THE SCHWARTZREITERS
The week which followed the fall of St. Quentin was a period of
strenuous exertion on the part of the conquerors.
The dead were buried, the city was cleansed of its many impurities, and
the devastating fires which had threatened the destruction of the whole
town were at length subdued.
Of all the religious edifices in the city the cathedral alone remained
unconsumed by the devouring element. Philip had himself superintended
the efforts made for its preservation; streets were pulled down, strong
buildings were blown up by gunpowder, and at length the noble building
stood in grand isolation, but safe from fire.
A strong Spanish garrison was placed in possession of St. Quentin; the
remainder of the army was under orders to prepare for instant and active
service.
The neighbouring towns of Picardy, Catelet, Ham, and Chanley were to be
besieged forthwith, and the camp was full of zeal and animation—for
surely fresh spoils awaited the soldiers of Philip, and bright visions
of glory and honour filled the minds of the chieftains. In the English
camp alone these feelings held no sway. The war had never been popular
with them—they felt that they were fighting the battles of King Philip,
and not those of their own country.
And now that the main object of the expedition had been won, and the
chief town in Picardy captured, the English contingent were eager to
return home.
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In the evening of a fine September day Lord Clinton's three aides-de-
camp were reposing in their tent after a day's active exertion.
That day a courier had brought them letters from England, and the young
men were eagerly discussing home news.
Susan had written to each of them, for she had much to tell.
The fires of Smithfield had burst forth anew, to the horror of the
people and the grief of all good men. That very day three victims had
perished, and the Queen's guards had scarce prevented the London people
from attempting forcible rescue.
One condemned man had been pardoned by the Cardinal Archbishop, and many
were said to have been freed by him after brief examination and apparent
but doubtful submission.
Rumours were afloat in London, Susan said, that the Cardinal had fallen
out of favour at Rome, and that the Pope (Paul IV) had deprived him of
his legatine commission and had recalled him to Rome. The Archbishop was
in bad health, and on this plea the Queen had refused to give him
permission to leave the country.
These things brought great unhappiness to the Queen, and added to them
was the increasing malignity of her disorder—she was evidently sinking
into the grave—and there was none to pity her!
"Alas, poor Queen," wrote Susan, "unloved by her people, deserted by her
husband, worried by the Pope, and conscious, above all, that she had
failed in the one object of her life, and that her successor, the
Princess Elizabeth, would undo all her work for the 'conversion' of
England."
Yet Susan had some good news to tell them.
"Sir John was in excellent health, and he had lately received news from
their beloved father that he and their dear Vicar were well, and were
determined to return to England on the day when the Princess should be
declared Queen.
"Oh, when will you three dear boys come home?" she wrote. "How I long
for that day, how I picture ourselves at the beloved home in Sussex, the
sweet old house at Chiddingly!
"I close my eyes, and my mind pictures to me the green woods and the
noble sweep of the Sussex downs. I seem to hear the cawing of the rooks
in the tall trees and the singing of the birds in the shrubberies. Oh, I
grow mad with deep longing! God send you home quickly, safe and sound."
The boys listened to these words with bated breath—perhaps with
moistened eyes—for Susan's passionate love for her Sussex home expressed
their own deep longings.
"Here comes Lord Clinton," said Geoffrey suddenly, as he saw their
lord's well-known figure approaching the tent.
They rose to receive him; then, as he took a seat, after some pleasant
words of greeting, William spoke—
"We are happy to see you, my Lord; we are anxious to know if our
marching orders have been given."
"It is on that very point that I am come to see you. I have my marching
orders, but I am not sure that I shall take you with me."
The young "aides" started with surprise; but ere they could seek an
explanation of his words Lord Clinton proceeded to say—
"I wish to hold a brief consultation with you. Count Mansfeld has just
brought me some sinister news. He tells me that his reiters have
discovered that it was Ralph's poniard which disabled the man who was
afterwards hung from the cathedral turret, and they have sworn to avenge
his death.
"He has sent them a message that he will sharply punish the perpetrators
of any such an attempt, but Mansfeld tells me that his men are in a
dangerous humour, and he wished me to warn you to keep to the limits of
your own camp, and that even within those limits Ralph should never
wander alone."
The young soldiers smiled disdainfully.
"Our swords can guard our heads, my Lord, we have no fear!" said
Geoffrey.
"Yes, I know that," cried Clinton, "but I want to make assurance doubly
sure.
"Now, listen. By to-day's courier the King has received some disquieting
news. Guise is collecting a great army under King Henry's orders, and
Philip has a suspicion that Calais is to be the object of his attack.
"From his spies at the French Court he hears that the Bishop of Acqs,
the French envoy to England, has just returned home, and that he passed
through Calais _en route_. He reports that the town is practically
defenceless; the garrison is small, the fortifications are in a state of
ruin.
"The King is sending swift messengers to Queen Mary to urge her to
remedy this condition of things, but he wishes to obtain proof that the
Bishop's statements are true. I have offered him your services, if you
are willing to undertake the duty. What say you?
"Your mission will be a secret one, and it will be attended with many
dangers both by land and sea; but it will bring you much honour if you
succeed. From Calais you would proceed direct to Dover, and so to London
to lay your report before the Queen."
The boys listened with glistening eyes; this was the Heaven-sent
fulfilment of their dearest hopes! With one voice they cried—
"We accept!"
"I knew that you would do so," replied Clinton, "and I go to ask the
King to give you a letter to be presented to Lord Wentworth, the
Governor of Calais. Make your preparations with all possible secrecy—you
will start to-night under cover of darkness. Your route will be to
Brussels, and thence to Antwerp, where you will embark on a King's ship
for Calais.
"I will provide you with three strong horses; at Brussels you will
change these for three others, which you will leave at Antwerp. There is
no moon to-night, happily; you must start at eight o'clock, and I will
be here to give you money and your last instructions. Now I go to the
King; commence your preparations at once; I return to you in an hour's
time," and therewith Lord Clinton left them.
What joy he left behind him! The three boys flung their caps in the air,
they shook each other by the hand, they would have given hearty cheers
but for the remembrance that secrecy had now become their watchword.
Their preparations would be few, but even for these they required the
help of their three faithful serving lads, strong Chiddingly lads of
approved courage, who loved their young masters better than their lives.
"Oh, that we might take the lads with us," cried Ralph. "I will follow
Lord Clinton and seek his permission," he added.
"That you may not do," said Geoffrey firmly; "do you not remember that
you are not to leave the tent alone? If you go we must accompany you.
"But stay; is there not a better way? If Lord Clinton consent, the three
lads can ride on our horses, though they are somewhat sorry nags; we
will lay the matter before him when he returns at eight o'clock.
Meanwhile, they can help us furbish our weapons and prepare our
travelling packs, they can feed the horses and have them ready to set
forth, we need not tell them more than is necessary, that we have to
ride forth on the King's business to-night will suffice."
So it was decided.
The lads occupied an adjoining tent; they were at this moment awaiting
their masters' summons to prepare their simple evening meal. They were
called in, and speedily all things were proceeding according to
Geoffrey's suggestions.
The shades of night were deepening as they sat down to supper, it was a
quarter to eight o'clock. The camp fires were being lit, and the
soldiers of the English contingent were gathering around them in merry
groups.
It was eight o'clock and the young Englishmen had supped, all their
preparations were complete.
The flap of the tent lifted silently, and two cloaked figures entered,
their features hidden in the folds of their outer garments. These they
now cast aside, and by the dim light which illumined the tent the
"aides" recognized Lord Clinton, and with him the King!
Instantly the young men knelt on one knee before him and kissed his
hand.
Philip gazed intently upon their countenances: he knew them fairly well,
but it seemed as if he wished to reassure himself. Then in a low, cold,
but distinct voice he said to Lord Clinton—
"They will do; we have met under many different circumstances, and I
know them to be brave men."
"Your Majesty is right," replied Lord Clinton, "they will do their duty
or die in endeavouring to fulfil it."
Then Philip addressed the Englishmen.
Their mission required secrecy, speed, courage and endurance. They were
to make close inspection of the fortifications, guns, material of war,
and the garrison of Calais with Lord Wentworth's help, to whom he had
written. This letter, which he now gave them, must never fall into the
hands of the enemy, to whom it would reveal all his suspicions and
plans. He delivered this letter into the hands of Monsieur de Fynes, as
the eldest of the three. If danger befell them it were better that the
two younger men should perish, so long as the bearer of the letter
escaped. If he fell into the hands of the foe let him see that the
letter was destroyed at all hazards. The perilous part of their journey
would be the portion of it which lay in French territory, but twelve
hours hard riding would carry them into Flanders, after which there
would be little danger, yet let them never remit their precautions.
The King then handed to each man a heavy purse of gold wherewith to
defray expenses, the surplus, if any, would be their own.
"I hear the sound of your horses outside the tent," said the King; "have
I made all explicit, is there any question you would like to ask?"
The young men looked at each other. Then Geoffrey spoke—
"Your Majesty may rely on our carrying out your gracious commands, or we
shall perish in the attempt. We have but one thing to suggest, and that
is that our three faithful servants may accompany us; they can ride our
own horses and they will be of great service to us."
The King and Lord Clinton conversed in low tones, then Clinton announced
their decision.
"His Majesty agrees to your request," he said; "we think it will attract
less observation and suspicion if three gentlemen be accompanied by
their serving men than if they travelled alone: it is a wise suggestion
on your part."
Then the King and Lord Clinton arose from their seats and prepared to
depart. The King extended his hand, which the young men again knelt to
kiss, and he bade them farewell. Lord Clinton shook hands warmly with
them.
"Adieu! _mes braves gens_," he said: "God grant you a safe and
successful journey. We shall next meet in London, I trust. Farewell,
farewell." And so they left the tent.
The young men stood in silence for a moment, then Geoffrey spoke—
"The King has laid a heavy trust upon us," he said, "and therein has
conferred on us great honour, for we shall now be doing service to our
own dear country as well as to his. Let us ask a greater King than
Philip, even our Heavenly Father, to bless our enterprise."
With one impulse the young men knelt, and for a few minutes held silent
converse with God. Ere they left the tent William spoke.
"In this matter, my brothers, we need a leader whom we swear to obey in
all things. I propose that Geoffrey be our captain."
"Nay," urged Geoffrey; but ere he could proceed further Ralph
intervened.
"I consent, and that most heartily," he said.
Geoffrey grasped the hands of his two comrades and said—
"Let it be as you wish, my brothers, and my first word of command is to
horse! to horse!"
It was a lovely night, the stars shone brilliantly in the autumnal sky,
a light refreshing breeze had sprung up.
Outside the tent six horses stood awaiting their riders. Three of these
were held by Lord Clinton's grooms; they were great Flemish war-horses
of a renowned breed, beside which the three English horses, held by the
Sussex lads, looked small and insignificant. Yet these latter were wiry
and strong; happily they were in excellent condition and fit for the
long journey before them.
Before they mounted their horses the Englishmen closely inspected every
part of the harness, to assure themselves that nothing was amiss. The
lads' horses were examined with equal care, and the weapons of their
riders underwent Geoffrey's keen scrutiny. Every man was armed with a
brace of pistolets and with poniard and dagger. The inspection was over,
and, at the word of command, the six men swung into their saddles.
"Slowly through the camp," said Geoffrey in a low voice.
As they moved forward a camp follower, apparently the worse for drink,
lurched heavily against one of the lads' horses and caught at his
stirrup to steady himself.
"Where away, comrade?" he hiccuped to the lad, who in reply slashed at
the impudent villain with his whip.
Geoffrey's quick ear had caught the sound of a voice, and he instantly
reined up his horse.
"Stop that man," he cried; but it was too late, he had darted out of
sight in the darkness.
The party went on, the three young masters riding abreast, the lads
following closely behind. They wound their way carefully through the
camp, now thronged with soldiers, sutlers and followers of all kinds.
It was a striking sight. Huge fires burned high at regular intervals,
and around them all the revelry of a camp in time of war was beginning.
At ten o'clock a gun would be fired and all fires would be put out, all
strangers turned out of camp, and stillness would come down where
pandemonium had so lately held sway.
The passing of the travellers through the camp excited no observation
nor surprise. Armed couriers were frequently sent out to the outlying
posts and the neighbouring towns. These latter were falling daily into
the possession of the conquering army.
So the party rode forward unmolestedly and slowly till the confines of
the camp were reached. Before them lay the broad trackway which led to
Brussels. It was a rough, rugged road, but it was sufficiently plain to
follow, even in the semi-darkness of the night. The late contending
armies had passed along it recently, and all wayside inns and even
private houses had been ruthlessly plundered and, in most cases, burnt.
The despoiled inhabitants, the peasantry, the woodsmen, the charcoal
burners, and a host of others had fled into the woods for safety.
Desperate and starving, the men had formed themselves into marauding
bands, and many a fair chateau, many a quiet, peaceful farm-house and
village hamlet had been plundered by them in turn.
Each night the reddened sky told of some dreadful fire, and for the
moment the law was powerless. Woe to the unarmed traveller, woe to the
wounded straggler who limped behind his regiment if they fell into the
hands of a furious peasantry!
This was one of the dangers which Philip had in his mind when he told
the young men that their chief peril would be as they passed through
French territory.
"Halt!" cried Geoffrey, as the party entered upon the military road, and
all drew rein and gathered around him. "It is right, my lads," said he,
"that you should know whither we ride to-night, and, as you will share
whatever perils may befall us, whither we go. We ride on the King's
business to Brussels, that is our first halting-place. Before us lies a
long journey, perhaps of ten or twelve hours in duration, through the
enemy's country. Be wary, be watchful, see that your pistols are ready
for service and your swords loose in their sheaths. We ride at a hand-
gallop, not too fast lest we distress our horses too soon. You, Robin,
will be our advance-guard, and you will ride a hundred yards ahead of
us. You, Hal, will ride a hundred yards behind us, and you, Tom, will
keep close to our rear, we may need you as a messenger. A shrill whistle
will be the signal that we all unite in one body, that danger is near.
The advance-guard will ever be on the alert to see that the road is
clear, that no obstacles be placed in our way by the 'gueux' who haunt
these devastated regions. The rear-guard will see, above all things,
that we are not followed by foes. Now have I made all things clear?"
"Aye, aye, sir," cried the men.
"Then let us ride on, in God's name," said Geoffrey.
Robin galloped forward, the four men followed in close order, the rear-
guard took up his allotted position. The lights from the camp illumined
the country in the rear, and for a long time the hum of the warlike
multitude filled the air.
Thus half-an-hour passed; they were galloping at a fairly easy pace
along the rough road, and the great Flemish horses were warming to their
work, sometimes neighing gaily as they tossed their heavy manes in the
air.
Not a sound now broke the solemn silence of the night, save the beating
of the horses' hoofs on the hard road.
They passed through hamlets once full of happy and industrious
peasantry, now scenes of black ruin and dire desolation.
Sometimes starving dogs would follow them with a fierce howl, and it
became necessary to beat off the poor animals with the whip. Sometimes a
solitary shout, or the shrill scream of a woman's voice reached their
ears, and the young men would have halted out of pure compassion. But it
might not be!
"On, on!" cried Geoffrey; "we may not draw rein for man nor woman, for
foe nor friend, till we have done the King's business."
The signs of the works of the Prince of Darkness were often visible, and
the sky in a dozen places reflected the red glare of lurid flames.
Once they came very near to a scene of fierce conflict—men were
besieging a strong stone mill and the valiant miller was making a hard
fight for his life and homestead.
Ralph was strongly moved at this sight, all his keen soldierly instincts
arose in his soul, and he laid his hand on Geoffrey's arm as he cried—
"Oh! may we not make one gallant charge on that murderous mob? we should
scatter them as chaff before the wind. Oh! Geoffrey, give leave, I
prithee!"
"And lose the King's letter, perhaps. Nay, my brave boy, it must not
be," answered Geoffrey, as they galloped on.
On, on into the darkness they rode, their gallant horses neither
faltering nor failing. As they rode a shrill cry as of some stricken
creature in its last agony burst upon their ears; they could not avoid
this case of distress, it lay in their very road.
A group of men could be dimly discerned at the roadside. They had heeded
not the approach of a single horseman as Robin swept past them, but as
the central group came thundering on the men leapt into the adjoining
wood.
"Halt!" cried Geoffrey, and he blew his signal to the advance-guard.
A man was evidently bound to a tree; at his feet was a half-extinguished
fire.
Seizing a firebrand and swinging it into flame, the lad Tom (who had
dismounted) held it close to the prisoner's face, then cut his bonds
with his dagger. The man was a Jewish peddler, and his mutilated hands
showed the cause of his cries of anguish, three of his fingers had been
roughly cut away.
"Speak, man!" cried Geoffrey; "tell us quickly your case, for we may not
tarry."
Then the peddler told them, in hurried words, that he had fallen into
the hands of robbers, and that they were torturing him until he should
tell them where he had concealed his pack.
"And where is your pack?" said Geoffrey.
The man hesitated, he cast a suspicious eye on Geoffrey.
"Put aside your fear, man," said Geoffrey; "we are Englishmen on service
for King Philip, and we are in hot haste."
"At Busigney, my lord," said the peddler, regaining confidence.
Geoffrey consulted with his comrades for a few moments. They would pass
Busigney shortly on their route, they could not leave the man to perish;
a decision was soon reached.
"We will take you to Busigney," said Geoffrey; "mount behind me, my
horse is strong and will carry two as well as one."
"Heaven bless you, my lord," replied the man, and by the help of the lad
Tom he was soon seated behind Geoffrey.
"Forward!" cried Geoffrey, "we have lost valuable time and we must make
up for it," and the whole party galloped on at increased speed.
But ere they had gone far the lad in the rear overtook them at a hot
pace.
"There is a strong body of cavalry coming up behind us, and in a few
moments they will over-take us—they are riding furiously."
Geoffrey called all his party together, still riding onward.
"Which is it, boys," he cried, "fight or flight? The first may be fatal
to our mission, the second may fail."
Then the peddler spake—
"If I may venture my advice, gentlemen, you will neither fight nor fly,
at least until you know who these men are. A hundred yards ahead there
is a deep dell overhung with trees. Under their shelter you may let this
band of cavalry pass on, after you have seen them you may take better
counsel as to your action."
"Right!" cried Geoffrey; and in a few moments they reached, under the
peddler's direction, the place of temporary safety.
They had not long to wait. In two or three minutes a band of from twenty
to thirty schwartzreiters came thundering on.
"How did they know of our journey?" whispered Ralph.
"Remember the drunken camp follower ere we left the camp?" replied
Geoffrey. "I knew he was a spy."
They had not been perceived in the thick shades of the trees—but what
now? It was equally dangerous to advance or retire.
It was at this dread and critical moment that a wonderful intervention
came. There arose in the stillness of the night a great sound like the
shock of battle or the fall of an avalanche.
"Oh, God! it is the barricade!" cried the peddler; "I passed it half-an-
hour ago."
"What barricade?" said Geoffrey eagerly.
"The 'gueux' have filled the road with huge stones, gathered from the
quarry hard by, it is their favourite trap to catch night travellers,
and the reiters have fallen into it."
"And a moment more _we_ should have fallen into it," cried Geoffrey.
"No," said the peddler, "for I was about to tell you of it. But, hark!
the 'gueux' are attacking the fallen reiters."
"Come," cried Geoffrey, "we must see what is passing; keep close
together, make no noise. If any reiter escapes from the mêlée cut him
down with your swords, or we shall be discovered."
The "gueux" possessed guns and fowling-pieces, and now they were pouring
in a desultory fire upon the confused mass of fallen men around the
barricade. There seemed to be hundreds of wild figures gathering to the
scene of conflict, and fresh bodies of them were pouring from the woods.
Then a hand-to-hand fight ensued, so fierce in character that it was a
combat of fiends rather than of men. No quarter was asked or given, it
was a fight to the death.
Soon it was evident that the reiters were being overpowered,
notwithstanding their superiority in equipment and discipline. Their
foes were twenty to one, and many of the Germans were lying in a
helpless mass of men and horses amid the great quarry stones. Their
battle-cries grew feebler and feebler; Geoffrey saw that the end would
soon come.
"But what then?" thought Geoffrey anxiously.
The "gueux" would be as dangerous to them as to the reiters, they would
make no distinction between English and Germans, all fought alike for
their detested enemy King Philip.
Once again the peddler intervened, as he sat behind Geoffrey.
"My lord, my lord," he said in an agitated voice, "we must be gone, or
we shall likewise perish."
"We cannot pass the gueux," said Geoffrey, "and I cannot return to the
camp; what third course is there?"
[Illustration: "HERE IS THE ENTRANCE INTO THE WOODS."]
"My lord," said the man, "you saved my life, will you trust yours to me?
I know every pathway of these woods, I can take you by a safe road to
Busigney if you will take me as your guide; the bypath enters the woods
just below here, and once at Busigney you are on the main road again."
For a minute Geoffrey consulted with his comrades, then he turned to the
peddler.
"You seem to be an honest man, we will trust you," he said. "Lead on, we
accept your services as guide."
The party retraced their steps for about a hundred yards.
"Here is the entrance into the woods," said the peddler, as a leafy
avenue dimly disclosed itself on the left side of the road.
They turned into it, and now they were gently and noiselessly traversing
the woods by a smoothly turfed trackway.
"To the right," cried the peddler, as they came to a crossway, and
Geoffrey perceived that they were now riding in a parallel track to the
road they had quitted.
The roar of battle had quieted down, but the wind brought to their ears
the exultant shouts of the gueux, the victors in the deadly strife.
From time to time some dark body would rush across the track or dive
into the forest, once indeed a musket-shot was fired at them randomly.
These were marauders hastening to the scene of conflict, eager to
participate in the spoils.
"We must ride quicker," said Geoffrey; "soon the gueux will know of our
presence and we shall be pursued."
"Beware," said the peddler in reply, "sometimes there are fallen trees
across the track. We rejoin the main road in a few minutes."
Geoffrey saw the wisdom of this advice, and they rode stealthily
forward.
Presently they emerged into a clearing and, to their joy, saw the great
military road in front of them. Once upon it they put their horses to
their fullest speed, there were no further barricades to dread, the
peddler told them.
In half-an-hour they were in the little town of Busigney, a town held to
be neutral by both the contending armies, for it was the patrimony of
Mary the Duchess of Burgundy, now the Regent of the Netherlands for
Philip. In a few minutes they had drawn up in front of a little hotel,
"L'Eperon d'Or," and the peddler, dismounting, entered the house. He
quickly returned, accompanied by the "maitre d'hotel."
"Here, my lord," he said to Geoffrey, "you can refresh your horses and
yourselves also, if you need it, yet I urge you to remember that your
foes are near, therefore you may not tarry long."
"We owe you a thousand thanks," said Geoffrey. "Will you not take
refreshment with us?"
"Nay, my lord, it is well-nigh midnight, and I must seek a chirurgeon
this night to set my wounded hand in order."
"Ah! I had forgotten your grievous hurt," said Geoffrey. "You are a
brave and gallant man, Mr. Peddler, may I not add a little golden salve
to the remedy?" and he produced his purse.
"Nay, nay, my lord," said the man quickly, "you have already given me my
reward, it was a life for a life!"
And forthwith he left them.
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