reflection. "This much will I yield. Go, Sir Walter, and say to the
governor that all the grace I can give him is this. Let him send me six
of the chief burgesses of the town, who shall come out bareheaded,
barefooted, and barelegged, clad only in their shirts, and with halters
around their necks, with the keys of the tower and castle in their
hands. These must yield themselves fully to my will. The others I will
take to mercy."
Sir Walter returned with this message, saying that no hope of better
terms could be had of the king.
"Then I beg you to wait here," said Sir John, "till I can take your
message to the townsmen, who sent me here, and bring you their reply."
Into the town went the governor, where he sought the market-place, and
soon the town-bell was ringing its mustering peal. Quickly the people
gathered, eager, says Jehan le Bel, "to hear their good news, for they
were all mad with hunger." Sir John told them his message, saying,--
"No other terms are to be had, and you must decide quickly, for our foes
ask a speedy answer."
His words were followed by weeping and much lamentation among the
people. Some of them must die. Who should it be? Sir John himself shed
tears for their extremity. It was not in his heart to name the victims
to the wrath of the English king.
At length the richest burgess of the town, Eustace de St. Pierre,
stepped forward and said, in tones of devoted resolution,--
"My friends and fellows, it would be great grief to let you all die by
famine or otherwise, when there is a means given to save you. Great
grace would he win from our Lord who could keep this people from dying.
For myself, I have trust in God that if I save this people by my death I
shall have pardon for my faults. Therefore, I offer myself as the first
of the six, and am willing to put myself at the mercy of King Edward."
He was followed by another rich burgess, Jehan D'Aire by name, who said,
"I will keep company with my gossip Eustace."
Jacques de Wisant and his brother, Peter de Wisant, both rich citizens,
next offered themselves, and two others quickly made up the tale. Word
was taken to Sir Walter of what had been done, and the victims
apparelled themselves as the king had commanded.
It was a sad procession that made its way to the gate of the town. Sir
John led the way, the devoted six followed, while the remainder of the
towns-people made their progress woful with tears and cries of grief.
Months of suffering had not caused them deeper sorrow than to see these
their brave hostages marching to death.
The gate opened. Sir John and the six burgesses passed through. It
closed behind them. Sir Walter stood waiting.
"I deliver to you, as captain of Calais," said Sir John, "and by the
consent of all the people of the town, these six burgesses, who I swear
to you are the richest and most honorable burgesses of Calais.
Therefore, gentle knight, I beg you pray the king to have mercy on them,
and grant them their lives."
"What the king will do I cannot say," answered Sir Walter, "but I shall
do for them the best I can."
The coming of the hostages roused great feeling in the English host.
Their pale and wasted faces, their miserable state, the fate which
threatened them, roused pity and sympathy in the minds of many, and not
the least in that of the queen, who was with Edward in the camp, and
came with him and his train of nobles as they approached the place to
which the hostages had been led.
When they were brought before the king the burgesses kneeled and
piteously begged his grace, Eustace saying,--
"Gentle king, here be we six, who were burgesses of Calais, and great
merchants. We bring you the keys of the town and the castle, and submit
ourselves fully to your will, to save the remainder of our people, who
have already suffered great pain. We beseech you to have mercy and pity
on us through your high nobleness."
His words brought tears from many persons there present, for naught so
piteous had ever come before them. But the king looked on them with
vindictive eyes, and for some moments stood in lowering silence. Then he
gave the harsh command to take these men and strike off their heads.
At this cruel sentence the lords of his council crowded round the king,
begging for compassion, but he turned a deaf ear to their pleadings.
Sir Walter de Manny then said, his eyes fixed in sorrow on the pale and
trembling victims,--
"Noble sire, for God's sake restrain your wrath. You have the renown of
all gentleness and nobility; I pray you do not a thing that can lay a
blemish on your fair fame, or give men cause to speak of you
despitefully. Every man will say it is a great cruelty to put to death
such honest persons, who of their own will have put themselves into your
hands to save the remainder of their people."
These words seemed rather to heighten than to soften the king's wrath.
He turned away fiercely, saying,--
"Hold your peace, Master Walter; it shall be as I have said.--Call the
headsman. They of Calais have made so many of my men to die, that they
must die themselves."
The queen had listened sadly to these words, while tears flowed freely
from her gentle eyes. On hearing the harsh decision of her lord and
king, she could restrain herself no longer. With streaming eyes she cast
herself on her knees at his feet, and turned up to him her sweet,
imploring face.
"Gentle sir," she said, "since that day in which I passed over sea in
great peril, as you know, I have asked no favor from you. Now I pray and
beseech you with folded hands, in honor of the Son of the Virgin Mary,
and for the love which you bear me, that you will have mercy on these
poor men."
The king looked down upon her face, wet with tears, and stood silent for
a few minutes. At length he spoke.
"Ah, dame, I would you had been in some other place this day. You pray
so tenderly that I cannot refuse you. Though it is much against my will,
nevertheless take them, I give them to you to use as you will."
The queen, filled with joy at these words of grace and mercy, returned
glad thanks to the king, and bade those near her to take the halters
from the necks of the burgesses and clothe them. Then she saw that a
good dinner was set before them, and gave each of them six nobles,
afterwards directing that they should be taken in safety through the
English army and set at liberty.
Thus ended that memorable siege of Calais, with one of the most dramatic
incidents which history has to tell. For more than two centuries the
captured city remained in English hands, being theirs long after they
had lost all other possessions on the soil of France. At length, in
1558, in the reign of Queen Mary, it was taken by the French, greatly to
the chagrin of the queen, who is reported to have said, "When I die, you
will find the word _Calais_ written on my heart."
_THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS._
Through the centre of France marched the Black Prince, with a small but
valiant army. Into the heart of that fair kingdom had he come, ravaging
the land as he went, leaving misery and destitution at every step, when
suddenly across his line of march there appeared an unlooked-for
obstacle. The plundering marches of the English had roused the French.
In hosts they had gathered round their king, marched in haste to
confront the advancing foe, and on the night of Saturday, September 17,
1356, the English found their line of retreat cut off by what seemed an
innumerable array of knights and men-at-arms, filling the whole country
in their front as far as eye could see, closing with a wall of hostile
steel their only road to safety.
The danger was great. For two years the Black Prince and his army of
foragers had held France at their mercy, plundering to their hearts'
content. The year before, the young prince had led his army up the
Garonne into--as an ancient chronicler tells us--"what was before one of
the fat countries of the world, the people good and simple, who did not
know what war was; indeed, no war had been waged against them till the
prince came. The English and Gascons found the country full and gay,
the rooms adorned with carpets and draperies, the caskets and chests
full of fair jewels. But nothing was safe from these robbers. They, and
especially the Gascons, who are very greedy, carried off everything."
When they reached Bordeaux their horses were "so laden with spoils that
they could hardly move."
Again the prince had led his army of freebooters through France, but he
was not to march out again with the same impunity as before. King John,
who had just come to the throne, hastily gathered an army and marched to
his country's relief. On the night named, the Black Prince, marching
briskly forward with his small force of about eight thousand men, found
himself suddenly in face of an overwhelming array of not less than sixty
thousand of the best fighting blood of France.
The case seemed hopeless. Surrender appeared the only resource of the
English. Just ten years before, at Crecy, Edward III., in like manner
driven to bay, had with a small force of English put to rout an
overwhelming body of French. In that affair the Black Prince, then
little more than a boy, had won the chief honor of the day. But it was
beyond hope that so great a success could again be attained. It seemed
madness to join battle with such a disproportion of numbers. Yet the
prince remembered Crecy, and simply said, on being told how mighty was
the host of the French,--
"Well, in the name of God, let us now study how we shall fight with them
at our advantage."
Small as was the English force, it had all the advantages of position.
In its front were thick and strong hedges. It could be approached only
by a deep and narrow lane that ran between vineyards. In the rear was
higher ground, on which the small body of men-at-arms were stationed.
The bowmen lay behind the hedges and in the vineyards, guarding the lane
of approach. Here they lay that night, awaiting the fateful morrow.
With the morning's light the French army was drawn up in lines of
assault. "Then trumpets blew up through the host," says gossipy old
Froissart, "and every man mounted on horseback and went into the field,
where they saw the king's banner wave with the wind. There might have
been seen great nobles of fair harness and rich armory of banners and
pennons; for there was all the flower of France; there was none durst
abide at home, without he would be shamed forever."
It was Sunday morning, a suitable day for the church to take part in the
affair. Those were times in which the part of the church was apt to be
played with sword and spear, but on this occasion it bore the
olive-branch. At an early hour the cardinal of Perigord appeared on the
scene, eager to make peace between the opposing forces. The pope had
commissioned him to this duty.
"Sir," he said, kneeling before King John, "ye have here all the flower
of your realm against a handful of Englishmen, as regards your company.
And, sir, if ye may have them accorded to you without battle, it shall
be more profitable and honorable than to adventure this noble chivalry.
I beg you let me, in the name of God and humility, ride to the prince
and show him in what danger ye have him in."
"That pleases me well," answered the king. "Go; but return again
shortly."
The cardinal thereupon rode to the English side and accosted the prince,
whom he found on foot among his men. A courteous greeting passed.
"Fair son," said the envoy of peace, "if you and your council know
justly the power of the French king, you will suffer me to treat for
peace between you."
"I would gladly fall to any reasonable way," answered the prince, "if
but my honor and that of my people be saved."
Some further words passed, and the cardinal rode again to the king.
"Sir," he said, "there seems hope of making peace with your foes, nor
need you make haste to fight them, for they cannot flee if they would. I
beg you, therefore, to forbear for this day, and put off the battle till
to-morrow sunrise. That may give time to conclude a truce."
This advice was not pleasing to the king, who saw no wisdom in delay,
but the cardinal in the end persuaded him to consent to a day's respite.
The conference ended, the king's pavilion of red silk was raised, and
word sent through the army that the men might take their ease, except
the advanced forces of the constable and marshal.
All that day the cardinal kept himself busy in earnest efforts to effect
an agreement. Back and forth he rode between the tents of the king and
the prince, seeking to make terms of peace or surrender. Offer after
offer was made and refused. The king's main demand was that four of the
principal Englishmen should be placed in his hands, to deal with as he
would, and all the others yield themselves prisoners. This the prince
refused. He would agree to return all the castles and towns he had
taken, surrender all prisoners, and swear not to bear arms against the
French for seven years; this and no more he would offer.
King John would listen to no such terms. He had the English at his
mercy, as he fully believed, and it was for him, not for them, to make
terms. He would be generous. The prince and a hundred of his knights
alone should yield themselves prisoners. The rest might go free. Surely
this was a most favorable offer, pleaded the cardinal. But so thought
not the Black Prince, who refused it absolutely, and the cardinal
returned in despair to Poitiers.
That day of respite was not wasted by the prince. What he lacked in men
he must make up in work. He kept his men busily employed, deepening the
dikes, strengthening the hedges, making all the preparations that skill
suggested and time permitted.
The sun rose on Monday morning, and with its first beams the tireless
peace-maker was again on horse, with the forlorn hope that the bloody
fray might still be avoided. He found the leaders of the hosts in a
different temper from that of the day before. The time for words had
gone; that for blows had come.
"Return whither ye will," was King John's abrupt answer; "bring hither
no more words of treaty or peace; and if you love yourself depart
shortly."
To the prince rode the good cardinal, overcome with emotion.
"Sir," he pleaded, "do what you can for peace. Otherwise there is no
help from battle, for I can find no spirit of accord in the French
king."
"Nor here," answered the prince, cheerfully. "I and all my people are of
the same intent,--and God help the right!"
[Illustration: CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME POITIERS.]
The cardinal turned and rode away, sore-hearted with pity. As he went
the prince turned to his men.
"Though," he said, "we be but a small company as compared with the power
of our foes, let not that abash us; for victory lies not in the
multitude of people, but goes where God sends it. If fortune makes the
day ours, we shall be honored by all the world; but if we die, the king,
my father, and your good friends and kinsmen shall revenge us.
Therefore, sirs and comrades, I require you to do your duty this day;
for if God be pleased, and Saint George aid, this day you shall see me
a good knight."
The battle began with a charge of three hundred French knights up the
narrow lane. No sooner had they appeared than the vineyards and hedges
rained arrows upon them, killing and wounding knights and horses; the
animals, wild with pain, flinging and trampling their masters; the
knights, heavy with armor and disabled by wounds, strewing that fatal
lane with their bodies; while still the storm of steel-pointed shafts
dealt death in their midst.
The horsemen fell back in dismay, breaking the thick ranks of footmen
behind them, and spreading confusion wherever they appeared. At this
critical moment a body of English horse, who were posted on a little
hill to the right, rushed furiously upon the French flank. At the same
time the archers poured their arrows upon the crowded and disordered
mass, and the prince, seeing the state of the enemy, led his men-at-arms
vigorously upon their broken ranks.
"St. George for Guienne!" was the cry, as the horsemen spurred upon the
panic-stricken masses of the French.
"Let us push to the French king's station; there lies the heart of the
battle," said Lord Chandos to the prince. "He is too valiant to fly, I
fancy. If we fight well, I trust, by the grace of God and St. George, we
shall have him. You said we should see you this day a good knight."
"You shall not see me turn back," said the prince. "Advance, banner, in
the name of God and St. George!"
On went the banner; on came the array of fighting knights; into the
French host they pressed deeper and deeper, King John their goal. The
field was strewn with dead and dying; panic was spreading in widening
circles through the French army; the repulsed horsemen were in full
flight and thousands of those behind them broke and followed. King John
fought with knightly courage, his son Philip, a boy of sixteen, by his
side, aiding him by his cries of warning. But nothing could withstand
the English onset. Some of his defenders fell, others fled; he would
have fallen himself but for the help of a French knight, in the English
service.
"Sir, yield you," he called to the king, pressing between him and his
assailants.
"To whom shall I yield?" asked the king. "Where is my cousin, the prince
of Wales?"
"He is not here, sir. Yield, and I will bring you to him."
"And who are you?"
"I am Denis of Morbecque, a knight of Artois. I serve the English king,
for I am banished from France, and all I had has been forfeited."
"Then I yield me to you," said the king, handing him his right gauntlet.
Meanwhile the rout of the French had become complete. On all sides they
were in flight; on all sides the English were in pursuit. The prince had
fought until he was overcome with fatigue.
"I see no more banners or pennons of the French," said Sir John Chandos,
who had kept beside him the day through. "You are sore chafed. Set your
banner high in this bush, and let us rest."
The prince's pavilion was set up, and drink brought him. As he quaffed
it, he asked if any one had tidings of the French king.
"He is dead or taken," was the answer. "He has not left the field."
Two knights were thereupon sent to look for him, and had not got far
before they saw a troop of men-at-arms wearily approaching. In their
midst was King John, afoot and in peril, for they had taken him from Sir
Denis, and were quarrelling as to who owned him.
"Strive not about my taking," said the king. "Lead me to the prince. I
am rich enough to make you all rich."
The brawling went on, however, until the lords who had been sent to seek
him came near.
"What means all this, good sirs?" they asked. "Why do you quarrel?"
"We have the French king prisoner," was the answer; "and there are more
than ten knights and squires who claim to have taken him and his son."
The envoys at this bade them halt and cease their clamor, on pain of
their heads, and taking the king and his son from their midst they
brought him to the tent of the prince of Wales, where the exalted
captives were received with all courtesy.
The battle, begun at dawn, was ended by noon. In that time was slain
"all the flower of France; and there was taken, with the king and the
Lord Philip his son, seventeen earls, besides barons, knights, and
squires."
The men returning from the pursuit brought in twice as many prisoners as
their own army numbered in all. So great was the host of captives that
many of them were ransomed on the spot, and set free on their word of
honor to return to Bordeaux with their ransom before Christmas.
The prince and his comrades had breakfasted that morning in dread; they
supped that night in triumph. The supper party, as described by
Froissart, is a true picture of the days of chivalry,--in war all
cruelty, in peace all courtesy; ruthless in the field, gentle and
ceremonious at the feast. Thus the picturesque old chronicler limns
it,--
"The prince made the king and his son, the Lord James of Bourbon, the
Lord John d'Artois, the earl of Tancarville, the Lord d'Estampes, the
Earl Dammartyn, the earl of Greville, and the earl of Pertney, to sit
all at one board, and other lords, knights, and squires at other tables;
and always the prince served before the king as humbly as he could, and
would not sit at the king's board, for any desire that the king could
make; but he said he was not sufficient to sit at the table with so
great a prince as the king was; but then he said to the king, 'Sir, for
God's sake, make none evil nor heavy cheer, though God did not this day
consent to follow your will; for, sir, surely the king my father shall
bear you as much honor and amity as he may do, and shall accord with you
so reasonably, and ye shall ever be friends together after; and, sir,
methinks you ought to rejoice, though the journey be not as you would
have had it; for this day ye have won the high renown of prowess, and
have passed this day in valiantness all other of your party. Sir, I say
not this to mock you; for all that be on our party, that saw every man's
deeds, are plainly accorded by true sentence to give you the prize and
chaplet."
So ended that great day at Poitiers. It ended miserably enough for
France, the routed soldiery themselves becoming bandits to ravage her,
and the people being robbed for ransom till the whole realm was given
over to misery and woe.
It ended famously for England, another proud chaplet of victory being
added to the crown of glory of Edward III. and his valiant son, the
great day at Crecy being matched with as great a day at Poitiers.
Agincourt was still to come, the three being the most notable instances
in history of the triumph of a handful of men well led over a great but
feebly-handled host. The age of knighthood and chivalry reached its
culmination on these three memorable days. It ended at Agincourt,
"villanous gunpowder" sounding its requiem on that great field. Cannon,
indeed, had been used by Edward III. in his wars; but not until after
this date did firearms banish the spear and bow from the "tented
field."
_WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT._
In that year of woe and dread, 1348, the Black Death fell upon England.
Never before had so frightful a calamity been known; never since has it
been equalled. Men died by millions. All Europe had been swept by the
plague, as by a besom of destruction, and now England became its prey.
The population of the island at that period was not great,--some three
or four millions in all. When the plague had passed more than half of
these were in their graves, and in many places there were hardly enough
living to bury the dead.
We call it a calamity. It is not so sure that it was. Life in England at
that day, for the masses of the people, was not so precious a boon that
death had need to be sorely deplored. A handful of lords and a host of
laborers, the latter just above the state of slavery, constituted the
population. Many of the serfs had been set free, but the new liberty of
the people was not a state of unadulterated happiness. War had drained
the land. The luxury of the nobles added to the drain. The patricians
caroused. The plebeians suffered. The Black Death came. After it had
passed, labor, for the first time in English history, was master of the
situation.
Laborers had grown scarce. Many men refused to work. The first general
strike for higher wages began. In the country, fields were left untilled
and harvests rotted on the ground. "The sheep and cattle strayed through
the fields and corn, and there were none left who could drive them." In
the towns, craftsmen refused to work at the old rate of wages. Higher
wages were paid, but the scarcity of food made higher prices, and men
were little better off. Many laborers, indeed, declined to work at all,
becoming tramps,--what were known as "sturdy beggars,"--or haunting the
forests as bandits.
The king and parliament sought to put an end to this state of affairs by
law. An ordinance was passed whose effect would have made slaves of the
people. Every man under sixty, not a land-owner or already at work (says
this famous act), must work for the employer who demands his labor, and
for the rate of wages that prevailed two years before the plague. The
man who refused should be thrown into prison. This law failed to work,
and sterner measures were passed. The laborer was once more made a serf,
bound to the soil, his wage-rate fixed by parliament. Law after law
followed, branding with a hot iron on the forehead being finally ordered
as a restraint to runaway laborers. It was the first great effort made
by the class in power to put down an industrial revolt.