revengeful blood, mustered its quota in haste. Wales and Ireland, new
appendages of the English throne, supplied their share. From the French
provinces of the kingdom hosts of eager men-at-arms flocked across the
Channel. All the great nobles and the barons of the realm led their
followers, equipped for war, to the mustering-place, until a force of
one hundred thousand men was ready for the field, perhaps the largest
army which had ever marched under an English king. In this great array
were thirty thousand horsemen. It looked as if Scotland were doomed.
Surely that sterile land could raise no force to face this great array!
King Robert the Bruce did his utmost to prepare for the storm of war
which threatened to break upon his realm. In all haste he summoned his
barons and nobles from far and near. From the Highlands and the Lowlands
they came, from island and mainland flocked the kilted and tartaned
Scotch, but, when all were gathered, they numbered not a third the host
of their foes, and were much more poorly armed. But at their head was
the most expert military chief of that day, since the death of Edward I.
the greatest warrior that Europe knew. Once again was it to be proved
that the general is the soul of his army, and that skill and courage are
a full offset for lack of numbers.
Towards Stirling marched the great English array, confident in their
numbers, proud of their gallant show. Northward they streamed, filling
all the roads, the king, at their head, deeming doubtless that he was on
a holiday excursion, and that behind him came a wind of war that would
blow the Scotch forces into the sea. Around Stirling gathered the army
of the Bruce, marching in haste from hill and dale, coming in to the
stirring peal of the pipes and the old martial airs of the land, until
the plain around the beleaguered town seemed a living sea of men, and
the sunlight burned on endless points of steel.
But Bruce had no thought of awaiting the onset here. He well knew that
he must supply by skill what he lacked in numbers. The English army was
far superior to his, not only in men, but in its great host of cavalry,
which alone equalled his entire force, and in its multitude of archers,
the best bowmen in the world. What he lacked in men and arms he must
make up in brains. With this in view, he led his army from before the
town into a neighboring plain, called the Park, where nature had
provided means of defence of which he might avail himself.
The ground which his army here occupied was hard and dry. That in front
of it, through which Edward's host must pass, was wet and boggy, cut up
with frequent watercourses, and ill-fitted for cavalry. Should the
heavy-armed horsemen succeed in crossing this marshy and broken ground
and reach the firm soil in the Scottish front, they would find
themselves in a worse strait still. For Bruce had his men dig a great
number of holes as deep as a man's knee. These were covered with light
brush, and the turf spread evenly over them, so that the honeycombed
soil looked to the eye like an unbroken field. Elsewhere on the plain he
scattered calthrops--steel spikes--to lame the English horses. Smooth
and promising looked the field, but the English cavalry were likely to
find it a plain of pitfalls and steel points.
While thus defending his front, Bruce had given as skilful heed to the
defence of his flanks. On the left his line reached to the walls of
Stirling. On the right it touched the banks of Bannockburn, a brook that
ran between borders so rocky as to prevent attack from that quarter.
Here, on the 23d of June, 1314, was posted the Scottish army, awaiting
the coming of the foe, the camp-followers, cart-drivers, and other
useless material of the army being sent back behind a hill,--afterwards
known as the gillies' or servants' hill,--that they might be out of the
way. They were to play a part in the coming fray of which Bruce did not
dream.
Thus prepared, Bruce reviewed his force, and addressed them in stirring
words. The battle would be victory or death to him, he said. He hoped it
would be to all. If any among them did not propose to fight to the
bitter end and take victory or death, as God should decree, for his lot,
now was the time to withdraw; all such might leave the field before the
battle began. Not a man left.
Fearing that the English might try to throw a force into Stirling
Castle, the king posted his nephew Randolph with a body of men near St.
Ninian's church. Lord Douglas and Sir Robert Keith were sent to survey
and report upon the English force, which was marching from Falkirk. They
returned with tidings to make any but stout hearts quiver. Such an army
as was coming they had never seen before; it was a beautiful but a
terrible sight, the approach of that mighty host. The whole country, as
far as the eye could see, was crowded with men on horse or on foot.
Never had they beheld such a grand display of standards, banners, and
pennons. So gallant and fearful a show was it all, that the bravest host
in Christendom might well tremble to see King Edward's army marching
upon them. Such was the story told by Douglas, though his was not the
heart to tremble in the telling.
Bruce was soon to see this great array of horse and foot for himself. On
they came, filling the country far and near with their numbers. But
before they had come in view, another sight met the vigilant eyes of the
Scottish king. To the eastward there became visible a body of English
horse, riding at speed, and seeking to reach Stirling from that quarter.
Bruce turned to his nephew, who stood beside him.
"See, Randolph," he said, "there is a rose fallen from your chaplet."
The English had passed the post which Randolph had been set to guard. He
heard the rebuke in silence, rode hastily to the head of his men, and
rushed against the eight hundred English horse with half that number of
footmen. The English turned to charge this daring force. Randolph drew
up his men in close order to receive them. It looked as if the Scotch
would be overwhelmed, and trampled under foot by the powerful foe.
"Randolph is lost!" cried Douglas. "He must have help. Let me go to his
aid."
"Let Randolph redeem his own fault," answered the king, firmly. "I
cannot break the order of battle for his sake."
Douglas looked on, fuming with impatience. The danger seemed more
imminent. The small body of Scotch foot almost vanished from sight in
the cloud of English horsemen. The glittering lances appeared about to
annihilate them.
"So please you," said Douglas, "my heart will not suffer me to stand
idle and see Randolph perish, I must go to his assistance."
The king made no answer. Douglas spurred to the head of his troop, and
rode off at speed. He neared the scene of conflict. Suddenly a change
came. The horsemen appeared confused. Panic seemed to have stricken
their ranks. In a moment away they went, in full flight, many of the
horses with empty saddles, while the gallant troop of Scotch stood
unmoved.
"Halt!" cried Douglas. "Randolph has gained the day. Since we are not
soon enough to help him in the battle, do not let us lessen his glory by
approaching the field." And the noble knight pulled rein and galloped
back, unwilling to rob Randolph of any of the honor of his deed.
The English vanguard was now in sight. From it rode out a number of
knights, eager to see the Scotch array more nearly. King Robert did the
same. He was in armor, but was poorly mounted, riding only a little
pony, with which he moved up and down the front of his army, putting his
men in order. A golden crown worn over his helmet was his sole mark of
distinction. The only weapon he carried was a steel battle-axe. As the
English knights came nearer, he advanced a little to have a closer look
at them.
[Illustration: STIRLING CASTLE.]
Here seemed an opportunity for a quick and decisive blow. The Scottish
king was at some distance in front of his men, his rank indicated by his
crown, his horse a poor one, his hand empty of a spear. He might be
ridden down by a sudden onset, victory to the English host be gained by
a single blow, and great glory come to the bold knight that dealt it.
So thought one of the English knights, Sir Henry de Bohun by name.
Putting spurs to his powerful horse, he galloped furiously upon the
king, thinking to bear him easily to the ground. Bruce saw him coming,
but made no movement of flight. He sat his pony warily, waiting the
onset, until Bohun was nearly upon him with his spear. Then a quick
touch to the rein, a sudden movement of the horse, and the lance-point
sped past, missing its mark.
The Scotch army stood in breathless alarm; the English host in equally
breathless expectation; it seemed for the moment as if Robert the Bruce
were lost. But as De Bohun passed him, borne onward by the career of his
steed, King Robert rose in his stirrups, swung his battle-axe in the
air, and brought it down on his adversary's head with so terrible a blow
that the iron helmet cracked as though it were a nutshell, and the
knight fell from his horse, dead before he reached the ground.
King Robert turned and rode back, where he was met by a storm of
reproaches from his nobles, who declared that he had done grave wrong
in exposing himself to such danger, when the safety of the army depended
on him. The king heard their reproaches in silence, his eyes fixed on
the fractured edge of his weapon.
"I have broken my good battle-axe," was his only reply.
This incident ended the day. Night was at hand. Both armies rested on
the field. But at an early hour of the next day, the 24th of June, the
battle began, one of the critical battles of history.
Through the Scottish ranks walked barefooted the abbot of Inchaffray,
exhorting the men to fight their best for freedom. The soldiers kneeled
as he passed.
"They kneel down!" cried King Edward, who saw this. "They are asking
forgiveness!"
"Yes," said a baron beside him, "but they ask it from God, not from us.
These men will conquer, or die upon the field."
The battle began with a flight of English arrows. The archers, drawn up
in close ranks, bent their bows, and poured their steel shafts as
thickly as snow-flakes on the Scotch, many of whom were slain. Something
must be done, and that speedily, or those notable bowmen would end the
battle of themselves. Flesh and blood could not long bear that rain of
cloth-yard shafts, with their points of piercing steel.
But Bruce had prepared for this danger. A body of well-mounted
men-at-arms stood ready, and at the word of command rushed at full
gallop upon the archers, cutting them down to right and left. Having no
weapons but their bows and arrows, the archers broke and fled in utter
confusion, hundreds of them being slain.
This charge of the Scotch cavalry was followed by an advance in force of
the English horsemen, who came forward in such close and serried ranks
and with so vast an array that it looked as if they would overwhelm the
narrow lines before them. But suddenly trouble came upon this mighty
mass of knights and men-at-arms. The seemingly solid earth gave way
under their horses' feet, and down they went into the hidden pits, the
horses hurled headlong, the riders flung helplessly upon the ground,
from which the weight of their armor prevented their rising.
In an instant the Scotch footmen were among them, killing the
defenceless knights, cutting and slashing among the confused mass of
horsemen, breaking their fine display into irretrievable disorder. Bruce
brought up his men in crowding multitudes. Through the English ranks
they glided, stabbing horses, slaying their iron-clad riders, doubly
increasing the confusion of that wild whirl of horsemen, whose trim and
gallant ranks had been thrown into utter disarray.
The English fought as they could, though at serious disadvantage. But
their numbers were so great that they might have crushed the Scotch
under their mere weight but for one of these strange chances on which
the fate of so many battles have depended. As has been said, the Scotch
camp-followers had been sent back behind a hill. But on seeing that
their side seemed likely to win the day, this rabble came suddenly
crowding over the hill, eager for a share in the spoil.
It was a disorderly mob, but to the sorely-pressed English cavalry it
seemed a new army which the Bruce had held in reserve. Suddenly stricken
with panic, the horsemen turned and fled, each man for himself, as fast
as their horses could carry them, the whole army breaking rank and
rushing back in terror over the ground which they had lately traversed
in such splendor of appearance and confidence of soul.
After them came the Scotch, cutting, slashing, killing, paving the earth
with English slain. King Edward put spurs to his horse and fled in all
haste from the fatal field. A gallant knight, Sir Giles de Argentine,
who had won glory in Palestine, kept by him till he was out of the
press. Then he drew rein.
"It is not my custom to fly," he said.
Turning his horse and shouting his war-cry of "Argentine! Argentine!" he
rushed into the densest ranks of the Scotch, and was quickly killed.
Many others of high rank fell, valiantly fighting, men who knew not the
meaning of flight. But the bulk of the army was in hopeless panic,
flying for life, red lines constantly falling before the crimsoned
claymores of the Scotch, until the very streams ran red with blood.
King Edward found war less than ever to his royal taste. He fled to
Stirling Castle and begged admittance.
"I cannot grant it, my liege," answered Mowbray. "My compact with the
Bruce obliges me to surrender the castle to-morrow. If you enter here it
will be to become prisoner to the Scotch."
Edward turned and continued his flight, his route lying through the
Torwood. After him came Lord Douglas, with a body of cavalry, pressing
forward in hot haste. On his way he met a Scotch knight, Sir Lawrence
Abernethy, with twenty horsemen, riding to join Edward's army.
"Edward's army? He has no army," cried Douglas. "The army is a rout.
Edward himself is in flight. I am hot on his track."
"I am with you, then," cried Abernethy, changing sides on the instant,
and joining in pursuit of the king whom he had just before been eager to
serve.
Away went the frightened king. On came the furious pursuers. Not a
moment was given Edward to draw rein or alight. The chase was continued
as far as Dunbar, whose governor, the earl of March, opened his gates to
the flying king, and shut them against his foes. Giving the forlorn
monarch a small fishing-vessel, he set him on the seas for England, a
few distressed attendants alone remaining to him of the splendid army
with which he had marched to the conquest of Scotland.
Thus ended the battle which wrested Scotland from English hands, and
made Robert Bruce king of the whole country. From the state of an exile,
hunted with hounds, he had made himself a monarch, and one who soon gave
the English no little trouble to protect their own borders.
_THE SIEGE OF CALAIS._
Terrible and long-enduring had been the siege of Calais. For a whole
year it had continued, and still the sturdy citizens held the town.
Outside was Edward III., with his English host, raging at the obstinacy
of the French and at his own losses during the siege. Inside was John de
Vienne, the unyielding governor, and his brave garrison. Outside was
plenty; inside was famine; between were impregnable walls, which all the
engines of Edward failed to reduce or surmount. No resource was left the
English king but time and famine; none was left the garrison but the
hope of wearying their foes or of relief by their king. The chief foe
they fought against was starvation, an enemy against whom warlike arms
were of no avail, whom only stout hearts and inflexible endurance could
meet; and bravely they faced this frightful foe, those stout citizens of
Calais.
An excellent harbor had Calais. It had long been the sheltering-place
for the pirates that preyed on English commerce. But now no ship could
leave or enter. The English fleet closed the passage by sea; the English
army blocked all approach by land; the French king, whose great army had
just been mercilessly slaughtered at Crecy, held aloof, nothing seemed
to remain for Calais but death or surrender, and yet the valiant
governor held out against his foes.
As the days went on and no relief came he made a census of the town,
selected seventeen hundred poor and unsoldierly folks, "useless mouths,"
as he called them, and drove them outside the walls. Happily for them,
King Edward was just then in a good humor. He gave the starving outcasts
a good dinner and twopence in money each, and passed them through his
ranks to make their way whither they would.
More days passed; food grew scarcer; there were more "useless mouths" in
the town; John de Vienne decided to try this experiment again. Five
hundred more were thrust from the gates. This time King Edward was not
in a good humor. He bade his soldiers drive them back at sword's-point.
The governor refused to admit them into the town. The whole miserable
multitude died of starvation in sight of both camps. Such were the
amenities of war in the Middle Ages, and in fact, of war in almost all
ages, for mercy counts for little when opposed by military exigencies.
A letter was now sent to the French king, Philip de Valois, imploring
succor. They had eaten, said the governor, their horses, their dogs,
even the rats and mice; nothing remained but to eat one another.
Unluckily, the English, not the French, king received this letter, and
the English host grew more watchful than ever. But Philip de Valois
needed not letters to tell him of the extremity of the garrison; he
knew it well, and knew as well that haste alone could save him one of
his fairest towns.
[Illustration: THE PORT OF CALAIS.]
But he had suffered a frightful defeat at Crecy only five days before
the siege of Calais began. Twelve hundred of his knights and thirty
thousand of his foot-soldiers--a number equal to the whole English
force--had been slain on the field; thousands of others had been taken
prisoner; a new army was not easily to be raised. Months passed before
Philip was able to come to the relief of the beleaguered stronghold. The
Oriflamme, the sacred banner of the realm, never displayed but in times
of dire extremity, was at length unfurled to the winds, and from every
side the great vassels of the kingdom hastened to its support. France,
ever prolific of men, poured forth her sons until she had another large
army in the field. In July of 1347, eleven months after the siege began,
the garrison, weary with long waiting, saw afar from their lookout
towers the floating banners of France, and beneath them the faintly-seen
forms of a mighty host.
The glad news spread through the town. The king was coming with a great
army at his back! Their sufferings had not been in vain; they would soon
be relieved, and those obstinate English be driven into the sea! Had a
fleet of bread-ships broken through the blockade, and sailed with waving
pennons into the harbor, the souls of the garrison could not have been
more uplifted with joy.
Alas! it was a short-lived joy. Not many days elapsed before that great
host faded before their eyes like a mist under the sun-rays, its banners
lifting and falling as they slowly vanished into the distance, the gleam
of its many steel-headed weapons dying out until not a point of light
remained. Their gladness turned into redoubled misery as they saw
themselves thus left to their fate; their king, who had marched up with
such a gallant show of banners and arms, marching away without striking
a blow. It was hard to believe it; but there they went, and there the
English lay.
The soil of France had never seen anything quite so ludicrous--but for
its tragic side--as this march of Philip the king. Two roads led to the
town, but these King Edward, who was well advised of what was coming,
had taken care to intrench and guard so strongly that it would prove no
light nor safe matter to force a way through. Philip sent out his spies,
learned what was before him, and, full of the memory of Crecy, decided
that it would be too costly an experiment to attack those works. But
were not those the days of chivalry? was not Edward famed for his
chivalrous spirit? Surely he, as a noble and puissant knight, would not
take an unfair advantage of his adversary. As a knight of renown he
could not refuse to march into the open field, and trust to God and St.
George of England for his defence, as against God and St. Denys of
France.
Philip, thereupon, sent four of his principal lords to the English
king, saying that he was there to do battle, as knight against knight,
but _could find no way to come to him_. He requested, therefore, that a
council should meet to fix upon a place of battle, where the difference
between him and his cousin of England might be fairly decided.
Surely such a request had never before been made to an opposing general.
Doubtless King Edward laughed in his beard at the naïve proposal, even
if courtesy kept him from laughing in the envoys' faces. As regards his
answer, we cannot quote its words, but its nature may be gathered from
the fact that Philip soon after broke camp, and marched back over the
road by which he had come, saying to himself, no doubt, that the English
king lacked knightly honor, or he would not take so unfair an advantage
of a foe. And thus ended this strange episode in war, Philip marching
away with all the bravery of his host, Edward grimly turning again to
the town which he held in his iron grasp.
The story of the siege of Calais concludes in a highly dramatic fashion.
It was a play presented upon a great stage, but with true dramatic
accessories of scenery and incident. These have been picturesquely
preserved by the old chroniclers, and are well worthy of being again
presented. Froissart has told the tale in his own inimitable fashion. We
follow others in telling it in more modern phrase.
When the people of Calais saw that they were deserted by their king,
hope suddenly fled from their hearts. Longer defence meant but deeper
misery. Nothing remained but surrender. Stout-hearted John de Vienne,
their commander, seeing that all was at an end, mounted the walls with a
flag of truce, and made signs that he wished to speak with some person
of the besieging host. Word of this was brought to the English king, and
he at once sent Sir Walter de Manny and Sir Basset as his envoys to
confer with the bearer of the flag. The governor looked down upon them
from the walls with sadness in his eyes and the lines of starvation on
his face.
"Sirs," he said, "valiant knights you are, as I well know. As for me, I
have obeyed the command of the king, my master, by doing all that lay in
my power to hold for him this town. Now succor has failed us, and food
we have none. We must all die of famine unless your noble and gentle
king will have mercy on us, and let us go free, in exchange for the town
and all the goods it contains, of which there is great abundance."
"We know something of the intention of our master," answered Sir Walter.
"He will certainly not let you go free, but will require you to
surrender without conditions, some of you to be held to ransom, others
to be put to death. Your people have put him to such despite by their
bitter obstinacy, and caused him such loss of treasure and men, that he
is sorely grieved against them."
"You make it too hard for us," answered the governor. "We are here a
small company of knights and squires, who have served our king to our
own pain and misery, as you would serve yours in like case; but rather
than let the least lad in the town suffer more than the greatest of us,
we will endure the last extremity of pain. We beg of you to plead for us
with your king for pity, and trust that, by God's grace, his purpose
will change, and his gentleness yield us pardon."
The envoys, much moved by the wasted face and earnest appeal of the
governor, returned with his message to the king, whom they found in an
unrelenting mood. He answered them that he would make no other terms.
The garrison must yield themselves to his pleasure. Sir Walter answered
with words as wise as they were bold,--
"I beg you to consider this more fully," he said, "for you may be in the
wrong, and make a dangerous example from which some of us may yet
suffer. We shall certainly not very gladly go into any fortress of yours
for defence, if you should put any of the people of this town to death
after they yield; for in like case the French will certainly deal with
us in the same fashion."
Others of the lords present sustained Sir Walter in this opinion, and
presented the case so strongly that the king yielded.