THE MEN-AT-ARMS.
Up, comrades, and saddle! to horse and away
To the field where freedom's the prize, sirs!
There hearts of true mettle still carry the day,
And men are the kings and the kaisers.
No shelter is there where a skulker may creep;
But each man's sword his own head must keep.
_Schiller._
On the morning of the next day, when a bright sun was shining on the
wide blue basin of the Forth, and a light silvery mist was creeping
up from the low woods of Drumore and rolling along the green
hill-sides, a body of fifteen hundred Scottish Light Horse, with all
their helmets, their uplifted spears and bright appointments
flashing, as they galloped forth with George Lord Home at their head,
spread along the slope of Fawside Hill, in view of Somerset's camp.
Being principally Border-prickers, they were fleetly mounted on
strong and hardy horses, and were clad in open helmets with jacks of
splinted steel, iron gorgets, and gloves. All had swords, Jethart
axes, and long spears, which they brandished as they galloped or
caracoled backwards and forwards in open squadrons, but irregularly
and far apart, whooping, huzzaing, and taunting the English to attack
them, by many injurious epithets.
Intent on meeting the earliest danger face to face, Florence joined
this band of Border cavalry, and repeatedly rode near the gate of his
own mansion. He felt a shudder as he surveyed it, and on perceiving,
among many others on the bartizan of the tower, a dark figure which
he thought was his mother, he sighed bitterly, and turning his head
away, looked no more, save towards the masses of snow-white tents and
hastily-constructed huts of the English camp, on the right and rear
of which opened the beautiful Bay of Musselburgh, sweeping far away
until its eastern promontory was lost in haze and distance; and on
the left of which lay the wild ravine and smoke-blackened ruins of
Tranent.
With the green banner of his family, charged with a lion rampant
_argent_, armed and langued _gules_, borne by Home of Aytoune, the
Border lord rode so close to the English camp that the Lord Grey of
Wilton obtained the Duke of Somerset's permission to try the effect
of a charge of the heavily-armed English horse upon these bravadoers.
A long and glittering mass was then seen to defile from amid the
white tents and the green chesnut-trees which shaded them. This mass
formed in long squadrons as it advanced, with helmets and lances
shining in the morning sun, and with pennons of every colour
streaming on the wind behind. There were a thousand men-at-arms on
barbed horses, with the demi-lances of Sir Ralf Vane. Among the
latter rode Edward Shelly and many other gentlemen as volunteers. As
they came on with a cheer, which was distinctly heard in both camps,
the Border horse closed round Lord Home's green banner, and then,
rushing on each other at full speed, and with all their lances
levelled in the rest, the adverse columns met with a tremendous
shock, which strewed the open meadows with hundreds of killed and
wounded men and horses. Among those who fell first were the laird of
Champfleurie and Allan Duthie of the Millheugh, who were slain side
by side. The first was cloven down by a sword; the second had three
feet of a lance thrust through his body.
It was impossible for the lightly-armed Scottish troopers to
withstand the weight and fury of a charge from so many
completely-mailed and heavily-mounted cavalry; they were soon broken,
and after losing all order, continued a hand-to-hand conflict along
the whole slope of Fawside Hill.
In fighting desperately to save his banner from Edward Shelly, whose
gauntleted hand was placed thrice upon the pole, Lord Home was
severely wounded, and his son the Master of Home, whom M. Beaugue
styles a loyal Scottish chevalier, "inferior to none in the world,
either in conduct or courage," was struck from his horse, disarmed,
and with the laird of Garscadden and Captain Crawford of Jordanhill
(afterwards so famous in the wars of Queen Mary's reign), was taken
prisoner by Sir Ralf Vane and the Earl of Warwick.
In this conflict Florence ran his lance through the trunk hose of
Master Patten; and as these were extravagantly bombasted with several
pecks of bran, according to the English fashion, it continued to pour
through the orifice as from a sack in which a hole had been torn, and
to sow all the scene of the conflict, to the great amusement of
friends and foes.
Still the strife went on. Surrounded by a mass of English
men-at-arms, who by their very number impeded each other's actions
and prevented his destruction, Florence Fawside, within a bowshot of
his own gate, and within a green hollow, found himself fighting with
all the resolution of a brave heart animated by despair, and coveting
death rather than escape,--for he cared not to fly. His pressing
danger was observed by his old enemy Lord Kilmaurs, who leaped on
horseback, and, attended by three gentlemen in complete armour, was
leaving the Scottish vanguard, when his father, the Earl of
Glencairn, sternly exclaimed,--
"Whither go you, my lord?"
"To the front."
"But why almost alone?--and wherefore?"
"To the front, where the laird of Fawside is fighting those devilish
men-at-arms; see you not how sorely he is beset?"
"Beware of the odds."
"What care I for odds?" replied Kilmaurs, shortening his reins and
waving his lance, the pennon of which bore the hayfork sable, the
badge of his family.
"The danger----"
"It never deterred a Cunninghame."
"But remember the letters of the Guises and the Valois,--he is our
enemy."
"No Scotsman is my enemy to-day," exclaimed the reckless young lord;
"follow me, sirs! I would rather share the death of yonder gallant
lad, than stand idly by and see it."
Kilmaurs and his three companions came along the hillside at full
speed, and, with levelled lances, burst into the fray just as
Florence had been struck from his saddle, and had placed his horse
between himself and the swords of the men-at-arms. Thrice a
demi-lancer of Sir Ralf Vane's band had made a deadly thrust at him;
but thrice the weapon had been parried by the friendly sword of
Edward Shelly, who had just joined the _mêlée_, for the same kind
purpose that had brought hither Lord Kilmaurs.
"Mount, Fawside," exclaimed the Englishman, keeping between Florence
and the Boulogners; "mount while there is time, and leave me to deal
with my Lord of Kilmaurs,--another day will serve your turn and mine."
"Thanks," said Florence breathlessly, as he leaped on his horse; "for
this good deed I strike not at you to-day."
"But to-morrow----"
"And why to-morrow, Shelly?--alas, I have no one left to live or
fight for now; but to-morrow be it, for I warned you to avoid
Scottish ground."
"And in good sooth a few of us find its air unwholesome for our
English lungs to-day."
While Florence drew off for a few minutes to recover his breath, and
from the exhaustion of the late encounter, a rough and desperate
conflict took place between Shelly and Kilmaurs, whose former quarrel
gave acrimony to their hate and energy to their hands.
"Thou traitor and bondsman of Somerset!" exclaimed Shelly.
"Spy!" taunted the other, and their ringing swords struck fire at
every ward and cut. Kilmaurs received a severe wound on the bridle
hand, and Shelly's helmet was nearly cloven in two, the vizor being
struck completely off; but now other hands and weapons mingled in the
combat, and here as in other portions of this extensive skirmish, the
Scots were beaten, and had to fly at full speed to reach their own
camp; but not until after the contest had been maintained for three
hours, with the greatest valour and desperation; and until they had
lost no less than thirteen hundred men and horses, did they entirely
give way; and then the remnant were pursued round Fawside Hill for
three miles to the right flank of the Scottish camp.
Fawside had his armour cut or riven in more than twenty places, by
the long swords of the men-at-arms of Boulogne; and his fine grey
charger, the gift of Mary of Lorraine, bore him through the Howemire
and back to the camp, but so covered was it with wounds as to be
disembowelled and dying.
Such was the result of this severe cavalry encounter, a prelude to
the greater strife of the morrow; it filled the Scots with greater
rancour, and the English (who knew that they must either win a battle
or be driven into the sea) with a glow of triumph, which they were at
no pains to conceal, for the livelong night their camp rang with
rejoicing, and shouts of acclamation.