THE THREE EDWARDS.
THE FIRST PRINCE OF WALES.
“_God bless the Prince of Wales._”
AND now “gallant little Wales” shall supply a scene to our pageant.
History may not sanction the subject of it, but it may not be omitted.
You are spectators within the gray walls of Carnarvon Castle, that grim
old fortress which overlooks the fair waters of Menai Strait. From its
soaring towers your eye takes in the wild mountain region of Snowdonia,
a land of hoary summits and green valleys, in the recesses of which the
old Celtic inhabitants of Britain stubbornly maintained their
independence for more than five long centuries. You are now to see the
nation subdued and an English king assert his sway. But you will not see
it lose those essential things which mark its nationality—its language,
its literature, its genius. To-day they are still dear to the Welsh
nation, and are more jealously guarded and fostered than ever. Go to an
Eisteddfod and hear twice a thousand Welsh voices unite in the stirring
strains of _Hen Wlad fy Nhadau_ (“Land of my fathers.”) You will then
understand how ardently the flame of patriotism burns in the breast of
the men and women who have been reared in this ancient land of beauty
and song.
As the scene opens, you perceive that the death-knell of the nation’s
independence has tolled. You gaze upon an assembly of
chieftains—handsome, active men with long hair and moustaches and
shaven chins. Their arms, their coats of mail, their helms and shields
are laid aside, and they are clad simply in tunic and cloak, bare-kneed,
and shod with brogues of hide. All are depressed, all are sorrowful, for
they are here to acknowledge the surrender of their land.
As they wait the coming of the English king their minds fly back over
the long story of resistance which they and their sires before them have
made against their persistent and greedy foes. As they cast their
thoughts back they recall the awful slaughter of Roman times, when the
Druids of Mona were sacrificed on their own altars; they dimly remember
how the deep snow of their hills baffled the haughty Conqueror, who, not
to be beaten, planted his barons on their borders, and bade them win the
land by never-ceasing strife. It was Griffith ap Rees—was it not?—who
made the Norman bite the dust, and taught him to respect the might of
the Cymric arm and the fury of the Cymric onset. Then they remember what
their bards have told them of the brave days of Owen Gwynedd and the
Lord Rees—how these twain drove back the Norman who called himself
“Fine Scholar,” and baffled him too. For all his scholarship, he could
not add the laurel of Wales to the wreath that encircled his brow.
Then they would think of Llywelyn the Great, and of that golden age
which their fathers were never tired of recalling—how that wise and
powerful prince strove to unite all Wales, and live on good terms with
the Saxon on his borders. ’Twas Llywelyn, they remind one another, who
married King John’s daughter, and aided the Saxon barons to make that
false sovereign swear to observe the rights of the Cymry and keep their
laws inviolate. ’Twas in his day, too, that the monk and the friar came
into their land with a blessed ministry to the poor and the outcast.
Strange that the great Llywelyn should have begotten so feeble a son as
David, he who weakly threw in his lot with the Saxon and sent his
patriot brother Griffith in chains to the Tower of London. Ah! it was a
sad day when the rope broke by which that gallant prince was trying to
escape, and he was killed by the fall!
But his son Llywelyn, their late king, was worthy of his sire, look you!
He and the great Simon de Montfort had fought shoulder to shoulder, and
the Saxon king had been obliged to recognize Llywelyn as Prince of
Wales. And now he has gone too—slain by a foe who knew him not, in a
mere skirmish down by Builth. Yes, and the old prophecy has come
true—that Llywelyn should ride crowned through London. Crowned he was,
in very sooth, but, alas, the crowned head was carried on a spear. Woe
worth the day! David, his brother, had been caught too, and had suffered
the awful death penalty of a traitor. Even now his head was rotting over
Shrewsbury gate. Had Llywelyn but lived, even Edward’s great army might
have been driven back, especially as winter was coming on, and the
storms and the snows would fight on their side. But with Llywelyn’s
death all hope has vanished, and what can they do but submit?
And now Edward, the Saxon king before whom they are to bow, comes on the
scene. The chieftains scan him closely. Some of them have never seen him
eye to eye before; but his warlike fame has long been familiar to them.
As he strides into the courtyard, towering above his attendants, they
can readily believe those wonderful stories which they have heard of his
mighty prowess and physical strength—how, for example, he slew the
assassin in the Holy Land, and how he bore himself at Châlons when the
Burgundian knight strove to drag him from his saddle. What a fool the
fellow must have looked when Edward clapped spurs to his horse and shook
the man to the ground as though he had been a bag of straw! He is
pitiful, too, and boasts—does he not?—that no man ever begged his life
of him in vain. And what is that device which he bears so proudly on his
shield? “Keep faith.” Ah, but will he keep faith with stricken Wales?
Has he not slaughtered the very bards, lest their songs should keep the
memory of the old free days fresh and green in their hearts?
And now the handsome, stern king with the drooping eyelid begins to
speak in deep, vibrant tones, and the interpreter turns his words into
the tongue of old Britain. He will give them a prince of their own.
“Nay,” they cry out, “we will have no prince but one born in our own
land and speaking our own tongue.” Edward turns to the nurse who stands
by, takes from her his newly-born son, and holds him aloft to the
astonished gaze of the chieftains. “Here is your prince,” he cries; “he
was born in Wales, and he knows not a word of the English tongue.”
The humour of it appeals to the assembled throng. Yes, yes, they will
swear fealty to him, but he must have a Welsh nurse, and he must learn
to speak their language. Edward gladly agrees, and swears on the hilt of
his sword to “keep faith.” So the Welsh have once more a prince of their
own, and thus it comes about that the eldest son of an English king
bears the proud title Prince of Wales.
Now Edward betakes himself to the more serious work of settling the
government of the land. Wales is to keep her old customs and laws, and
Welshmen are to retain the freedom and the estates which they enjoyed
under their own princes. All is done that can be done to make the
foreign yoke easy and the burden light; but many a wicked deed will be
perpetrated and many an injustice will be wrought before Welshmen are
reconciled to the loss of their independence. But the day will come
when, secure in their freedom and reinforced by their union with the
mightier land on their borders, there will be no more loyal and
stauncher hearts in the whole Empire than those which beat in “gallant
little Wales.”
[Illustration: =THE FIRST PRINCE OF WALES.=
(_From the picture by P. R. Morris, A.R.A._)]
[Illustration]
WILLIAM WALLACE.
“_At Wallace’ name what Scottish blood_
_But boils up in a spring-time flood._”
Now let the scene shift to Scotland, where the masterful Edward, having
subdued Wales, is seeking to lay his hands upon yet another kingdom.
Truly the condition of the land invites him to conquest. The Scottish
king, on a night ride along the cliffs of the Fifeshire coast, has
fallen over the black rocks, and he is no more. The sceptre passes to a
frail little grandchild in far-off Norway; but ere she can tread the
soil of her kingdom, she too has gone the way of all flesh. The royal
line is extinct, and the throne of Scotland is without an heir.
Forthwith a round dozen of eager aspirants set up their claims to the
vacant throne. All save two are men of straw, with hardly the colour of
a right to the kingship. But Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, and John
Baliol, Lord of Galloway, both come of the royal stock, and both have
their clamorous supporters. Who shall judge betwixt them? Edward seizes
the opportunity. He—so he declares—is overlord of Scotland, and he and
none other will decide. So chronicles and title-deeds and charters are
collected from many a muniment chest, and he and his councillors are
soon busy examining them. When all is ready, he arrays an army and
marches north to the Border castle of Norham, on the Tweed. To this
place come the magnates of Scotland to hear his award. But before it is
pronounced he claims that they shall recognize him as lord paramount.
Some of the Scottish chiefs demur, but the English king cries, “By St.
Edward, whose crown I wear, I will maintain my just right or die in the
cause.” Might is right in his case, and the Scottish nobles, in the
distracted state of the kingdom, are forced to admit his claim.
And now, having secured the first point in the game, Edward gives
judgment in favour of John Baliol, a lamb-like person, the least
stalwart and the least Scottish of all the claimants. He is a weak
creature, and Edward knows that he will be a pliant tool. So Baliol bows
to Edward, and receives the crown of Scotland.
Ere long Baliol begins to feel Edward’s bit gall his mouth. He is
continually being pulled up and jerked hither and thither by the strong
hand of his rider. Baliol submits time after time, but at length even
his sluggish spirit is roused, and one day he throws off his allegiance
and declares war. Edward has long been waiting for this turn of
fortune’s wheel; he has long been working for this fatal outburst.
Speedily he marches north with a great army and sweeps through the
country, a ruthless conqueror. None can stand against him, and the
“puppet king” least of all.
See Baliol now, about to do public penance for his so-called misdeeds.
The English barons are assembled in a churchyard, and thither they lead
the king of the Scots mounted on a sorry nag. A herald proclaims his
treason. His crown is snatched from his head, the sceptre from his hand,
the royal robes from his person. A humble penitent, clad only in his
body garments and holding a white rod in his hand, he meekly confesses
his fault and acknowledges the justice of his punishment. A few days
later he gives up his crown to Edward, and is dispatched a prisoner to
the Tower of London. So Edward returns to his kingdom, leaving Scotland
beaten to the ground, sore and humiliated, but passionately longing for
revenge. With him he carries every token and memorial of Scottish
independence—the crown and the sceptre, and the Stone of Destiny, on
which Scottish kings have been crowned from time immemorial.
Now let the great patriot hero whom Scotland delights to honour, even
after the lapse of six centuries, tread the scene. He is William Wallace
of Elderslie, a young knight of some twenty-seven years, massive of
build and mighty of thew and sinew, fit foe for Edward himself. His face
is long and fair, his hair light-brown, his eye clear and piercing, his
expression solemn and sad. A foul outrage has driven him to the hills,
where he is nursing his wrath and biding his time. An English officer
has encountered him and his nine followers in the streets of Lanark and
has taunted him with insulting words. His long sword has leaped from its
scabbard and the insulter has been laid low. The alarm has been sounded,
and armed men have rushed to the spot; but Wallace has fought his way
through them, and has found a refuge in the woods, where the news of a
dastardly crime speedily reaches him. His young and dearly-loved wife
has been seized and slain by his cruel foes. Terrible indeed is his
agony of grief, but tears avail nothing. “Cease,” he cries to his
followers, “cease this bootless pain. We cannot bring her back to life,
but no man shall ever see me rest till I have avenged the wanton
slaughter of her so blithe and bright.”
That very night he slays the slayer of his love, and day after day he
swoops down on his foes like a hawk on its quarry. The fame of his
daring deeds spreads abroad, and patriots seek him in his retreat and
array themselves under his banner. Now it is an English convoy that is
despoiled, now an English foraging party that is cut up. Every day
brings its exploit, and throughout the south-western counties the
English are everywhere harassed and harried by a foe who comes and goes
mysteriously, and leaves no token but slaughtered men and burning
roof-trees.
Now see him, no longer the lurking outlaw, but the leader of an army,
marching proudly at the head of his men, and fearlessly displaying the
broad banner of Scotland. The best and bravest of the land are with him.
Not a fortress north of the Tay save Dundee is in English hands. Only a
year has sped since Edward left Scotland, in the vain belief that the
northern kingdom is a cowed and tamed land. Now he perceives that the
work must be done all over again. He gathers an army of fifty thousand
men, and speeds northward for Stirling, where high on its rock sits the
ancient fortress, the key to the centre of Scotland. Wallace hears of
the English advance, and marches to Stirling with all speed. On and
about the Abbey Craig, where his noble memorial tower now stands, he
encamps, and awaits the coming of his foes.
Ere long their banners are seen approaching. The Earl of Surrey, an old
man broken in health, is in command, but the real leader is “fat and
foolish” Sir Hugh Cressingham, Edward’s Lord-Treasurer in Scotland, a
haughty and insolent priest, who wears his corselet with a better grace
than his cassock. The English halt on the south side of the river, and
are eager for an immediate attack, but wiser counsels prevail. So the
watch-fires are lighted, and the two armies lie in sight of each other
through the silent night, with the deep and sluggish Forth flowing
between.
Now the trumpets sound, and Sir Marmaduke Twenge leads his squadron of
mail-clad knights to the bridge across the Forth, while Cressingham
follows hard behind. The spearmen of Wallace, posted on the high ground,
are in no hurry to attack. They make no sign as the knights cross the
bridge and form up on the opposite shore, ready to charge the Scots on
the hillside. Half the English army has crossed ere you perceive the
trap into which it has fallen. Look yonder at that strong force of
Scottish spearmen fetching a wide circuit and keeping near to the river.
Now they begin to run towards the bridge. They cut through the line of
the advancing English and block the bridge-head with a hedge of
bristling steel. They drive back in a tumultuous heap the advancing
horsemen on the crowded bridge, and now the moment for which Wallace has
so long waited arrives. He charges furiously down the hillside, and
hurls back the English squadrons in dire confusion. Horse and foot are
inextricably mingled; hundreds go down before the Scottish spears, and
vast numbers are driven into the river, which is lashed into foam by the
drowning struggles of thousands of men and horses.
Surrey, horror-stricken at the sight, now advances the royal standard of
England, and his strong reserve of knights charge the bridge with the
cry “For God and St. George.” The bridge is carried, but on the opposite
shore there is no room to form, and they only increase the confusion and
swell the slaughter. Of all that have crossed that fatal bridge only
three return. All is over, and Surrey on the farther shore sets spurs to
his horse. Keen and fierce is the pursuit, and terrible is the
slaughter. Edward’s proud host is scattered like chaff before the wind,
and Scotland is free again.
The victorious Wallace is hailed by his countrymen as Governor of
Scotland. But he has not done with the implacable Edward yet. The
English king has appeased his revolting nobles, he has made a truce with
the French, and has marshalled the might of his realm for another
invasion of Scotland. A vast English army rolls northward. Eighty
thousand men, including a large array of archers armed with the terrible
long-bow which the men of South Wales have taught them to use, follow
his banners. They enter the Lowlands, but Wallace has made it a desert.
The houses are bare and empty; no cattle are in the fields; the crops
have been reaped, the hay and corn stacks have been carried off.
Edward’s army “marches on its stomach,” but Wallace has taken good care
that there shall be nothing to fill it. By the time Edward draws near to
Edinburgh symptoms of mutiny begin to appear amongst his soldiers, and
he begins to meditate retreat.
Then come traitors from the Scottish camp telling him that Wallace lies
in the forest of Falkirk, and is about to attack his foes that very
night. Edward is filled with joy at the tidings. “Thanks be to God!” he
cries. “They need not wait for me, for I shall go instantly and meet
them.” There is no delay. In an hour’s time his army is in motion.
Linlithgow is reached, and he bivouacs for the night on the moor. Every
man sleeps in his armour, his horse ready harnessed by his side. The
king himself lies down on the bare ground and shares discomfort with his
men. In the night his frightened charger kicks out, and its hoofs break
two of the king’s ribs. But with the dawn Edward mounts bravely, and
leads his army to rising ground beyond Linlithgow. Here the fighting
Bishop of Durham says mass, and as the sun rises Edward’s keen eye sees
its rays reflected from the spears of the Scots, now taking ground on
the slope of a small hill not far from Falkirk.
Wallace has drawn up his spearmen in four _schiltrons_ or circles.
Between these schiltrons are his tall, handsome archers from the forests
of Selkirk and Ettrick. His small and doubtful force of cavalry is
marshalled in the rear. It includes the Scottish knights, many of whom
are jealous of Wallace, and only half-hearted in Scotland’s cause. “I
have brought you to the ring,” says the Scottish leader, “now dance as
you may.”
The trumpets sound, and the English cavalry charge. At the first onset
the Scottish horsemen, led by traitor lords, turn bridle and ride from
the field. Then the English knights swoop down upon the Scottish
archers, and after a terrible struggle slay them to a man. But again and
again they recoil from the “dark, impenetrable wood” of the spearmen.
The bristling hedge of spears cannot be broken by the shock of horse and
man, but there are other and deadlier means available. The English
archers are to win the first of those signal victories which will make
them the terror of the age. Drawn up in security scarce a hundred paces
away, they shoot their cloth-yard shafts with unerring aim. Thick and
fast they fall amidst the spearmen, and soon the living walls are
breached. The English cavalry charge into the gaps where the dead and
dying lie, and an awful slaughter rages. The battle is over; the Scots
betake themselves to flight, and Wallace barely escapes into Torwood
Forest.
But even this victory has not laid Scotland at Edward’s feet. Everywhere
he finds the country devastated, and he must either retreat or starve.
Less than a month after the battle of Falkirk he sullenly leads his
army, stricken by famine and disease, southward to England. But he
withdraws like the panther, only to spring again. Five successive times
he leads his army northward, and Scotland, exhausted by her long and
heartrending struggles, at length lies at the conqueror’s feet.
Once more Wallace is an outlaw on the hills. Edward has marked him down
for death, and there is a price on his head. He lurks in the greenwood,
hunted from cover to cover, with scarce a comrade to trust, and none to
aid him. His former friend, Sir John Menteith, at length wins the
blood-money. Wallace is seized in his sleep, bound with cords, and
hurried south. As he enters London the streets swarm with spectators,
all eager to see this renowned warrior of the North. His trial is a
mockery. Vainly he protests that he is no traitor, for he has never
sworn fealty to the English king. But he is doomed already, and all
argument is vain. He is condemned of murder, sacrilege, and treason, and
suffers the ghastly and revolting death which was meted out to David of
Wales twenty-two years before. His head is set up on London Bridge, his
right arm at Newcastle, his left at Berwick, one leg at Perth, and the
other at Aberdeen.
So perishes the national hero of Scotland, his body dispersed to “every
airt” that the wind blows, but his name and fame cherished for ever in
the hearts of his countrymen. He rises like a star in the darkness; he
sets in gloom, but not before his radiance has rekindled the torch of
Scottish patriotism, the flame of which is nevermore to be extinguished.
Wallace cannot die; he lives again in every free and unselfish
aspiration of unconquered Scotland.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =The Trial of Wallace.=
(_From the picture by Daniel Maclise, R.A., in the Guildhall Art Gallery.
By Permission of the Corporation of London._)]
[Illustration]
ROBERT THE BRUCE.
“_They thought to die in the mêlée,_
_Or else to set their country free._”
Not yet may “our stern alarums change for peaceful meetings, our
dreadful marches to delightful measures.” Grim-visaged war must still be
our portion, if our pageant is to depict the outstanding landmarks in
our nation’s story. The victories of peace are for the future; now we
must hear again the clash of arms, and share once more the joy of
victory and the anguish of defeat.
We are still in Scotland, where a successor to Wallace has arisen even
before his scattered limbs have rotted away. The new champion is the
grandson of that Bruce whom Edward set aside in favour of Baliol. His
father, in the old days, was a friend of “Longshanks,” and young Robert
Bruce has been trained in all the arts of war and the exercises of
chivalry under the eye of the man whose mortal enemy he is destined to
be. He comes upon the scene in the dark days succeeding the judicial
murder of Wallace, in those bitter months when England’s iron grip is on
Scotland. He sees with deep indignation the wretched condition of his
countrymen, and cautiously and secretly lays his plans for throwing off
the English yoke. He makes a compact with his friend Comyn, who too has
royal blood in his veins; but Comyn is a traitor, and reveals the plot
to the English king. Bruce receives warning, and ere long he settles
accounts with Comyn. In the church of the Gray Friars at Dumfries the
two meet face to face. Angry words pass, and Bruce strikes down his
treacherous friend on the very steps of the altar. He rushes outside to
his comrades. “I doubt I have slain Comyn!” he cries. “You doubt!” says
one of them, “I mak’ siccar;” and entering the church he dispatches the
unhappy man with many fierce blows.
And now the Bruce has taken the plunge. There is no turning back; he
must go forward to a crown, or suffer the fate of Wallace wight. A few
faithful friends stand by him, and he hastens to Scone, the coronation
place of Scottish kings. A friendly bishop lends him robes, the abbot
provides a chair, and the statue of some saint is temporarily despoiled
of its circlet to provide a crown.
The news of the outbreak speedily reaches Edward, and throws him into
ungovernable rage. He swears that he will never rest until he has
hanged, drawn, and quartered the presumptuous knave who has forsworn his
oaths and seized the crown. Edward’s nut-brown hair is snow-white now,
and his once mighty arm is weak with age, but his determined spirit
burns as fiercely as of yore. An advance-guard is pushed on with all
speed, and near Perth it comes into touch with the Bruce, who barely
escapes from it.
The Bruce must now follow in the footsteps of Wallace, and wander, a
hunted fugitive, over many a league of forest and hill. How true now
seem the words of his wife at their hasty and impromptu coronation:
“Alas! we are but king and queen of the May, such as boys crown with
flowers and rushes in their summer sports.” Deserted and distressed, he
lives the life of an outlaw, shooting his own venison and catching his
own fish. But he is not sad and gloomy, as Wallace was wont to be. He
cheers his little company by many a good-humoured sally and the recital
of heroic deeds. Summer passes, and the pageantry of autumn descends
upon the woods; but still he is a king without a throne, a wanderer
without a home. The wild life of a hunted fugitive may not be borne
during the dread winter by the ladies of his company, so he sends them
with many a dark foreboding of evil to the care of his brother, and then
takes ship for the remote island of Rathlin, off the north Irish coast,
where he winters safe from his foes.
Here, in his island retreat, bitter news reaches him. His wife and
daughters have been seized and imprisoned in England. His brother and
his relatives have been captured and hanged, his estates have been
forfeited and given to others, and the Pope has driven him out of the
Church for his sacrilege at Dumfries. No wonder the Bruce sits under his
juniper tree “steeped to the lips in misery.”
But with the kindly spring he makes another bid for fortune. He sails to
the Isle of Arran, and has hardly landed before he well-nigh walks into
a trap laid for him. Then begins a fresh period of difficulty and
danger, of hairbreadth escapes and desperate deeds. Slowly but surely
the tide turns in his favour. The preachers are with him; a prophecy has
been discovered which assures him of victory; stout hearts begin to
flock to his side; his cause gains ground every day. By the middle of
May he is no longer a hunted fugitive but a leader of forces. He has
defeated two English earls in the field, and they are shut up in the
castle of Ayr, which he is closely besieging.
Now old Edward begins to move. He is too weak and ill to throw his long
limbs across a horse, so they carry him on a litter in front of his
army. At Carlisle the prospect of the strife he loves so well gives him
a slight renewal of strength. He mounts his horse for the last time, and
leads the march in the old way. But it is the final flicker of life’s
flame, and at Burgh-on-Sands, within sight of the tossing Solway, he
yields him to the power that conquers even kings. To his bedside he
calls his vain, pleasure-loving son, and bids him swear a solemn oath
never to cease from strife until the Scots are thoroughly subdued. “Boil
the flesh off my bones,” he is said to have cried, “and keep them safe,
and as oft as the Scots assemble their forces, let my bones lead the
van.” So he dies, fierce and implacable to the last, and the breath is
hardly out of his body ere his degenerate son sighs for his jugglers and
minstrels and the careless pleasures of the court he has left behind.
He advances half-heartedly to Ayr; but the Bruce has retreated before
him, knowing well the temper of his foe. At the first decent opportunity
Edward hies him southward, and Bruce resumes his work of ridding the
land of the English. One by one the castles are captured by storm or
stratagem; day by day the English power grows weaker and weaker, and the
Bruce grows stronger and stronger. At last the flag of England, once to
be seen everywhere, flies only over the castle of Stirling. Its
stout-hearted defender is almost starved into submission. He will
surrender on midsummer day, unless he is relieved before it dawns by an
English army.
The new Edward must leave his elegant trifling and bestir himself,
unless Scotland is to be hopelessly lost. Hitherto his reign has been
singularly inglorious, and his barons have made him, as he says, no
longer master in his own house. But he will show them that the spirit of
his sire still lives in him. He will invade Scotland, and the Bruce
shall feel the weight of his heavy hand. Stirling shall be relieved; he
will take up the wager of battle that Scotland has thrown down.
Forthwith he assembles the most powerful army that has ever yet menaced
Scotland. Mindful of the archers’ victory at Falkirk, he scours the
country for bowmen, and every man of them boasts that he “carries the
lives of four-and-twenty Scotsmen at his belt.” Forty thousand mounted
men are with him, and a prouder and more confident array never took the
field.
Bruce has chosen his ground well. His front and right are defended by
the Bannock burn, which winds through two morasses, and at one place has
steep, wooded banks. On the left, where the ground is open, he has
honeycombed the field with pits that look firm and level to the eye, but
are terrible snares for cavalry. Only one way of approach is open, and
that is strewn with caltrops to lame the horses.
It is the Sabbath morning of June 23rd, in the year 1314. On comes the
English host, with its countless banners, standards, and pennons waving
in the breeze. The sun glints from burnished helmet and spear as the
dense battalions draw near. To an observer on the castle walls it would
seem that they were about to make an immediate attack. The Bruce is
arraying his men, clad in full armour, and carrying a battle-axe in his
hand, but riding a light palfrey in place of the heavy charger that is
to carry him to-morrow. That panoply of armour which he wears hides the
real man from you. Were you to see him out of harness, you would mark
his strong and powerful frame, his close, curly hair, his full, broad
forehead, his high cheek-bones, and the square and massive jaw that
tells of determination and dogged courage.
Now the English army halts, and a vainglorious knight, one Sir Henry
Bohun, seeing the Bruce so poorly horsed, thinks to do a deed of
valorous renown. So he spurs his charger, and levelling his spear bears
down upon the Scottish king. As he comes rushing on at full speed, the
Bruce twitches his palfrey’s bridle, and the little creature obediently
starts aside. Then, as the knight goes rushing by, Bruce rises in his
stirrups and smites him fiercely on the helmet with his battle-axe. It
crashes through helmet and skull, and the riderless steed gallops wildly
away. The first stroke of the great fight has been struck, and the Bruce
has won. As he rides back to his lines his knights take him to task for
his adventure, reminding him that an accident would have robbed them of
their leader. Bruce listens to their chidings, and only replies, “I have
broken my good battle-axe.”
Another misfortune befalls the English. Three hundred young horsemen,
eager for the fray, see a clear way lying before them to the castle. On
they spur towards it, but find their road blocked by a party of Scottish
spearmen, who form a deadly circle of bristling steel. In vain the
knights spur their horses to the attack; the schiltron remains unbroken,
though hidden from sight by the cloud of dust and heat which rises from
the plain. Now the spearmen advance and drive back the weary and
disheartened horsemen. Grim foreboding this of the great fight
to-morrow.
The short summer night falls on the battlefield, and loud sounds of
revelry come from the English camp. The Scots sleep in the open, and
when the sun has risen Edward sees them massed in schiltrons beneath
their banners. “Will yon Scotsmen fight?” he asks of a veteran by his
side. “Yea, siccarly, sire,” he replies, and at the moment the Scots
bend the knee as the crucifix is borne along their line. “Yon folk kneel
for mercy,” says the king; and again the veteran replies, “Yea, sire,
but not of you. Yon men will win or die.” “So be it,” cries Edward, and
gives the signal for his trumpeters to sound the charge.
On dash the English horsemen with levelled spears, and now you hear the
loud crash as lance clangs on shield. Down go men and horses, only to be
trodden under foot by the ranks behind. Nothing can break the Scottish
ranks.
But where are the archers who wrought such havoc at Falkirk? Now is
their time. Alas, they have been badly posted, and are unsupported by
men-at-arms. A few hundred Scots horsemen are sufficient to send them
flying hither and thither without the hope of ever rallying again.
Meanwhile a great hand-to-hand contest is raging. You hear the shouts
and cries of the warriors, the groans of the wounded and dying, the loud
clash of meeting weapons, as the vast, dense mass of the English rises
and falls like waves of the sea. It is a mob that fights on the narrow
field, and not an army. The ground is cumbered with fallen men and
horses. Many a good knight has no room to swing his weapon. He cannot
advance, and the pressure behind will not let him retreat. But slowly
and surely the throng is pushed back by the Scottish spears, and the day
looks black for England.
All discipline is now lost, and the battle is a series of individual
struggles. Lifting their eyes, the hard-pressed English see a fresh host
marching down a neighbouring hill, and hear their slogans peal out above
the din and tumult of battle. They are camp followers who have cut down
saplings for banner-poles and spread their blankets for standards; but,
in sooth, they look a warlike and formidable band in the distance. The
hearts of the English fail them at the sight; they waver, and the Scots
press on with redoubled vigour. The retreat has begun; it will soon be
an utter rout.
The English king gallops to Dunbar without drawing rein. His followers
scatter hither and thither. All is over. The great battle is lost and
won. The Bannock burn is choked with the dead bodies of the slain;
thirty thousand English lie dead on that fatal field. The great task
which Wallace had set himself is accomplished. Scotland has won her
independence, thanks to the skill of Bruce, the courage of his men, and
the incompetence of King Edward. “From the dust and reek of that burning
day Scotland emerges a people, firm in a glorious memory.”
[Illustration: =THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.=
(_From the picture by Allan Stewart specially painted for this book._)]
[Illustration: The Burghurs of Calais]
THE MERCIFUL QUEEN.
“_The quality of mercy is not strain’d,—_
_It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven_
_Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;_
_It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:_
_’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes_
_The thronèd monarch better than his crown._”
Now let a tableau lend variety to our pageant. On the dais of a royal
pavilion outside the walls of Calais you see a warrior king, his noble
countenance transfigured with wrath. Around him are his nobles, and
before him kneel six notable citizens of the town, gaunt with long
fasting and worn with strife and anxiety. Their heads and feet are bare,
and the rope of shame is round their necks. The foremost citizen
proffers the keys of the fortress. You are witnessing the surrender of
Calais, “the open doorway to France.”
The actual scene which is being re-enacted before you took place more
than five and a half centuries ago, and thirty-three years after the
battle of Bannockburn. In the interval the English king who fled from
that fatal field had been deposed in favour of his young son, who grew
up to be one of the most remarkable men of his time. The spirit of the
first Edward lived again in Edward the Third, and like a new Alexander
he was ever seeking fresh worlds to conquer.
He positively thirsted for martial glory, and above all things he
coveted the fair land of France. Through his mother he put forth a claim
to the French throne; and though it was scouted by the French lawyers,
he meant to see what English bills and bows could do to enforce it. In
the year 1345 he shot his bolt, and at Crécy his archers won for him one
of the most brilliant victories that ever graced English arms. Then he
moved on Calais, and laid close siege to it. Outside the walls he reared
a temporary village, which he called Newtown the Bold. It had houses and
lodgings roofed with reed and broom, streets, and a market-place where
flesh and fish, mercery, cloth, bread, and wine were sold.
Eleven long months the siege endured, and many a time and oft the
gallant defenders beheld the approach of French armies coming, as they
thought, to their succour. But never did the Frenchmen dare to attack
King Edward. They came, they saw, they retreated. Lamentable indeed was
the state of the besieged; food failed them, starvation gnawed them, and
pestilence swept them away. Then came the hour when all hope departed,
and they hauled down the standard which had so long floated above their
highest tower.
Shortly afterwards news was brought to the king that the governor was on
the battlements, and desired a parley with him. Sir Walter de Mauny and
Ralph Lord Bisset were sent to confer with the governor. “Sirs,” said
he, “ye be right valiant knights in deeds of arms, and ye know well how
the king, my master, hath sent me to keep this town in his behoof. We
have done all that lieth in our power. Now our succours have failed us,
and we be sore strained; we must all die, or else go mad with famine. I
therefore entreat that you will beg your king to have compassion on us,
and to have the goodness to let us depart in the state we are in; and
that he will be satisfied with having possession of the town and castle,
with all that is within them.”
Thereupon the two knights returned to the king and told him all that had
passed. But the king heeded them not: the men of Calais should
surrender, and he would do with them as he listed. Then Sir Walter
braved the royal wrath and told his sovereign that he was setting a very
bad example by his severity. All the other nobles who were present
pleaded with the king, and at length he yielded in some degree. “Sir
Walter,” said he, “you will inform the governor that the only grace he
must expect from me is, that six of the principal citizens of Calais
march out of the town with bare heads and feet, with ropes round their
necks, and the keys of the town and castle in their hands. These six
must yield themselves to my will, and to the rest I will show mercy.”
Sir Walter returned to the battlements and told the governor what grace
he had been able to obtain from the king. “I beg of you,” said he, “to
remain here a little, while I go into the town and tell the townsmen
your king’s conditions.” So he went to the market-place, the bell was
sounded, and immediately a multitude of men and women gathered in the
town hall to hear what he had to say. When they learnt the sad news they
began to weep and to show such distress that the hardest heart would
have had compassion on them. Even the governor himself was moved to
tears.
At last the richest burgess in the town, by name Eustace de St. Pierre,
rose up and said, “Sirs, high and low, it would be grievous for so many
people to die of famine when there is a means to save them. I think they
who should save them from such a pass would have great merit in the eyes
of our Lord God. For my part I have so great a trust in Him that I will
be the first to offer myself for the rest.” When he had said this, the
people rose up and almost worshipped him, many casting themselves at his
feet with tears and groans. Then another rich citizen arose and said, “I
will keep company with my comrade Eustace.” His name was John Daire.
After him, James Wisant, who was also very rich in merchandise, said he
would hold company with his two cousins; as also did Peter Wisant, his
brother. Then two others offered themselves, and the six citizens,
having apparelled themselves as the King of England desired, marched
towards the gate.
When Sir Walter Mauny had presented the citizens to the king they fell
on their knees and with uplifted hands cried, “Most gallant king, we
bring you the keys of the castle and of the town. We surrender ourselves
to your absolute will and pleasure, in order to save the remainder of
the people of Calais, who have suffered such great pain. Sir, we beseech
your grace to have mercy and pity upon us.”
All the barons, knights, and squires that were assembled around wept at
the sight. But the king, remembering their piracies, eyed them with
angry looks, for he greatly hated the men of Calais. Then he commanded
that their heads should be struck off. All present entreated the king
that he would be merciful to them, but he would not listen. At last the
good Sir Walter made yet another appeal for grace. “Noble king,” he
cried, “let me beseech you to restrain your anger. You are rightly famed
for greatness of soul; do not tarnish it by such an act as this.
Henceforth every man will speak of your great cruelty, if you put to
death these burgesses, who have of their own free will offered their
lives for their fellow-citizens.”
At this the king scowled and bade them send for the headsman. “These
knaves,” said he, “have slain many of my men, and they shall die for
it.”
At this moment the good Queen Philippa, who had been weeping bitterly,
cast herself upon her knees before her pitiless lord. “Ah! gentle sir,”
she cried, “since I have crossed the sea in great peril I have never
asked you one favour; now I humbly beg you, in the name of the Son of
the Virgin Mary, and for your love of me, that you be merciful to these
six men.”
The king looked upon her in silence for a moment, and then replied,
“Lady, I would that you had not been here. You have begged of me so
earnestly that I cannot refuse you, though it grieves me sore to yield.
I give them to you; do with them as you will.”
Joyous and glad was the queen that she had moved the king to pity. She
rose from her knees, and bidding the citizens rise too, ordered the
ropes to be taken from their necks, and caused them to be new clothed.
Then she took them to her own apartments and gave them a plentiful
dinner, after which she presented each of them with six nobles and set
them at liberty. The town was surrendered, and the English king fed the
starving multitudes liberally.
Merciful queen, your generous pity for the stricken foe shall ever be
the brightest jewel in your crown. In ages to come men will cherish the
fame of your womanly tenderness, and will tell their children in many a
tale and song the glorious story of your gracious clemency.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =Edward the Third at the Siege of Calais.=
(_From the painting by Sir John Gilbert, R.A. By permission of the
Corporation of London._)]
[Illustration]
THE BLACK PRINCE.
“_Witness our too much memorable shame,_
_When Cressy battle fatally was struck,_
_And all our princes captived, by the hand_
_Of that black name, Edward, black prince of Wales._”
Now you are transported to the streets of fourteenth-century London. You
stand at the upper window of a lofty timbered house, and from your coign
of vantage see the ancient city donning its festive array. There is an
air of rejoicing and there is a buzz of expectation everywhere. The
houses of the wealthier citizens are hung with gay carpets, rich silks,
and fine tapestry. Streamers are flying, garlanded poles are reared, and
here and there you see trophies of arms—shields, helmets, breastplates,
lances, swords, sheaves of arrows, maces, and battle-axes. Anon you hear
the rattle of drum and the blare of trumpet as the City companies, clad
in their liveries, take up the places assigned to them. Now a procession
of clergy, habited in their richest vestments, winds by. Gay gallants in
their blue or green tunics and hoods, their hose of diverse hues, and
their _Cracow_ shoes with long, curving toes laced to the knee with
silver chains, come and go, and lend colour and vivacity to the scene.
Many a fair maiden in a gay kirtle gazes out of her casement with
sparkling eyes, and hard by you see no less interested matrons, in all
the bravery of their best attire.
Now, afar off, you hear the huzzas of the crowd, and as you watch and
wait nearer and nearer come the salvoes of applause. The cannon of the
Tower roar out their welcome, trumpets sound, and bells clash from the
steeples. Right royally does London greet those whom she delights to
honour to-day.
Ah! here come the archers, the pride of England, a goodly array of
stalwart yeomen, bronzed and hardened by long campaigning on French
fields. Look at them as they swagger along, conscious of their prowess,
the rings of conquered knights on their horny hands, and the jewelled
baldrics of French nobles across their shoulders. See how they bandy
many a merry jest with the maidens on the causeway, and shout their
jovial greetings to the citizens, who wave their caps and cheer wildly
in response. There is not a lad in London who does not yearn to be an
archer. With his six-foot bow in his hand and a sheaf of arrows at his
belt, your archer envies neither knight nor king. He has won great fame,
and his pouch is filled with rose nobles; and when these are gone, there
are plenty more to be won in Poitou and Gascony. And if the Prince—God
bless him!—has no more wars on hand, why, there are always the Free
Companies ready and willing to welcome a stalwart bowman who can “clap
in the clout” at fourscore yards, and use a bill right yeomanly when it
comes to handstrokes.
Behind the rollicking archers come the mail-clad knights, a noble and
more sedate company, flashing back the May-day sun from their shining
armour and their gleaming lance-points. Yonder is Chandos, the wise and
watchful general whose keen eye perceived the critical moment in the
great fight—he who cried to the Prince, “Now, sir, ride forward, and
the day is yours.” And there is Audley, pale and weak from his wounds,
but gallant as ever. Was it not he whom the Prince greeted by the
glorious name of _Preux_, and dubbed the best knight on the field? Right
proud must he feel to-day. And who be these? In sooth, they are the
premier nobles of France, rich prizes of war, though they bear, neither
by sign nor by look, the semblance of defeat.
And now the air is rent with still louder shouts as a noble figure on a
superb white charger rides by. It is the King of France, bearing himself
as a conqueror, yet knowing full well that he is a captive gracing a
victor’s triumph. But not for him are the shouts. Look at that simple
knight in black armour, quietly riding by his side on a palfrey. He is
the hero of the day, the cynosure of all eyes, the praise of all
tongues. He would seem to be no more than the French king’s squire; yet
he is the victor of Poitiers, a name of terror in France, the idol of
his knights, the boast of his archers, the pride of his land.
The stately procession moves on to the great hall at Westminster, where
Edward the king waits the coming of his noble captive and his gallant
son. With knightly courtesy he rises from his throne and embraces his
unfortunate brother of France, and gives him gracious welcome to his
court. He bids him be of good cheer; and the French king, who has borne
the ordeal with manly fortitude, is right glad that the public parade is
over. With gracious tact the English king conceals his triumphant joy;
he does everything in his power to play the gracious host to the
honoured guest; but nothing that he can do will remove the shame and
grief that rack the proud heart of the “Fortune of France.”
Now let us turn to the Black Prince and learn why the Londoners so
enthusiastically greet him. He is but twenty-seven years of age, yet he
has many a hard-fought campaign to his credit. At thirteen years of age
he was made Prince of Wales, and invested with the symbols of his
office—the coronet of gold, the ring, and the silver wand. In his
honour the king, his royal father, then held a Feast of the Round Table,
and from every country of Europe came the most renowned knights to
commemorate the fame of King Arthur, and to pledge themselves to emulate
his chivalry, his courtesy, and his feats of arms. Never before had
there been so splendid a pageant seen as that which King Edward arrayed
beneath the ancient walls of Windsor Castle. The Black Prince that day
yearned for the hour when he, too, might take spear and shield and break
a lance in the tourney as a preparation for winning renown on the
battlefield. Long before he was out of his teens he made acquaintance
with the dangers and rigours of war in real earnest. In his sixteenth
year the longed-for moment arrived. He accompanied his father to France,
and as he landed at La Hogue he received the honour of knighthood,
though he had yet his “spurs to win.” But forthwith, as the chronicler
tells us, he “made a right good beginning” by burning and ravaging the
neighbouring country, and by fighting valiantly when Godemar du Fay
endeavoured to prevent the English army from crossing the Somme. Then
came the never-to-be-forgotten battle of Crécy, in which he won his
spurs.
When he rode into London after the battle of Crécy, every man, woman,
and child in the great city loved him, and prophesied a wondrous future
for him. And they were true prophets, for his fame grew with the years;
and now they see him among them once more, victor in his own right, and
bringing in his train the “Fortune of France.” What stories of his
prowess and gallantry and modesty they tell! Listen to yon burly archer
now released from duty. “I mind,” says he, “that after yonder king had
yielded himself, the prince led him to his own tent, took off his helmet
with his own hands, brought him drink, and gave him comfortable words,
and served him at table as he had been a base serving-man and not the
heir of Merry England. What think ye of that?”
And now, while all England is singing his praises and he is at the very
summit of his fame, let us peep into the future and see what fate has in
store for him. Again and again he will harry the fair land of France;
and, greedy of warfare, will ally himself with Pedro the Cruel, and win
a victory for that bloodthirsty tyrant in distant Spain. And when the
victory is won he will beseech Pedro to spare the lives of the
conquered. Before long, however, the Spanish king will refuse to pay him
the price agreed upon, and will send him on wild-goose errands, until he
sees his men fall around him stricken by pestilence, and scarce one in
five of them will return with him across the Pyrenees. He, too, will be
seized with a painful sickness from which he will never recover.
But still he will go on fighting, and every year his heart will harden
within him, until one day he will stain his fair fame by a deed of
pitiless cruelty. In his rage at the long defence of Limoges he will
order no quarter to be given to the gallant defenders. Piteous appeals
will be made to him for mercy; but he will not hearken, and three
thousand defenceless men, women, and children will be massacred in the
streets. “Pity ’tis, ’tis true.”
His sickness will increase, and he will return home to die, but not
before he does something for the people of England in a peaceful and
more useful sphere. He will drive from his father’s court the greedy,
unscrupulous men who are oppressing the land, and he will strive to
better the condition of the people in many ways. Knowing his end is
nigh, he will give himself to prayer and good works; his sickness will
rack him sore, but he will bear his sufferings patiently and will make
“a very noble end, remembering God his Creator in his heart,” and
bidding his people pray for him. He will die in his forty-sixth year, to
the unbounded grief of the nation. And so he passes, a man of war from
his youth up, not untainted by cruelty, not unsullied by martial pride,
but, in spite of all, the very mirror of the knighthood of his day.
[Illustration: =The Black Prince being made a Knight of the Garter.=
(_From the picture by C. W. Cope, R.A., in Westminster Palace._)]
[Illustration]