additional fact proved it to have been
more disastrous and bloody than it had appeared at first. Nothing was
heard but long lists of the dead, or exaggerated computations of the
total loss. Still, there was a deep silence in regard to the duke
himself. No one knew what had befallen him in the fight or the
pursuit; and no one ventured to assert, what all internally believed,
that he had fallen upon that bloody plain. The very silence, however,
was ominous; and the whole of the inmates of the ducal dwelling in
Ghent passed the night in that gloomy apprehension, which is perhaps
more racking to the heart than absolute sorrow.
Mary wept her father as dead; but yet she insisted upon hearing the
tidings that every courier brought in, with that anxious eagerness
which showed that a spark of hope, however faint, still remained alive
within her bosom; but with her, and, indeed, with every one else, as
fresh news arrived, as the accounts of the stern determination evinced
by the duke before the battle were multiplied, and as his often
reiterated declaration that he would never quit the field alive, was
repeated, the conviction of his death became more and more complete.
In the meanwhile, the people of the city, collecting in eager and
anxious crowds in the streets, especially towards the Brussels gate,
canvassed in low tones the events that had taken place. As one
horseman after another entered the town, still some individual would
start out to accost him, and running by his side as he rode on, would
gather from him whatever information he would afford, and then return
to tell it to the groups, whose comments on the past were seldom
unconnected with some of those whispered apprehensions for the future,
which, like the low moanings of the rising wind, generally give notice
of a coming storm long before it is ready to fall upon the earth.