"Highness," he replied, "it is surely apparent that I, who have played
the traitor to two monarchs within the same day, cannot with either
decency or comfort survive that day." He turned upon the lords and
bishops twittering about his horse's tail. "You merchandise, get back
to your stations, and if there was ever an honest woman in any of your
families, the which I doubt, contrive to get yourselves killed this
day, as I mean to do, in the cause of the honestest and bravest woman
our time has known." Immediately the English forces marched toward
Merrington.
Philippa returned to her pavilion and inquired for John Copeland. He
had ridden off, she was informed, armed, in company with five of her
immediate retainers. She considered this strange, but made no comment.
You picture her, perhaps, as spending the morning in prayer, in
beatings upon her breast, and in lamentations. Philippa did nothing of
the sort. As you have heard, she considered her cause to be so
clamantly just that to expatiate to the Holy Father upon its merits
were an impertinence; it was not conceivable that He would fail her;
and in any event, she had in hand a deal of sewing which required
immediate attention. Accordingly she settled down to her needlework,
while the Regent of England leaned his head against her knee, and his
mother told him that ageless tale of Lord Huon, who in a wood near
Babylon encountered the King of Faery, and subsequently stripped the
atrocious Emir of both beard and daughter. All this the industrious
woman narrated in a low and pleasant voice, while the wide-eyed Regent
attended and at the proper intervals gulped his cough-mixture.
You must know that about noon Master John Copeland came into the tent.
"We have conquered," he said. "Now, by the Face!"--thus, scoffingly,
he used her husband's favorite oath--"now, by the Face! there was never
a victory more complete! The Scottish army is as those sands which
dried the letters King Ahasuerus gave the admirable Esther!"
"I rejoice," the Queen said, looking up from her sewing, "that we have
conquered, though in nature I expected nothing else-- Oh, horrible!"
She sprang to her feet with a cry of anguish: and here in little you
have the entire woman; the victory of her armament was to her a thing
of course, since her cause was just, whereas the loss of two front
teeth by John Copeland was a genuine calamity.
He drew her toward the tent-flap, which he opened. Without was a
mounted knight, in full panoply, his arms bound behind him, surrounded
by the Queen's five retainers. "In the rout I took him," said John
Copeland; "though, as my mouth witnesses, I did not find this David
Bruce a tractable prisoner."
"Is that, then, the King of Scots?" Philippa demanded, as she mixed
salt and water for a mouth-wash; and presently: "Sire Edward should be
pleased, I think. Will he not love me a little now, John Copeland?"
John Copeland lifted either plump hand toward his lips. "He could not
choose," John Copeland said; "madame, he could no more choose but love
you than I could choose."
Philippa sighed. Afterward she bade John Copeland rinse his gums and
then take his prisoner to Hastings. He told her the Marquess was dead,
slain by the Knight of Liddesdale. "That is a pity," the Queen said;
and more lately: "There is left alive in England but one man to whom I
dare entrust the keeping of the King of Scots. My barons are sold to
him; if I retain Messire David by me, one or another lord will engineer
his escape within the week, and Sire Edward will be vexed. Yet listen,
John--" She unfolded her plan.
"I have long known," he said, when she had done, "that in all the world
there was no lady more lovable. Twenty years I have loved you, my
Queen, and yet it is but to-day I perceive that in all the world there
is no lady more wise than you."
Philippa touched his cheek, maternally. "Foolish boy! You tell me the
King of Scots has an arrow-wound in his nose? I think a bread poultice
would be best." ... So then John Copeland left the tent and presently
rode away with his company.
Philippa saw that the Regent had his dinner, and afterward mounted her
white palfrey and set out for the battle-field. There the Earl of
Neville, as second in command, received her with great courtesy. God
had shown to her Majesty's servants most singular favor despite the
calculations of reasonable men--to which, she might remember, he had
that morning taken the liberty to assent--some fifteen thousand Scots
were slain. True, her gallant general was no longer extant, though
this was scarcely astounding when one considered the fact that he had
voluntarily entered the mêlée quite unarmed. A touch of age, perhaps;
Hastings was always an eccentric man; and in any event, as epilogue,
this Neville congratulated the Queen that--by blind luck, he was forced
to concede--her worthy secretary had made a prisoner of the Scottish
King. Doubtless, Master Copeland was an estimable scribe, and yet--
Ah, yes, he quite followed her Majesty--beyond doubt, the wardage of a
king was an honor not lightly to be conferred. Oh yes, he understood;
her Majesty desired that the office should be given some person of
rank. And pardie! her Majesty was in the right. Eh? said the Earl of
Neville.
Intently gazing into the man's shallow eyes, Philippa assented. Master
Copeland had acted unwarrantably in riding off with his captive. Let
him be sought at once. She dictated a letter to Neville's secretary,
which informed John Copeland that he had done what was not agreeable in
purloining her prisoner without leave. Let him sans delay deliver the
King to her good friend the Earl of Neville.
To Neville this was satisfactory, since he intended that once in his
possession David Bruce should escape forthwith. The letter, I repeat,
suited this smirking gentleman in its tiniest syllable, and the single
difficulty was to convey it to John Copeland, for as to his whereabouts
neither Neville nor any one else had the least notion.
This was immaterial, however, for they narrate that next day a letter
signed with John Copeland's name was found pinned to the front of
Neville's tent. I cite a passage therefrom: "I will not give up my
royal prisoner to a woman or a child, but only to my own lord, Sire
Edward, for to him I have sworn allegiance, and not to any woman. Yet
you may tell the Queen she may depend on my taking excellent care of
King David. I have poulticed his nose, as she directed."
Here was a nonplus, not perhaps without its comical side. Two great
realms had met in battle, and the king of one of them had vanished like
a soap-bubble. Philippa was in a rage--you could see that both by her
demeanor and by the indignant letters she dictated; true, they could
not be delivered, since they were all addressed to John Copeland.
Meanwhile, Scotland was in despair, whereas the English barons were in
a frenzy, because, however willing you may be, you cannot well betray
your liege-lord to an unlocatable enemy. The circumstances were
unique, and they remained unchanged for three feverish weeks.
We will now return to affairs in France, where on the day of the
Nativity, as night gathered about Calais, John Copeland came unheralded
to the quarters of King Edward, then besieging that city. Master
Copeland entreated audience, and got it readily enough, since there was
no man alive whom Sire Edward more cordially desired to lay his fingers
upon.
A page brought Master Copeland to the King, a stupendous person, blond
and incredibly big. With him were a careful Italian, that Almerigo di
Pavia who afterward betrayed Sire Edward, and a lean soldier whom
Master Copeland recognized as John Chandos. These three were drawing
up an account of the recent victory at Cregi, to be forwarded to all
mayors and sheriffs in England, with a cogent postscript as to the
King's incidental and immediate need of money.
Now King Edward sat leaning far back in his chair, a hand on either
hip, and his eyes narrowing as he regarded Master Copeland. Had the
Brabanter flinched, the King would probably have hanged him within the
next ten minutes; finding his gaze unwavering, the King was pleased.
Here was a novelty; most people blinked quite genuinely under the
scrutiny of those fierce big eyes, which were blue and cold and of an
astounding lustre, gemlike as the March sea.
The King rose with a jerk and took John Copeland's hand. "Ha!" he
grunted, "I welcome the squire who by his valor has captured the King
of Scots. And now, my man, what have you done with Davie?"
John Copeland answered: "Highness, you may find him at your convenience
safely locked in Bamborough Castle. Meanwhile, I entreat you, sire, do
not take it amiss if I did not surrender King David to the orders of my
lady Queen, for I hold my lands of you, and not of her, and my oath is
to you, and not to her, unless indeed by choice."
"John," the King sternly replied, "the loyal service you have done us
is considerable, whereas your excuse for kidnapping Davie is a farce.
Hey, Almerigo, do you and Chandos avoid the chamber! I have something
in private with this fellow." When they had gone, the King sat down
and composedly said, "Now tell me the truth, John Copeland."
"Sire," he began, "it is necessary you first understand I bear a letter
from Madame Philippa--"
"Then read it," said the King. "Heart of God! have I an eternity to
waste on you Brabanters!"
John Copeland read aloud, while the King trifled with a pen, half
negligent, and in part attendant.
Read John Copeland:
"My DEAR LORD,--_I recommend me to your lordship with soul and body and
all my poor might, and with all this I thank you, as my dear lord,
dearest and best beloved of all earthly lords I protest to me, and
thank you, my dear lord, with all this as I say before. Your
comfortable letter came to me on Saint Gregory's day, and I was never
so glad as when I heard by your letter that ye were strong enough in
Ponthieu by the grace of God for to keep you from your enemies. Among
them I estimate Madame Catherine de Salisbury, who would have betrayed
you to the Scot. And, dear lord, if it be pleasing to your high
lordship that as soon as ye may that I might hear of your gracious
speed, which may God Almighty continue and increase, I shall be glad,
and also if ye do each night chafe your feet with a rag of woollen
stuff. And, my dear lord, if it like you for to know of my fare, John
Copeland will acquaint you concerning the Bruce his capture, and the
syrup he brings for our son Lord Edward's cough, and the great
malice-workers in these shires which would have so despitefully wrought
to you, and of the manner of taking it after each meal. I am lately
informed that Madame Catherine is now at Stirling with Robert Stewart
and has lost all her good looks through a fever. God is invariably
gracious to His servants. Farewell, my dear lord, and may the Holy
Trinity keep you from your adversaries and ever send me comfortable
tidings of you. Written at York, in the Castle, on Saint Gregory's day
last past, by your own poor_
"_PHILIPPA._
"_To my true lord._"
"H'm!" said the King; "and now give me the entire story."
John Copeland obeyed. I must tell you that early in the narrative King
Edward arose and, with a sob, strode toward a window. "Catherine!" he
said. He remained motionless what time Master Copeland went on without
any manifest emotion. When he had ended, King Edward said, "And where
is Madame de Salisbury now?"
At this the Brabanter went mad. As a leopard springs he leaped upon
the King, and grasping him by either shoulder, shook that monarch as
one punishing a child.
"Now by the splendor of God--!" King Edward began, very terrible in his
wrath. He saw that John Copeland held a dagger to his breast, and
shrugged. "Well, my man, you perceive I am defenceless. Therefore
make an end, you dog."
"First you will hear me out," John Copeland said.
"It would appear," the King retorted, "that I have little choice."
At this time John Copeland began: "Sire, you are the greatest monarch
our race has known. England is yours, France is yours, conquered
Scotland lies prostrate at your feet. To-day there is no other man in
all the world who possesses a tithe of your glory; yet twenty years ago
Madame Philippa first beheld you and loved you, an outcast, an exiled,
empty-pocketed prince. Twenty years ago the love of Madame Philippa,
great Count William's daughter, got for you the armament wherewith
England was regained. Twenty years ago but for Madame Philippa you had
died naked in some ditch."
"Go on," the King said presently.
"And afterward you took a fancy to reign in France. You learned then
that we Brabanters are a frugal people: Madame Philippa was wealthy
when she married you, and twenty years had but quadrupled her fortune.
She gave you every penny of it that you might fit out this expedition;
now her very crown is in pawn at Ghent. In fine, the love of Madame
Philippa gave you France as lightly as one might bestow a toy upon a
child who whined for it."