BRUSSELS, ANTWERP, CALAIS
The horsemen needed but little time wherein to refresh themselves and
their horses. The aubergiste, at Geoffrey's command, brought forth his
best wine for the gentlemen, and his ostlers produced corn and water for
the horses. In half-an-hour the order to remount was given, and soon the
party was trotting quietly through the cobbled streets of Busigney.
Their next halting-place would be Mons; in two hours' time they would be
out of French territory.
Clear of the town they put their horses to a hand-gallop, and once more
the devastation of war became evident. All was ruin and desolation in
this once fertile region, there seemed to be nothing left by the cruel
marauding hands of men!
The villages and hamlets still smouldered, and the air was reeking with
pungent smoke; but there were no inhabitants, all had fled from the
neighbourhood of the great military highway.
Yet Geoffrey and his companions relaxed nothing of their keen vigilance.
Robin rode ahead and Hal in the rear as before.
On, on, through the night!
The stars shone brilliantly, not a cloud flecked the sky. Ill-omened
blotches of red light on the horizon marked where the gueux were still
at their evil work, but even these grew fewer as the small hours of the
morning passed and the travellers were reaching Flemish territory.
All at once the advance-guard dropped back upon them. He reported that a
crowd of men were approaching; they were not in military order, but they
were occupying the whole road.
Geoffrey signalled to the rear-guard to join them, and a rapid
consultation ensued. Finally, Geoffrey ordered the three lads to fall in
behind the gentlemen; then with drawn swords all advanced at slow pace
towards the oncoming mob. Many of these men carried pine-knot torches,
and by their flickering and lurid light it could be seen that they were
rudely armed peasantry—scythes, pitchforks and huge clubs were their
chief weapons, and these they waved aloft with wild cries of defiance.
The three young soldiers felt a true pity for these homeless and
houseless men, and Geoffrey resolved to win his way through them by
expostulation, if it were possible.
Reining up his steed he waited till the gueux were close at hand, then
he thundered out—
"Halt there, if you value your lives!"
The men uttered derisive cries—yet they halted.
"Why do you obstruct the King's highway? make way, or you will rue the
day when you strove to stop six heavily-armed men."
Their leader stepped to the front.
"You are six in number, are you," he cried, "and we are ten to one
against you! Dismount from your horses, give them up to us and we will
let you pass," he continued.
"Fools!" cried Geoffrey angrily; "do you think to frighten soldiers with
your base threats? Yet I know that you are poor and starving, and I
would not willingly put you to the sword. Hear me! On the word of a
gentleman I promise you that if you make way for us I will scatter five
gold pieces among you. Now answer me, and that quickly!"
For a moment the men drew together to consider the offer. But the very
mention of "gold pieces" aroused their base passions and cupidity;
perhaps they thought that fear dictated the generous offer. Then the
leader cried out—
"We will have your gold and your horses too; dismount and we promise you
your lives."
Geoffrey turned rapidly to his men.
"Two abreast," he cried; "are you ready? Charge!"
Then they dug their spurs into their horses' flanks and, like a
thunderbolt, they hurled themselves into the midst of the seething mob,
with a wild British cheer! Cutting, slashing, hewing, stabbing, the six
trained and disciplined soldiers passed through their foes as if they
had been but wax dolls or stuffed effigies. In less than a minute they
had won their way, and the path through which they had passed was strewn
with the dead and dying.
Then Geoffrey cried "Halt!"
The gueux were a hundred yards behind them, and they showed no
inclination to pursue.
"Is any man hurt?" cried Geoffrey to his party.
Two lads answered—
"Only a little blood-letting, sir."
"Then in God's name let us ride forward," cried Geoffrey: "we have
punished those poor wretches sufficiently; but they would have it,
Heaven pity them!"
On, on once more into the night.
The morn was breaking, streaks of grey light quivered in the sky and the
stars were losing their brilliance. They were approaching the confines
of Flanders, and as the dawn deepened into day the watch-towers of
Maubeuge came in sight. It was a frontier town, and in times of peace
its barriers would have been kept by an armed force, not to be passed
till all dues and customs had been paid, and all questions fully
answered.
As the armed party appeared in view the shrill voice of a trumpet rang
out, and men were to be seen hurrying to their places of observation.
But the sight of six men in uniform, fully armed, seemed to render all
formalities unnecessary, and no resistance to their passage was made as
the party rode through the town making no halt in it.
The sun was rising in great splendour; it shone upon a scene that
cheered the hearts of the horsemen. All was bright and peaceful, the
fields were yellow with corn and the reapers were everywhere at work.
"Oh, blessed peace!" said William to Ralph; "who would not sigh for the
time when wars should be no more, when men shall 'beat their swords into
ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks'!"
They rode more gently now, for their gallant steeds were beginning to
flag. At mid-day the towers and spires of Mons came into sight and the
splendid tracery of the glorious Cathedral of St. Wandru, as it
displayed itself against a sky of opal blue, filled them with
admiration.
Reaching the Grande Place, they halted in front of the Hôtel de la
Couronne, and the weary travellers dismounted. They, as well as their
horses, needed repose, and Geoffrey decreed a respite of three hours.
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All too soon Geoffrey aroused his comrades, who had both dined and slept
after they had seen carefully that the needs of their horses had
received attention.
"To horse, to horse," cried Geoffrey: "we must be in Brussels ere
nightfall."
Once more they were in the saddle, and the bells of the cathedral tolled
the hour of three as they rode across the bridge of the river Trouille,
fresh and reinvigorated. Their horses had been well cared for, and they
seemed to share the exhilaration of their riders.
On through the pleasant plains of Flanders, through Jubise, Nivelles,
Brise-le-Compte, and many another small town. They sang, they talked to
their horses and caressed them, and the noble animals responded to their
efforts as they cantered forwards.
Yet night was falling ere the noble town of Brussels was reached; the
sweet-toned bells of the great Cathedral, St. Gudule, were chiming, and
presently they announced the hour—it was eight o'clock.
The party halted in the Grande Place under the shadow of the splendid
Hôtel de Ville, and Geoffrey quickly found a comfortable hotel where
they could stable their horses and refresh themselves.
Then he wended his way to the burgomaster's house, that he might lodge
his demand for six fresh horses "for the King's service." He encountered
no difficulties, and this business being accomplished he rejoined his
companions at the Hôtel de Flandres.
The horses were ordered for midnight, when they would begin the last
stage of their long ride; they would reach Antwerp by daybreak, if all
went well. They had four hours for rest and refreshment, yet, when they
had dined, and ere they snatched an hour's sleep, the gentlemen of the
party strolled for a brief space in the Grande Place. It was full of
gaily-dressed citizens; and great lanterns, suspended on poles at
intervals, cast a bright light upon the animated scene.
Here were gallant young Spanish officers, belonging to the garrison of
the city, attracting the eyes of all beholders by the glitter of their
uniforms and the easy hauteur with which they moved among the people.
There were civic dignitaries in rich flowing robes, escorting their
wives and daughters to an entertainment which was being given that night
by Margaret, Duchess of Parma, the King's half-sister. She was paying a
brief visit to the city, where she had spent her childhood; she was soon
to become the Regent of the Netherlands.
There were groups of monks in the many-coloured robes of their Orders,
Black Dominicans, White Augustinians and Brown Benedictines.
All sorts and conditions of men were there, and the young Englishmen
watched them with keen interest. So novel a scene had they never
witnessed, nor so lovely a house as the "Maison du Roi," which blazed
with light in all its windows on the eastern side of the Place.
Ah, what a house that was! Richly sculptured, ornamented with armorial
bearings, which glittered with crimson and gold; so splendid that it was
sometimes called "The Golden House." It was in front of that very house
that, eleven years later, twenty-five Flemish nobles passed to their
doom on the scaffold—it was in the spring of 1568. Two months later
Counts Egmont and Horn were led forth from that gorgeous abode to perish
under the headsman's axe.
There was no prophetic vision to foretell these dread things; and that
night, as the young Englishmen gazed upon it in all its sumptuous
beauty, the wildest imagination would not have dreamt of so tragic a
thing.
The eyes of the young men lingered on these scenes of fascination, and,
for a time, they lost the feeling of weariness and fatigue.
"Come, boys," cried Geoffrey, as he laid his hands on their shoulders,
"this will not do! The clocks are chiming for the ninth hour, and at
twelve we have to be in the saddle."
So they retraced their steps to the Hôtel de Flandres and soon "fell on
sleep," perhaps to dream of gallant courtiers, stout burghers, of civic
dignitaries and the fair ladies of the wondrous city of Brussels.
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The hour of midnight had come, and in the spacious stable-yard of the
hotel six fine Flemish horses, fully harnessed for military service,
awaited their riders. Nor had they long to wait.
Scarce had the sound of the chiming bells died down than the six
horsemen made their appearance. Again was a minute examination made of
every part of the equipment, again the men renewed the priming of their
pistols and shook their sword-belts into position.
"Are you all ready?" cried Geoffrey, when all was finished. And in
response to the "Aye, aye, sir," of the men, the word of command came—
"Then mount; we ride in pairs till we are clear of the city, then as
before: Robin in front and Hal behind."
Quietly they rode through the dimly-lit streets and passed over the
river Senne into the open country. They were on a good road now (the
ancient Roman "street"), which led straight away to Antwerp, through
Mechlin, where they would make their first halt.
They were splendidly mounted and their horses broke into an easy canter,
tossing their long manes and snorting, as if with joy. Through verdant
plains, through teeming cornfields, through villages and small towns,
onwards they galloped till the lights of Mechlin came in sight.
Presently they were riding gently through the ancient town, and the
carillon in the lofty belfry of St. Rombaut rang out the hour of two as
they drew rein in the Grande Place.
The city watchmen gathered round them, eager to do them service as soon
as Geoffrey had informed them that he rode on the King's business. Corn
and water were quickly found for the horses, wine from some secret store
for the men (the hotels were fast locked for the night), for all of
which things Geoffrey paid with free hand. Thus half-an-hour was spent,
then the horsemen remounted their steeds and they cantered gaily out of
the town.
"Heigh ho, for Antwerp, our last stage!" cried Geoffrey, as they rode
out into the darkness.
So fresh were their horses that they rode now at full gallop, and the
country seemed to fly by them. A grey light was tingeing the eastern
horizon as they drew near Antwerp, the dawn had begun as they rode up to
the watch-towers of the fortified town.
Their approach had been signalled by trumpet blasts, and a strong body
of town-guards awaited them. The horsemen drew up as the captain of the
guard approached them, and to him Geoffrey handed his papers as he said—
"On the King's service!"
Everything was _en règle_, and in a few moments the great gates were
opened and the party entered Antwerp and proceeded direct to the Quai.
Antwerp was waking up, and already crowds of men were making their way
to the great dockyard of the city. Sailors of many nationalities were
proceeding to their ships, which lay at anchor on the broad waters of
the noble river Scheldt.
Lord Clinton had provided Geoffrey with a "King's mandate" addressed to
the dock-master, and the party soon found their way to that
functionary's official residence.
Herr Van Luhys, the worthy dock-master, had not yet opened his doors to
the outside world, and the sleepy watchman gazed with dismay at the six
horsemen who, dismounted, stood at the door asking for immediate
audience. It was not till Geoffrey had slipped a doubloon into the man's
hand that he consented to awake his master and to convey a message to
him.
But the words "On the King's Service" soon brought the dock-master into
the hall, where the three Englishmen awaited him. Geoffrey handed the
King's mandate to him, at the sight of which document Herr Van Luhys
bowed low and asked his early visitors to be seated, while he read the
mandate.
The effect was immediate.
"I am the King's servant and loyal subject," he said: "his commands
shall be obeyed. I am bidden to find you immediate means of reaching
Calais, and to see that your horses are returned to the Burgomaster of
Brussels. By Heaven's good providence the _Santa Trinadad_, a swift
King's ship, is in the harbour, and she sails in an hour's time. I will
send word to the captain at once, that six gentlemen are coming on board
his ship, and that he is to await your presence before he lifts anchor.
Meanwhile, gentlemen, you will break your fast with me, I trust, if you
will do me so great an honour."
Geoffrey bowed courteously, and very thankfully accepted the dock-
master's offers of service and breakfast. They were weary, and their
long ride had made them hungry: an hour could not be spent more
profitably than at Herr Van der Luhys's breakfast table.
Their horses were sent under the care of grooms, hastily summoned, to
the stables, and men-servants began in hot haste to prepare a meal for
the dock-master's guests.
A great table stood in the centre of the hall: soon it was covered with
a fair white cloth, and fish, flesh and fowl were produced and set out
as if by magic. The honest Dutchman's larder was evidently well stocked
and his cellar was equally good, for in a trice curious bottles of
spirits and tall flasks, full of wine, were brought forth.
Van Luhys sat at table with his guests, and when the claims of hunger
had been somewhat appeased he plied them with questions. He would fain
know all about the battle and siege of St. Quentin; what were the King's
plans of campaign; where was the Duke of Guise's army; where was De
Nevers; what great reward was to be given to their noble compatriot
Count Egmont, and many other like things! And so an hour rapidly passed,
so quickly indeed that a message from the Captain of the _Santa
Trinadad_ came to them almost as a surprise.
"The tide was falling, the gentlemen should come aboard as quickly as
possible."
Geoffrey would have made his adieux, but the hospitable Van Luhys
insisted on seeing his guests safely on board the ship; moreover, he
wished to introduce them to his honourable friend Captain Don Gonzaga.
So the party rose from table and made their way through the docks, now
become a scene of great activity. No town in Europe possessed a finer
harbour than Antwerp, and its vast fortifications were maintained with
zealous care: a garrison of five thousand Spaniards defended them.
A walk of a few minutes brought them to the water-side, where the war-
ship floated at anchor. She was a noble vessel, carrying forty-five
guns, though many of them were of small calibre. Her decks were crowded
with sailors, among whom Geoffrey noted fifty men-at-arms, wearing
glittering cuirasses and morions and armed with arquebuses and swords.
Many sailors had gone aloft, awaiting the signal to unfurl the sails and
fling out the royal standard of Spain.
As the party stepped on board, headed by the dock-master, Captain
Gonzaga advanced to meet them. He was a young Castilian noble of purest
blood and long descent, and his manners, though courteous, were tinged
with a certain hauteur.
"To what happy circumstances am I to attribute the honour of the company
of these gentlemen?" he said, with a ceremonious bow towards them.
"I have the 'King's mandate,' honourable Captain, to see that they are
conveyed to Calais with no delay," said Herr Van der Luhys.
"I would fain see the 'mandate,'" replied Don Gonzaga.
The dock-master bridled up somewhat.
"It is addressed to me," he said, "but I have it with me and you are
welcome to see it;" and therewith he handed the document to the
punctilious Captain, who hastily perused it.
As he read the names of the three gentlemen therein set forth, he
started as he saw that of Geoffrey de Fynes, and his manner of bearing
underwent a sudden change.
"Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Geoffrey de Fynes?" he inquired.
Geoffrey bowed slightly in reply.
"Of Herstmonceux in the County of Sussex?" inquired the Captain.
"My father was Baron Dacres of Herstmonceux", said Geoffrey.
"I welcome you on board my ship," said Don Gonzaga warmly, as he held
out his hand, which Geoffrey took courteously. "My father was the
Spanish Ambassador at the Court of King Henry the Eighth," continued the
Captain, "and your father, Baron Dacres, was his bosom friend; I venture
to hope that a like bond may unite their sons! Now come to my cabin,
gentlemen, for in a few minutes we start for Calais."
Then they bade farewell to the worthy Herr Van der Luhys and followed
Gonzaga to his cabin. It was the "state room" of the ship, luxuriously
furnished.
"Make this cabin your own, gentlemen, while you do me the honour of
remaining on the _Santa Trinadad_," said the Captain. "And now I must
hasten on deck," he continued; "we are just moving out," and with a bow
he left them.
It was not long before the Englishmen ascended to the deck, eager to see
the country through which they were passing. The sun was shining
brightly on the broad, deep waters of the Scheldt as the noble ship
slowly threaded its way out of the crowded port of Antwerp. Soon the
majestic city faded out of sight, and on each side of the river a flat
and somewhat desolate landscape extended itself.
There were broad meadows, reclaimed from the sea, on which great droves
of oxen were pastured; there were innumerable wind-mills and quaint
Dutch farm-houses. Occasionally a village came in sight with a metal-
sheathed spire rising from its midst. Soon Flushing was reached, the
pilot was dropped and the vessel was in the open sea, under full sail.
At mid-day dinner was served in the great mess-room, and Don Gonzaga
introduced his guests to the officers of the ship.
Spain was the rival with England for the sovereignty of the sea, and, as
a rule, there was little love lost between the sailors of the two
nations. But now, taking their cue from their young Captain, the Spanish
officers vied in showing hospitality to their English guests. As the
banquet, for it really deserved the name, came to a close and the four
young men were left alone, Gonzaga turned to Geoffrey, who sat on his
right hand, and said—
"Shall I tell you how my father first met Lord Dacres? He often told the
tale to me."
And on Geoffrey's eager acquiescence, he proceeded to say—
"It was in the spring of 1538, and my father was summoned to a banquet
at the King's Palace at Greenwich. As he crossed Blackheath on foot,
accompanied by a small band of servants, he was attacked by a strong
body of highwaymen. A desperate fight ensued, and one by one all my
fathers servants fell, and he alone was left, fighting desperately for
his life with his back against a stone wall. The assassins knew him, and
perhaps they were anxious to take him alive and so claim a great ransom.
Or perhaps his skill with the rapier saved him, for he was thought to be
the finest swordsman of Spain. His foes called on him to surrender, but
they called in vain, though he was sorely wounded—a Gonzaga dies but
never surrenders!
"A few minutes more and the tragedy would have been complete, for my
father was growing faint with loss of blood. But the noise of the strife
was heard afar, and suddenly help came. With a shout of 'Dacres to the
rescue,' six stout Sussex men attacked the highwaymen in the rear, and
they took to flight. Then your noble father, Lord Dacres, bound up
Gonzaga's wounds, and his men bore him to Greenwich Palace. His wounds
were not serious, and in a few weeks' time he had quite recovered from
them. And that was the beginning of a firm friendship between our
fathers, only too soon to end by the tragic event which all good men
will ever deplore."
Geoffrey was deeply moved as he grasped Don Gonzaga's proffered hand and
shook it warmly.
"I was but a babe," he said, "when my father perished at Tyburn, but I
love his revered memory, and my one hope in life, above all others, is
to see his honour vindicated!"
"May that day soon come!" said Gonzaga.
Then the four young men returned to the deck, and at the request of the
Englishmen the Captain took them all over the war-ship, and afterwards
put the crew and the men-at-arms through a smart drill, in which the
wonderful efficiency of the men excited the Englishmen's admiration.
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The voyage was drawing to an end. Ostend and Dunkirk had been passed,
and as evening fell Calais came in sight.
At eight o'clock the ship dropped her anchor in front of the town,
firing a salute in honour of the flag of St. George, which floated on
the bastion. Then a boat was lowered, and, ere taking their departure,
the Englishmen took an affectionate farewell of their new friend.
"We shall meet again," said Gonzaga.
"At Herstmonceux, I hope," replied Geoffrey, as they shook hands once
more.
Half-an-hour later the young men were in Calais, and the _Santa
Trinadad_ pursued her journey to Spain, whither she was bound.
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