NEVILLE'S CROSS
On the morning of that day when the embattled hosts of England and
Scotland stood facing each other at the Red Hills, the prior and monks
of Durham, occupying a hillock hard by, elevated the corporax cloth
of St. Cuthbert in sight of both armies, and, kneeling around, prayed
earnestly to their patron saint.
On the spot then occupied by the prior and monks a graceful monument of
stone now commemorates a famous battle and a signal victory. It was,
in fact, erected by Ralph, Lord Neville, to commemorate the conflict
in which I was in part an eye-witness, in part an actor, and wherein
were wrought high feats of arms, which I am about to describe, for
the encouragement of all valiant hearts, and to show them honourable
examples.
About three hours after sunrise the silence which reigned for a brief
period was broken by a flourish of trumpets, followed by the shouting
of warriors and the clangour of mail. Impatient to prove himself worthy
of bearing the name and wearing the crown of Bruce, the young King of
Scots ordered his trumpets to sound a charge, and, ere the sound died
away, the High Steward, at the head of his battalion, composed wholly
of cavalry, and armed with axes and broadswords, advanced upon that
part of the English army arrayed under the banner of Lord Percy.
At the same moment the archers in front of Lord Percy's men-at-arms
took several steps forward, and a shower of arrows darkened the air.
But the effect was not what was expected. Galled by the shafts, and
exasperated almost to madness, the High Steward and his cavalry charged
forward with shouts of wrath and scorn, drove the archers back upon
the men-at-arms, and, plying axe and broadsword with ferocious vigour,
succeeded in throwing the whole battalion into such confusion that Lord
Percy in vain said, "My merry men, fight on!" and, ere the battle had
lasted an hour, victory seemed so decidedly to incline to the Scots,
that I, as a looker-on, felt a degree of alarm I should in vain attempt
to express in words.
"The saints defend us!" exclaimed D'Eyncourt, who held the queen's rein.
"All will be lost," cried Lord Ogle. "O for one hour of my lord the
king!"
"No," said the queen, calm in the great peril, "the field is yet ours.
Boy page," turning towards me, "ride fast to the Lord Baliol; tell
him to throw his cavalry on the Scottish van, break their ranks, and
disperse them; but no pursuit. Away! quick! or he will have to fight,
not for victory, but for life."
I bent my head low; I gave my horse the spur, and, without wasting a
moment, communicated Philippa's command.
"The queen is right," said Baliol thoughtfully. "Gentlemen," said he to
his followers, "let us charge the High Steward, drive back the enemy,
but no pursuit. Strike for King Edward and England! On, on! A Baliol! a
Baliol!"
And the tall horsemen of the North spurred against the Scots.
The effect was instantaneous. The rush was not to be resisted.
Abandoning the advantage he had gained, the High Steward exercised all
his skill to make good his retreat, and Baliol, without following,
allowed him to go off unmolested. In fact, Baliol's brilliant charge
had turned the fortune of the field; and as Lord Moubray and Sir Thomas
Rokeby attacked Lord Douglas and the Earl of Moray, Baliol turned his
eyes towards the place where the Lords Neville and Hastings were
contending, with inferior numbers, against the centre of the Scottish
army, led by the king, and composed of the flower of Scottish chivalry,
and the French auxiliaries whom Philip of Valois had sent over the sea
with malicious intent.
So far, the warriors forming the king's division had borne their
part bravely in the battle. But now their plight was perilous in the
extreme; for the withdrawal of the High Steward had left them fearfully
exposed, and Baliol, with his hereditary and personal antipathy to
the house of Bruce revived by the excitement and carnage of the day,
wheeling round, charged the main body of the Scots on the flank with
such force that French auxiliaries and Scottish chivalry gave way, and
the battalion, shaken to its centre, reeled, divided, and broke into
confused fragments; while high above the din sounded the war-cries of
Neville and Hastings, and over the field rang shouts of "St. George and
victory! Strike for King Edward!"
By this time the position of David Bruce was desperate; for the rear of
his army, under Lord Douglas and the Earl of Moray, fiercely attacked
by Moubray and Rokeby, and confined by hedges and fences, was precluded
from escape, and utterly routed. At the time, therefore, that the
King of Scots found himself worsted by Baliol, and looked around for
aid, the High Steward had disappeared from the field; Douglas was a
prisoner; and Moray a corpse.
The royal Scot was perplexed in the extreme. But let me do the unhappy
king justice. No craven fear was in the heart of the son of Bruce as,
in the hour of despair, he gathered around him the remnants of his
host, and made a last struggle with his victorious adversaries. Forming
his remaining troops into a circle, he faced his foes with a courage
worthy of his birth, and, disdaining the thought of surrender, fought
no longer for victory, no longer even for life, but for a death that
would admit his name to a place in the roll of heroes.
But the aspirations of the King of Scots after a warrior's grave were
not to be gratified. His doom was not to die that day. He was not to
escape the fate he had defied.
It was about the hour of noon; and I, having done what in me lay
to render complete the triumph of that day, was riding over the
field, strewn with corpses and slippery with gore, when, on reaching
Merrington, my attention was attracted to a spot where around a warrior
on horseback, fighting desperately against a multitude, a conflict
still raged. It was the King of Scots making his last futile efforts to
avoid captivity.
Already he had been wounded in two places; his sword had been beaten
from his hand, when an arrow brought him to the ground. As he regained
his feet, Copeland, who was on the watch, sprang from his charger.
"Yield, sir king--rescue or no rescue," said the Northumbrian.
"Never," answered the royal Scot; "I will rather die than surrender."
"Nay," urged Copeland, "you have done all that a brave man could."
"Varlet!" exclaimed the king, turning fiercely upon Copeland, "it is
not for such as you to judge what a king ought to do in the hour of
despair."
And, as he spoke, he raised his gauntleted hand, and struck the
Northumbrian in the mouth with such force that two of a set of teeth
which were none of the most fragile were broken by the blow.
"Now, by St. John of Beverley!" cried Copeland, "were you the foremost
king in Christendom, I should not longer brook delay to indulge your
humour."
And throwing himself upon the royal Scot, the Northumbrian grasped his
vanquished foe with a hand of iron.
"Now yield," said he sternly.
"I do yield, since with me it may not better be," answered the king;
"but I swear to you, by my father's soul, that I would rather die by
your hand."
"Tush, sir king," said Copeland compassionately; "you will think
otherwise on the morrow. Life has its sweets."
"Not with hope and liberty gone," said the royal prisoner. "But conduct
me to your queen."
"Sire," said Copeland, "you are my prisoner as much as if I were prince
or peer, and I will conduct you where I think proper, and to no other
place, save at the command of King Edward, my lord."
Copeland now summoned his men, and, having mounted the Scottish king on
one horse, was about to spring on another when I accosted him.
"Whither," asked I, "are you carrying your captive?"
"Boy," answered Copeland significantly, "I believe that is a secret
your tongue will be all the less likely to tell if not committed to
your ears. Adieu!"
"But what will the queen say?"
"I know not; but this I do know, that I will answer for his safe
keeping to my lord, King Edward, and to no other person, man or woman."