wife of Baldwyn the Sixth, Count of Flanders, did make all efforts
against Robert the Frisian, her brother-in-law, appointed guardian
of the children of Flanders, for to take away from him the duty and
administration of the same, and have it assigned to herself. To which
end she did take up arms with the help of Philip, King of France, and
hazarded two battles[36] against Count Robert. In the first she was
taken prisoner, as was likewise her foe, the said Count Robert, but
afterward were the twain given back in exchange one of the other. A
second battle followed, which she lost, her son Arnulphe being slain
therein, and was driven back to Mons.
Ysabel of France, daughter of King Philippe le Bel, and wife of Edward
II.[36] of England, and Duke of Guienne, was ill looked on of the King
her husband, through the intrigues of Hugh le Despenser, whereby she
was constrained to withdraw to France with her son Edward. Afterward
she did return to England with the Chevalier de Hainault, her kinsman,
and an army which she did lead thither, and by means of which she did
presently take her husband prisoner. Him she did deliver up into the
hands of men which did soon bring about his death; a fate that overtook
herself likewise, for by reason of her loves with a certain Lord
Mortimer, she was confined by her own son in a castle, and there ended
her days. She it was that did afford the English pretext to quarrel
with France to the sore hurt of the same. Yet surely we have here a
piece of base ingratitude on her son’s part, who all forgetful of great
benefit received, did so cruelly treat his mother for so small a fault.
Small I call it, for that ’twas but natural, and an easy thing, that
after dealing long with men of arms, and grown so accustomed to go in
manly guise with them amid armies and tents and camps, she should do
the like also a-bed.
This is a thing oft times seen to happen. For example I do refer me
to our Queen Léonor,[37*] Duchess of Guienne, which did accompany her
husband over seas and to the Holy Wars. By dint of much frequenting
of men at arms and troopers and such folk, she did come to derogate
very gravely from her honour,—so far as that she did have dealings
even with the Saracens. For the which the King her husband did put her
away, a thing that cost us very dear. We can but suppose she was fain
to try whether these worthy foes were as gallant champions in a lady’s
chamber as in the open field, and that mayhap ’twas her humour to ever
love valiant wights, and that one valiance doth ever attract another,
as virtue doth to virtue. For verily he saith most true, which doth
declare virtue to be like the lightning, that pierceth through all
things.
The said Queen Léonor was not the only lady which did accompany her
husband to these same Holy Wars. But both before her day, and with her,
and after her, no few other Princesses and great ladies did along with
their lords take the cross,—not that they did therefore cross their
legs, but did rather open these and stretch them right wide, in such
wise that while some did remain there for good and all, others came
back from the wars most finished harlots. So under pretext of visiting
the Holy Sepulchre, amid all that press of arms they did much amorous
wantoning; for verily, as I have observed afore, arms and love do well
accord together, so close and congruous is the sympathy betwixt these
twain.
Suchlike dames ought surely to be esteemed, loved and treated like
men,—not as the Amazons did of old, which proclaiming themselves
daughters of Mars, did rid them of their husbands, pretending marriage
was sheer slavery; yet desire enough and to spare had they to go with
other men, for to have daughters of them, but killing all the male
children.
Jo. Nauclerus, in his _Cosmography_,[38*] relates how, in the year of
Christ 1123, after the death of Tibussa, Queen of the Bohemians, she
who did first close in the town of Prague with walls, and who did very
greatly abhor the power and domination of men, there was one of her
damsels, by name Valasca, which did so well gain over the maids and
matrons of that land by her fair and alluring promises of liberty,
and did so thoroughly disgust and set them against their servitude to
manfolk, as that they did slay each her man, one her husband, another
her brother, another her kinsman or next neighbour, and so in less than
no time were mistresses of the realm. Then having taken their husbands’
harness of war, they did make such good use thereof, and grew so
valiant and skilled in arms, fighting after the Amazon fashion, as that
they soon gat them several victories. Yet were they presently, by the
conduct and cunning wiles of one Primislaus, husband of Tibussa, a man
she had raised up from low and humble state, routed entirely and put to
death. This was sure God Almighty’s vengeance for so heinous an act
and dread attempt, no less indeed than to destroy the human race itself.
6.
Thus did these Amazonian dames find no other fashion of showing forth
their gallant spirit for fine, bold and manly exploits but only by
these cruel deeds we have named. On the contrary, how many Empresses,
Queens, Princesses and other high-born Ladies, have done the like by
means of noble acts, both in the governance and management of their
dominions, and in other excellent ways, whereof the Histories be so
full that I need not recount the same. For the desire of holding sway,
of reigning and ruling, doth lodge within women’s breasts no less than
in men’s, and they be just as eager after domination as the other sex.
Well! now I am about to speak of one that was unsullied of this
ambition, to wit Vittoria Colonna,[39] wife of the Marquis de Pescaire.
I have read of this lady in a Spanish book, how that whenas the said
Marquis did hearken to the fine offers made him by Hieronimo Mouron
on the Pope’s behalf (as I have said in a previous passage) of the
Kingdom of Naples, if only he would enter into the league with him,
she being informed of the matter by her husband himself, who did never
hide aught from her of his privy affairs, neither small nor great, did
write to him (for she had an excellent gift of language), and bade him
remember his ancient valour and virtue, the which had given him such
glory and high repute, as that these did exceed the fame and fortune of
the greatest Kings of the earth. She then went on: _non con grandeza
de los reynos, de Estados ny de hermosos titulos, sino con fè illustre
y clara virtud, se alcançava la honra, la qual con loor siempre vivo,
legava a los descendientes; y que no havia ningun grado tan alto que no
fuese vencido de una trahicion y mala fe. Que por esto, ningun deseo
tenia de ser muger de rey, queriendo antes ser muger de tal capitan,
que no solamente en guerra con valorosa mano, mas en paz con gran
honra de animo no vencido, havia sabido vencer reyes, y grandissimos
principes, y capitanes, y darlos a triunfos, y imperiarlos_,—“not by
the greatness of Kingdoms and of vast Dominions, nor yet of high and
sounding titles, but by fair faith and unsullied virtue, is honour
won,—the virtue that with ever living praise doth go down to all
descendants. And there is never a rank so exalted but it were undone
and spoiled by treason wrought and good faith broke. For such a prize
she had no wish to be a King’s wife, but had rather be a simple
Captain’s such as he, which not alone in war by his valiant arm, but in
peace likewise with the honour of an unbroken spirit, had been strong
to vanquish Kings, great Princes and mighty Captains, to triumph over
the same and master them.” High courage and virtue and truth did all
mark this lady’s words; for truly to reign by ill faith is a very evil
and sorry thing, but to give the law to Kings and kingdoms by honesty
and worth a right noble one.
Fulvia, wife of Publius Clodius, and in second wedlock that of Mark
Antony, finding but small amusement in her household tasks, did set
herself to higher business, to manage affairs of State that is, till
she did win herself the repute of ruling the Rulers of Rome.[40*] And
indeed Cleopatra did owe her some gratitude and obligation for having
so well trained and disciplined Mark Antony to obey and bend him under
the laws of submission.
We read moreover of that great French Prince Charles Martel, which in
his day would never take nor bear the title of King, as ’twas within
his power to do, but liked better to govern Kings and give orders to
the same.
However let us speak of some of our own countrywomen. We had, in our
War of the League, Madame de Montpensier, sister of the late Duc de
Guise, who was a great Stateswoman, and did contribute much, as well
by the subtile inventions of her fine spirit as by the labour of her
hands, to build up the said league. And after the same had been now
well established, playing one day at cards (for she doth well love this
pastime) and taking the first deal, on their telling her she should
well shuffle the cards, she did answer before all the company: “I have
shuffled the cards so well, as that they could not be better shuffled
or combined together.” This would all have turned out well, if only her
friends had lived; on whose unhappy end however, without losing heart
at all at such a loss, she did set herself to avenge them. And having
heard the news when in Paris, she doth not shut herself in her chamber
to indulge her grief, as most other women would have done, but cometh
forth of her house with her brother’s children, and holding these by
the hand, doth take them up and down the city, making public mourning
of her bereavement before the citizens, rousing the same by her tears
and piteous cries and sad words which she did utter to all, to take up
arms and rise in fierce protest, and insult the King’s[41] house and
picture, as we have seen done, and I do hope to relate in his life,
and deny all fealty to him, swearing rank rebellion to his authority,
all which did presently result in his murder. As to which ’tis well
enough known what persons, men and women, did counsel the same, and are
properly guilty thereof. Of a surety no sister’s heart, losing such
brothers, could well digest such deadly venom without vengeance of this
foul murder.
I have heard it related how after she had thus put the good folk of
Paris in so great a state of animosity and dissatisfaction, she did set
her forth to ask of the Duke of Parma his help toward her vengeance.
So thither she maketh her way, but by such long and heavy stages as
that her coach horses were left so wearied out and foundered, stranded
in the mire somewhere in the very midst of Picardy, that they could
not go another step either forward or backward, nor put one foot
before another. As chance would have it, there did pass that way a
very honourable gentleman of that countryside, which was a Protestant,
and who, albeit she was disguised both as to name and in dress, did
recognize her well enough. But yet, ignoring all the hurts she had
wrought against his fellows in religion, and the hatred she bare them,
with frank and full courtesy, he did thus accost her: “Madam, I know
you well, and am your most humble servant. I find you in ill case, and
beg you, an if you will, come to my house, which is close at hand, to
dry your clothes and rest you. I will afford you every convenience I
can to the very best of my ability. Have no fear; for though I be of
the reformed faith, which you do hate so sore in us, I would fain not
leave you without offering you a courtesy you do stand much in need
of.” This fair offer she did in no wise refuse, but did accept very
readily; then after that he had provided her with such things as were
needful, she doth take the road again, he conducting her on her way two
leagues, though all the while she did keep secret from him the purport
of her journey. Later on in the course of the war, by what I have
heard, she did repay her debt to the said gentleman by many acts of
courtesy done him.
Many have wondered at her trusting of herself to him, being Huguenot
as he was. But there! necessity hath no law; and beside, she did see
him so honourable seeming, and heard him speak so honestly and frankly,
that she could not but believe him disposed to deal fairly with her.
As for Madame de Nemours, her mother, who was thrown into prison after
the murder of her noble son’s children, there can be little doubt of
the despair and desolation she was left in by so intolerable a loss;
and albeit till that day she had ever shown herself of a gentle and
cold humour, and one that did need good and sufficient cause to rouse
her, she did now spew forth a thousand insults against the King, and
cast in his teeth a thousand curses and execrations, going so far (for
verily what deed or word could ever match the vehemence of such a loss
and bitter sorrow?) as always to speak of him by no other name but
this, _that Tyrant_. Later, being come somewhat to herself, she would
say: “Alas! what say I,—Tyrant? Nay! nay! I will not call him so, but a
most good and clement King, if only he will kill me as he hath killed
my children, to take me out of the wretchedness wherein I am, and
remove me to the blessedness of God’s heaven!” Later again, softening
still further her words and bitter cries, and finding some surcease
of sorrow, she would say naught else but only, “Ah! my children! my
poor children!”—repeating these same words over and over again with
floods of tears, that ’twould have melted an heart of stone. Alas!
she might well lament and deplore them so sore, being so good and
great hearted, so virtuous and so valorous, as they were, but above
all the noble Duc de Guise, a worthy eldest son and true paragon of
all valour and true-heartedness. Moreover she did love her children
so fondly, that one day as I was discoursing with a noble lady of the
Court of the said Madame de Nemours, she told me how that Princess was
the happiest in all the world, for sundry reasons which she did give
me,—except only in one thing, which was that she did love her children
over much; for that she did love them with such excess of fondness
as that the common anxiety she had of their safety and the fear some
ill should happen them, did cloud all her happiness, making her to
live always in inquietude and alarm for their sake. I leave you then,
reader, to imagine how grievous was the sorrow, bitterness and pain she
did feel at the death of these twain, and how lively the terror for
the other,[42*] which was away in the neighbourhood of Lyons, as well
as for the Duke her husband, then a prisoner. For of his imprisonment
she had never a suspicion, as herself did declare, nor of his death
neither, as I have said above.
When she was removed from the Castle of Blois to be conveyed to that of
Amboise for straiter confinement therein, just as she had passed the
gate, she did turn her round and lifted her head toward the figure of
King Louis XII., her grandfather, which is there carven in stone above
the door, on horseback and with a very noble mien and warlike bearing.
So she, tarrying there a little space and gazing thereon, said in a
loud voice before a great number of folk which had come together, with
a fine bold look which did never desert her: “An if he which is there
pourtrayed were alive, he would never suffer his granddaughter thus
to be carried away prisoner, and treated as she is this day.” Then
with these words, she did go on her way, without further remonstrance.
Understand this, that in her heart she was invoking and making appeal
to the manes of that her great-hearted ancestor, to avenge her of
the injustice of her imprisonment. Herein she acted precisely as did
certain of the conspirators for Cæsar’s death, which as they were
about to strike their blow, did turn them toward the statue of Pompey,
and did inwardly invoke and make appeal to the shade of his valiant
arm, so puissant of old, to conduct the emprise they were set on to a
successful issue. It may well be the invocation of this Princess may
have something aided and advanced the death of the King which had so
outraged her. A lady of high heart and spirit which doth thus brood
over vengeance to come is no little to be dreaded.
I do remember me how, when her late husband, the Duc de Guise, did get
the stroke whereof he died, she was at the time in his camp, having
come thither some days previously to visit the same. So soon as ever
he did come into his quarters wounded, she did advance to meet him as
far as the door of his lodging all tearful and despairing, and after
saluting him, did suddenly cry out: “Can it be that the wretch which
hath struck this blow and he that hath set him on (signifying her
suspicion of the Admiral de Coligny) should go unpunished? Oh God! an
if thou art just, as thou must needs be, avenge this deed; or else
...,” but stopping at this word, she did not end her sentence, for that
her noble husband did interrupt her, saying: “Nay! dear heart, defy not
God. An if ’tis He which hath sent me this for my sins, His will be
done, and we should glorify him therefor. But an if it come from other,
seeing vengeance is His alone, He will surely exact the penalty without
you.” Natheless, when he was dead, did she so fiercely follow up her
revenge, as that the murderer was torn to pieces of four horses,[43*]
while the supposed author of the crime was assassinated after the lapse
of some years, as I will tell in its proper place. This was due to the
instruction she did give her son, as myself have seen, and the counsel
and persuasion she did feed him withal from his tenderest years, till
at the last final and complete vengeance was accomplished.
7.
The counsel and appeal of great-hearted wives and loving mothers be of
no small avail in such matters. As to this, I do remember me how, when
King Charles IX. was making his Royal progress about his Kingdom, and
was now at Bordeaux, the Baron de Bournazel was put in prison, a very
brave and honourable gentleman of Gascony, for having slain another
gentleman of his own neighbourhood, named La Tour,—and, so ’twas said,
by dint of much traitorous subtlety. The widow did so eagerly press for
his punishment, as that care was taken the news should reach the King’s
and Queen’s chambers, that they were about to cut off the said Baron’s
head. Hereon did the gentlemen and ladies of the Court of a sudden
bestir themselves, and much effort was made to save his life. Twice
over were the King and Queen besought to grant his pardon. The High
Chancellor did set him strongly against this, saying justice must needs
be done; whereas the King was much in favour of mercy, for that he was
a young man, and asked for naught better than to save his life, as he
was one of the gallants frequenting the Court, and M. de Cipierre[44]
was keen in urging the same course. Yet was the hour of execution
now drawing nigh, without aught being done,—to the astonishment of
everybody.
Hereupon did M. de Nemours intervene, which loved the unhappy Baron,
who had followed him gallantly on sundry fields of battle. The Duke
went and threw himself at the Queen’s feet, and did earnestly beseech
her to give the poor gentleman his life, begging and praying so hard
and pressing her so with his words as that the favour was e’en given
him at the last. Then on the instant was sent a Captain of the Guard,
which went and sought the man out and took him from the prison, just
as he was being led forth to his doom. Thus was he saved, but in such
fearful circumstances that a look of terror did remain ever after
imprinted on his features, and he could never thereafter regain his
colour, as myself have seen. I have heard tell how the same thing did
happen to M. de Saint-Vallier, which did have a fine escape by the
interest of M. de Bourbon.
Meantime however the widow was not idle, but did come next day to
intercept the King as he was going to Mass, and did throw herself at
his feet. She did present him her son, which might be three or four
years old, saying thus: “At the least, Sire, as you have given pardon
to this child’s murderer, I do beseech you grant the same to him now
at this moment, for the time when he shall be grown up and shall have
taken his vengeance and slain that wretch.” And from that time onward,
by what I have heard said, the mother would come every morning to awake
her child; and showing him the bloody shirt his father had on when he
was killed, would repeat to him three times over: “Mark this token,
well, and bear well in mind, when you be grown up, to avenge this
wrong; else do I disinherit you.” A bitter spirit of revenge truly!
Myself when I was in Spain, did hear the tale how Antonio Roques, one
of the most brave and valiant, cunning, cautious and skilful, famous
and withal most courteous, bandits ever was in all Spain (’tis a matter
of common knowledge), did in his early years desire to enter religion
and be ordained priest. But the day being now come when he was to sing
his first mass, just as he was coming forth from the vestry and was
stepping with great ceremony toward the High Altar of his parish Church
duly robed and accoutred to do his office, and chalice in hand, he did
hear his mother saying to him as he passed her: _Ah! vellaco, vellaco,
mejor seria de vengar la muerte de tu padre, que de cantar misa_,—“Ah!
wretch and miscreant that you are! ’twere better far to avenge your
father’s death than to be singing Mass.” This word did so touch him
at heart, as that he doth coldly turn him about in mid progress, and
back to the vestry, where he doth unrobe him, pretending his heart had
failed him from indisposition, and that it should be for another time.
Then off to the mountains to join the brigands, among whom he doth
presently win such esteem and renown that he was chose their chief;
there he doth many crimes and thefts, and avengeth his father’s death,
which had been killed, some said, of a comrade, though others declared
him a victim of the King’s justice. This tale was told me by one that
was a bandit himself, and had been under his orders in former days.
This man did bepraise him to the third heaven; and true it is the
Emperor Charles could never do him any hurt.
But to return once more to Madame de Nemours, the King did keep her in
prison scarce any time, whereof was M. d’Escars in part the cause. He
did soon release her, for to send her on a mission to the Ducs du Maine
and de Nemours, and other Princes members of the League, bearing to all
words of peace and oblivion of all past grievances:—dead men were dead,
and there an end; best be good friends as aforetime. In fact, the King
did take an oath of her, that she would faithfully perform this said
embassy. Accordingly on her arrival, at first accost ’twas naught but
tears and lamentations and regrets for all their losses; then anon did
she make report of her instructions, whereto M. du Maine did reply,
asking her if this were her own advice. She answered simply: “I have
not come hither, my son, to advise you, but only to repeat to you the
message I am charged withal and bidden give you. ’Tis for you to think
whether you have sufficient cause to do so, and if your duty points
that way. As to what I tell you, your heart and your conscience should
give you the best advice. For myself, I do but discharge a commission
I have promised to fulfil.” Natheless, under the rose, she knew well
enough how to stir the fire, which did long burn so fierce.