Wintry winds and rains were sweeping over the English tents on the banks
of the Marne, where Henry V. was besieging Meaux, then the stronghold of
one of those terrible freebooters who were always the offspring of a
lengthened war. Jean de Gast, usually known as the Bastard de Vaurus,
nominally was of the Armagnac or patriotic party, but, in fact, pillaged
indiscriminately, especially capturing travellers on their way to Paris,
and setting on their heads a heavy price, failing which he hung them upon
the great elm-tree in the market-place. The very suburbs of Paris were
infested by the forays of this desperate _routier_, as such highway
robbers were called; the supplies of previsions were cut off, and the
citizens had petitioned King Henry that he would relieve them from so
intolerable an enemy.
The King intended to spend the winter months with his queen in England,
and at once attacked the place in October, hoping to carry it by a _coup
de main_. He took the lower city, containing the market-place and
several large convents, with no great difficulty; but the upper city, on
a rising ground above the river, was strongly fortified, well victualled,
and bravely defended, and he found himself forced to invest it, and make
a regular siege, though at the expense of severe toil and much sickness
and suffering. Both his own prestige in France and the welfare of the
capital depended on his success, and he had therefore fixed himself
before Meaux to take it at whatever cost.
The greater part of the army were here encamped, together with the chief
nobles, March, Somerset, Salisbury, Warwick, and likewise the King of
Scots. James had for a time had the command of the army which besieged
and took Dreux while Henry was elsewhere engaged, but in general he acted
as a sort of volunteer aide-de-camp to his brother king, and Malcolm
Stewart of Glenuskie was always with him as his squire. A great change
had come over Malcolm in these last few months. His feeble, sickly
boyhood seemed to have been entirely cast off, and the warm genial summer
sun of France to have strengthened his frame and developed his powers. He
had shot up suddenly to a fair height, had almost lost his lameness, and
gained much more appearance of health and power of enduring fatigue. His
nerves had become less painfully sensitive, and when after his first
skirmish, during which he had kept close to King James, far too much
terrified to stir an inch from him, he had not only found himself
perfectly safe, but had been much praised for his valour, he had been so
much pleased with himself that he quite wished for another occasion of
displaying his bravery; and, what with use, and what with the increasing
spirit of pugnacity, he was as sincere as Ralf Percy in abusing the
French for never coming to a pitched battle. Perhaps, indeed, Malcolm
spoke even more eagerly than Ralf, in his own surprise and gratification
at finding himself no coward, and his fear lest Percy should detect that
he ever had been supposed to be such.
So far the King of Scots had succeeded in awakening martial fire in the
boy, but he found him less the companion in other matters than he had
intended. When at Paris, James would have taken him to explore the
learned hoards of the already venerable University of Paris, where young
James Kennedy--son to Sir James Kennedy of Dunure, and to Mary, an elder
sister of the King--was studying with exceeding zeal. Both James and Dr.
Bennet were greatly interested in this famous abode of hearing--the King,
indeed, was already sketching out designs in his own mind for a similar
institution in Scotland, designs that were destined to be carried out
after his death by Kennedy; and Malcolm perforce heard many inquiries and
replies, but he held aloof from friendship with his clerkly cousin
Kennedy, and closed his ears as much as might be, hanging back as if
afraid of returning to his books. There was in this some real dread of
Ralf Percy's mockery of his clerkliness, but there was more real distaste
for all that appertained to the past days that he now despised.
The tide of vitality and physical vigour, so long deficient, had, whom it
had fairly set in, carried him away with it: and in the activity of body
newly acquired, mental activity had well-nigh ceased. And therewith went
much of the tenderness of conscience and devout habits of old. They
dropped from him, sometimes for lack of time, sometimes from false shame,
and by and by from very weariness and distaste. He was soldier now, and
not monk--ay, and even the observances that such soldiers as Henry and
James never failed in, and always enforced, were becoming a burthen to
him. They wakened misgivings that he did not like, and that must wait
till his next general shrift.
And Esclairmonde? Out of her sight, Malcolm dreamt a good deal about
her, but more as the woman, less as the saint; and the hopes, so low in
her presence, burnt brighter in her absence as Malcolm grew in
self-confidence and in knowledge of the world. He knew that when he
parted with her he had been a miserable little wretch whom any woman
would despise, yet she had shown him a sort of preference; how would it
be when he returned to her, perhaps a knight, certainly a brave man like
other men!
Of Patrick Drummond he had as yet heard nothing, and only believed him to
be among the Scots who fought on the French side under the Earls of
Buchan and Douglas. Indeed, James especially avoided places where he
knew these Scots to be engaged, as Henry persisted in regarding them as
rebels against him, and in hanging all who were made prisoners; nor had
Malcolm, during the courtesies that always pass between the outposts of
civilized armies, made much attempt to have any communication with his
cousin, for though his own abnegation of his rights had never been
permitted by his guardian, or reckoned on by his sister or her lover,
still he had been so much in earnest about it himself, as, while
regarding it as a childish folly, to feel ill at ease in the remembrance,
and, though defiant, willing to avoid all that could recall it.
Meantime he, with his king, was lodged in a large old convent, as part of
the immediate following of King Henry. Others of the princes and nobles
were quartered in the market hall and lower town, but great part of thine
troops were in tents, and in a state of much discomfort, owing to the
overflowings of the Marne. Fighting was the least of their dangers,
though their skirmishes were often fought ankle-deep in mud and mire;
fever and ague were among them, and many a sick man was sent away to
recover or die at Paris. The long dark evenings were a new trial to men
used to summer campaigning, and nothing but Henry's wonderful personal
influence and perpetual vigilance kept up discipline. At any hour of the
day or night, at any place in the camp, the King might be at hand, with a
cheery word of sympathy or encouragement, or with the most unflinching
sternness towards any disobedience or debauchery--ever a presence to be
either loved or dreaded. An engineer in advance of his time, he was
persuaded that much of the discomfort might be remedied by trenching the
ground around the camp; but this measure proved wonderfully distasteful
to the soldiery. How hard they laboured in the direct siege operations
they cared not, but to be set to drain French fields seemed to them
absurd and unreasonable, and the work would not have proceeded at all
without constant superintendence from one of the chiefs of the army,
since the ordinary knights and squires were as obstinately prejudiced as
were the men.
Thus it was that, on a cold sleety December day, James of Scotland rode
along the meadows, splashing through thin ice into muddy water, and
attended by his small personal suite, excepting Sir Nigel Baird, who was
gone on a special commission to Paris. Both he and Malcolm were plainly
and lightly armed, and wore long blue cloaks with the St. Andrew's cross
on the shoulder, steel caps without visors, and the King's merely
distinguished by a thread-hike circlet of gold. They had breastplates,
swords, and daggers, but they were not going to a quarter where fighting
was to be expected, and bright armour was not to be exposed to rust
without need. A visit of inspection to the delvers was not a congenial
occupation, for though the men-at-arms had obeyed James fairly well when
he was in sole command at Dreux, yet whenever he was obliged to enforce
anything unpopular, the national dislike to the Scot was apt to show
itself, and the whole army was at present in a depressed condition which
made such manifestations the more probable.
But King Henry was not half recovered from a heavy feverish cold, which
he had not confessed or attended to, and he had also of late been
troubled with a swelling of the neck. This morning, too, much to his
inconvenience and dismay, he had missed his signet-ring. The private
seal on such a ring was of more importance than the autograph at that
time, and it would never have left the King's hand; but no doubt, in
consequence of his indisposition, his finger, always small-boned, had
become thin enough to allow the signet to escape unawares, he was
unwilling to publish the loss, as it might cast doubt on the papers he
despatched, and he, with his chamberlain Fitzhugh, King James, Malcolm,
Percy, and a few more, had spent half the morning in the vain search,
ending by the King sending his chamberlain, Lord Fitzhugh, to carry to
Paris a seal already bearing his shield, but lacking the small private
mark that authenticated it as his signet. Fitzhugh would stand over the
lapidary and see this added, and bring it back. Ralf Percy had meantime
been sent to bring a report of the diggers, but he was long in returning;
and when Henry became uneasy, James had volunteered to go himself, and
Henry had consented, not because the air was full of sleety rain or snow,
but because his hands were full of letters needing to be despatched to
all quarters.
The air was so thick that it was not easy to see where were the sullen
group of diggers presided over by the quondam duellists of Thirsk, Kitson
and Trenton, now the most inseparable and impracticable of men; but James
and his companions had ridden about two miles from the market-place, when
Ralf Percy came out of the mist, exclaiming, 'Is it you, Sir King? Maybe
you can do something with those rascals! I've talked myself blue with
cold to make them slope the sides of their dyke, but the owl Kitson says
no Yorkshireman ditcher ever went but by one fashion, and none ever
shall; and when I lifted my riding-rod at the most insolent of the
rogues, what must Trenton do but tell me the lot were free yeomen, and
I'd best look out, or they'd roll me in the mire if I meddled with a soul
of them.'
'You didn't threaten to strike Trenton?'
'No, no; the sullen cur is a gentleman. 'Twas one of those lubberly men-
at-arms! I told them they should hear what King Harry would say to their
mood. I would it were he!'
'So would I,' said James. 'Little chance that they will hearken to a
Scot when you have put them in such a mood. Hold, Ralf, do not go for
the King; he has letters for the Emperor mattering more than this dyke.'
He rode on, and did his best by leaping into the ditch, taking the spade,
and showing the superior security of the angle of inclination traced by
the King, but all in vain; both Trenton and Kitson silently but
obstinately scouted the notion that any king should know more about
ditches than themselves.
'See,' cried Percy, starting up, 'here's other work! The fellows, whence
came they?'
Favoured by the fog and the soft soil of the meadows, a considerable body
of the enemy were stealing on the delvers with the manifest purpose of
cutting them off from the camp. They were all mounted, but the only
horses in the English party were those of James, Percy, Malcolm, and the
half-dozen men of his escort. James, assuming the command at once, bade
these to be all released; they would be sure to find their way to the
camp, and that would bring succour. Meantime he drew the whole of the
men, about thirty in number, into a compact body. They were, properly,
archers, but their bows had been left behind, and they had only their
pikes and bills, which were, however, very formidable weapons against
cavalry as long as they continued in an unbroken rank; and though the
bogs, pools, sunken hedges, and submerged stumps made it difficult to
keep close together as they made their way slowly with one flank to the
river, these obstacles were no small protection against a charge of
horsemen.
For a quarter of a mile these tactics kept them unharmed, but at length
they reached a wide smooth meadow, and the enemy seemed preparing to
charge. James gave orders to close up and stand firm, pikes outwards.
Malcolm's heart beat fast; it was the most real peril he had yet seen;
and yet he was cheered by the King's ringing voice, 'Stand firm, ye merry
men. They must soon be with us from the camp.'
Suddenly a voice shouted, 'The Scots! the Scots! 'Tis the Scots!
Treachery! we are betrayed. Come, Sir' (to Percy), 'they'll be on you.
Treason!'
'An' it were, you fool, would a Percy turn his back?' cried Ralf,
striking at the man; but the panic had seized the whole body; all were
shouting that the false Scots king had brought his countrymen down on
them; they scattered hither and thither, and would have fallen an easy
prey if they had been pursued. But this did not seem to be the purpose
of the enemy, who merely extended themselves so as to form a hedge around
the few who stood, sword in hand, disdaining to fly. These were, James,
somewhat in advance, with his head high, and a lion look on his brow;
Malcolm, white with dismay; Ralf, restless with fury; Kitson and Trenton,
apparently as unmoved as ever; Brewster, equally steady: and Malcolm's
follower, Halbert, in a glow of hopeful excitement.
'Never fear, friends,' said James, kindly; 'to you this can only be
matter of ransom.'
'I fear nothing,' sharply answered Ralf.
'We'll stand by you, Sir,' said Kitson to Ralf; 'but if ever there were
foul treason--'
'Pshaw! you ass,' were all Percy's thanks; for at that moment a horseman
came forward from among the enemy, a gigantic form on a tall white horse,
altogether a 'dark gray man,' the open visor revealing an elderly face,
hard-featured and grim, and the shield on his arm so dinted, faded, and
battered, as scarce to show the blue chief and the bleeding crowned
heart; but it was no unfamiliar sight to Malcolm's eyes, and with a
slight shudder he bent his head in answer to the fierce whisper, 'Old
Douglas himself!' with which Hotspur's son certified himself that he had
the foe of his house before him. King James, resting the point of his
sword on his mailed foot, stood erect and gravely expectant; and the
Scot, springing to the ground, advanced with the words, 'We greet you
well, my liege, and hereby--' he was bending his knee as he spoke, and
removing his gauntlet in preparation for the act of homage.
'Hold, Earl Douglas,' said James, 'homage is vain to a captive.'
'You are captive no longer, Sir King,' said Earl Archibald. 'We have
long awaited this occasion, and will at once return to Scotland with you,
with the arms and treasure we have gained here, and will bear down the
craven Albany.'
Kitson and Trenton looked at one another and grasped their swords, as
though doubting whether they ought not to cut down their king's prisoner
rather than let him be rescued; and meanwhile the cry, 'Save King James!'
broke out on all sides, knights leapt down to tender their homage, and
among the foremost Malcolm knew Sir Patrick Drummond, crying aloud, 'My
lord, my lord, we have waited long for you. Be a free king in free
Scotland! Trust us, my liege.'
'Trust you, my friends!' said James, deeply touched; 'I trust you with
all my heart; but how could you trust me if I began with a breach of
faith to the King of England?'
Ralf Percy held up his finger and nodded his head to the Yorkshire
squires, who stood open-mouthed, still believing that a Scot must be
false. There was an angry murmur among the Scots, but James gazed at
them undauntedly, as though to look it down.
'Yes, to King Harry!' he said, in his trumpet voice. 'I belong to him,
and he has trusted me as never prisoner was trusted before, nor will I
betray that trust.'
'The foul fiend take such niceties,' muttered old Douglas; but, checking
himself, he said, 'Then, Sir, give me your sword, and we'll have you home
as my prisoner, to save this your honour!'
'Yea,' said James, 'that is mine own, though my body be yours, and till
England put me to ransom you would have but a useless captive.'
'Sir,' said Sir John Swinton, pressing forward, 'if my Lord of Douglas be
plain-spoken, bethink you that it is no cause for casting aside this one
hope of freedom that we have sought so long. If you have the heart to
strike for Scotland, this is the time.'
'It is not the time,' said James, 'nor will I do Scotland the wrong of
striking for her with a dishonoured hand.'
'That will we see when we have him at Hermitage Castle,' quoth Douglas to
his followers. 'Now, Sir King, best give your sword without more
grimace. Living or dead you are ours.'
'I yield not,' said James. 'Dead you may take me--alive, never.' Then
turning his eyes to the faces that gazed on him so earnestly in
disappointment, in affection, or in scorn, he spoke: 'Brave friends, who
may perchance love me the better that I have been a captive half my life
and all my reign, you can believe how sair my heart burns for my bonnie
land's sake, and how little I'd reck of my life for her weal. But broken
oaths are ill beginnings. For me, so notably trusted by King Henry, to
break my bonds, would shame both Scots and kings; and it were yet more
paltry to feign to yield to my Lord of Douglas. Rescue or no rescue, I
am England's captive. Gentles, kindly brother Scots, in one way alone
can you free me. Give up this wretched land of France, whose troubles
are but lengthened by your valour. Let me gang to King Harry and tell
him your swords are at his service, so soon as I am free. Then am I your
King indeed; we return together, staunch hearts and strong hands, and the
key shall keep the castle, and the bracken bush keep the cow, though I
lead the life of a dog to bring it about.'
His tawny eye flashed with falcon light; and as he stood towering above
all the tall men around, there were few who did not in heart own him
indeed their king. But his picture of royal power accorded ill with the
notions of a Black Douglas, in the most masterful days of that family;
and Earl Archibald, who had come to regard kings as beings meant to be
hectored by Douglases, resentfully exclaimed, 'Hear him, comrades; he has
avouched himself a Southron at heart. Has he reckoned how little it
would cost to give a thrust to the caitiff who has lost heart in his
prison, and clear the way for Albany, who is at least a true Scot?'
'Do so, Lord Earl,' said James, 'and end a long captivity. But let these
go scatheless.'
With one voice, Percy, Kitson, Trenton, and Brewster, shouted their
resolve to defend him to the last; and Malcolm, flinging himself on
Patrick Drummond, adjured him to save the King.
'Thou here, laddie!' said Patrick, amazed; and while several more knights
exclaimed, 'Sir, Sir, we'll see no hand laid on you!' he thrust forward,
'Take my horse, Sir, ride on, and I'll see no scathe befall you.'
'Thanks,' said James; 'but my feet will serve me best; we will keep
together.'
The Scottish force seemed dividing into two: Douglas and his friends and
retainers, mounted and holding together, as though still undecided
whether to grapple with the King and his half-dozen companions; while
Drummond and about ten more lances were disposed to guard him at all
risks.
'Now,' said James to his English friends; and therewith, sword in hand,
he moved with a steady but swift stride towards the camp, nor did Douglas
attempt pursuit; some of the other horsemen hovered between, and Patrick
Drummond, with a puzzled face, kept near on foot. So they proceeded till
they reached a bank and willow hedge, through which horses could hardly
have pursued them.
On the other side of this, James turned round and said, 'Thanks, Sir
Knight; I suppose I may not hope that you will become a follower of the
knight adventurer.'
'I cannot fight under the English banner, my liege. Elsewhere I would
fellow you to the death.'
'This is no time to show your error,' said James; 'and I therefore
counsel you to come no farther. The English will be pricking forth in
search of us: so I will but thank you for your loyal aid.'
'I entreat you, Sir,' cried Patrick, 'not to believe that we meant this
matter to go as it has done! It had long been our desire--of all of us,
that is, save my Lord Buchan's retainers--to find you and release you;
but never did we deem that Lord Douglas would have dared to conduct
matters thus.'
'You would be little the better for me did Lord Douglas bring me back on
his own terms,' said James, smiling. 'No, no; when I go home, it shall
be as a free king, able to do justice to all alike; and for that I am
content to bide my time, and trust to such as you to back me when it
comes.'
'And with all my heart, Sir,' said Patrick. 'Would that you were where I
could do so now. Ah! laddie,' to Malcolm; 'ye're in good hands. My
certie, I kenned ye but by your voice! Ye're verily grown into a goodly
ship after all, and ye stood as brave as the rest. My poor father would
have been fain to see this day!'
Malcolm flushed to the ears; somehow Patrick's praise was not as pleasant
to him as he would have expected, and he only faltered, 'You know--'
'I ken but what Johnnie Swinton brought me in a letter frae the Abbot of
Coldingham, that my father--the saints be with him!--had been set on and
slain by yon accursed Master of Albany--would that his thrapple were in
my grip!--that he had sent you southwards to the King, and that your
sister was in St. Abbs. Is it so?'
Malcolm had barely time to make a sign of affirmation, when the King
hurried him on. 'I grieve to balk you of your family tidings, but delay
will be ill for one or other of us; so fare thee well, Sir Patrick, till
better times.'
He shook the knight's hand as he spoke, cut short his protestations, and
leapt down the bank, saying in a low voice, as he stretched out his hand
and helped Malcolm down after him, 'He would have known me again for your
guest if we had stood many moments longer; he looked hard at me as it
was; and neither in England nor Scotland may that journey of mine be
blazed abroad.'
Malcolm was on the whole rather relieved; he could not help feeling
guilty towards Patrick, and unless he could have full time for
explanation, he preferred not falling in with him.
And at the same moment Kitson stepped towards the King. 'Sir, you are an
honest man, and we crave your pardon if we said aught that seemed in
doubt thereof.'
James laughed, shaking each honest hand, and saying, 'At least, good
sirs, do not always think Scot and traitor the same word; and thank you
for backing me so gallantly.'
'I'd wish no better than to back such as you, Sir,' said Kitson heartily;
and James then turned to Ralf Percy, and asked him what he thought of the
Douglas face to face.
'A dour old block!' said Ralf. 'If those runaways had but stayed within
us, the hoary ruffian should have had his lesson from a Percy.'
James smiled, for the grim giant was still a good deal more than a match
for the slim, rosy-faced stripling of the house of Percy, who
nevertheless simply deemed his nation and family made him invincible by
either Scot or Frenchman.
The difficulties of their progress, however, entirely occupied them.
Having diverged from the regular track, they had to make their way
through the inundated meadows; sometimes among deep pools, sometimes in
quagmires, or ever hedges; while the water that drenched them was fast
freezing, and darkness came down on them. All stumbled or were bogged at
different times; and Malcolm, shorter and weaker than the rest, and his
lameness becoming more felt than usual, could not help impeding their
progress, and at last was so spent that but for the King's strong arm he
would have spent the night in a bog-hole.
At last the lights were near, the outskirts were gained, the pass-word
given to the watch, and the rough but welcome greeting was heard--'That's
well! More of you come in! How got you off?'
'The rogues got back, then?' said Kitson.
'Some score of them,' was the answer; 'but 'tis thought most are drowned
or stuck by the French. The King is in a proper rage, as well he may be;
but what else could come of a false Scot in the camp?'
'Have a care, you foul tongue!' Percy was the first to cry; and as
torches were now brought out and cast their light on the well-known
faces, the soldiers stood abashed; but James tarried not for their
excuses; his heart was hot at the words which implied that Henry
suspected him, and he strode hastily on to the convent, where the
quadrangle was full of horses and men, and the windows shone with lights.
At the door of the refectory stood a figure whose armour flashed with
light, and his voice sounded through the closed visor--'I tell you,
March, I cannot rest till I knew what his hap has been. If he have done
this thing--'
'What then?' answered James out of the darkness, in a voice deep with
wrath; but Henry started.
'You there! you safe! Speak again! Come here that I may see. Where is
he?'
'Here, Sir King,' said James, gravely.
'Now the saints be thanked!' cried Henry, joyously. 'Where be the
caitiffs that brought me their false tale? They shall hang for it at
once.'
'It was the less wonder,' said James, still coldly, 'that they should
have thought themselves betrayed, since their king believed it of me.'
'Nay, 'twas but for a hot moment--ay, and the bitterest I ever spent.
What could I do when the villains swore that there were signals and I
know not what devices passing? I hoped yet 'twas but a plea for their
own cowardice, and was mounting to come and see for you. Come, I should
have known you better; I'd rather the whole world deceived me than have
distrusted you, Jamie.'
There was that in his tone which ended all resentment, and James's hand
was at once clasped in his, while Henry added, 'Ho, Provost-marshal! to
the gallows with these knaves!'
'Nay, Harry,' said James, 'let me plead for them. There was more than
ordinary to dismay them.'
'Dismay! ay, the more cause they should have stood like honest men. If a
rogue be not to hang for deserting his captain and then maligning him,
soon would knavery be master of all.'
'Hear me first, Hal.'
'I'll hear when I return and you are dried. Why, man, thou art an icicle
errant; change thy garments while I go round the posts, or I shall hear
nought for the chattering of thy teeth.'
'Nor I for your cough, if you go, Harry. Surely, 'tis Salisbury's
night!'
'The more cause that I be on the alert! Could I be everywhere, mayhap a
few winter blasts would not have chilled and frozen all the manhood out
of the host.'
He spoke very sharply as he threw him on his horse, and wrapped his cloak
about him--a poor defence, spite of the ermine lining, against the frost
of the December night for a man whose mother, the fair and wise Mary de
Bohun, had died in early youth from disease of the lungs.
James and the two young partners of his adventure had long been clad in
their gowns of peace, and seated by the fire in the refectory, James with
his harp in his hand, from time to time dreamily calling forth a few
plaintive notes, such as he said always rang in his ears after hearing a
Scottish voice, when they again heard Henry's voice in hot displeasure
with the provost-marshal for having deferred the execution of the
runaways till after the hearing of the story of the King of Scots.
'His commands were not to be transgressed for the king of anything,' and
he only reprieved the wretches till morning that their fate might be more
signal. He spoke with the peremptory fierceness that had of late almost
obscured his natural good-humour and kindliness; and when he entered the
refectory and threw himself into a chair by the fire, he looked wearied
out in body and mind, shivered and coughed, and said with unwonted
depression that the sullen fellows would make a quagmire of their camp
after all, since a French reinforcement had come up, and the vigilance
that would be needed would occupy the whole army. At supper he ate
little and spoke less; and when James would have related his encounter
within the Scots, he cut him short, saying, 'Let that rest till morning;
I am sick of hearing of it! An air upon thy harp would be more to the
purpose.'
Nor would James have been unwilling to be silent on old Douglas's conduct
if he had not been anxious to plead for the panic-stricken archers, as
well as to extol the conduct of the two youths, and of the Yorkshire
squires; but, as he divined that the young Hotspur would regard praise
from him as an insult, he deferred the subject for his absence, and
launched into a plaintive narrative ballad, to which Henry listened,
leaning back in his chair, often dozing, but without relaxation of the
anxiety that sat on his pale face, and ever and anon wakening within a
heavy sigh, as though his buoyant spirits were giving way under the
weight of care he had brought on himself.
James was just singing of one of the many knightly orphans of romance,
exposed in woods to the nurture of bears, his father slain, his mother
dead of grief--a ditty he had perhaps chosen for its soporific
powers--when a gay bugle blast rang through the court of the convent.
'The French would scarce send to parley thus late,' exclaimed James; but
the next moment a joyful clamour arose without, and Henry, springing to
his feet, spoke not, but stood awaiting the tidings with the colour
burning on cheek and brow in suppressed excitement.
An esquire, splashed to the ears, hurried into the room, and falling on
his knees, cried aloud, 'God save King Harry! News, news, my lord! The
Queen has safely borne you a fair son at Windsor Castle, five days
since.'
Henry did not speak, but took the messenger's hand, wrung it, and left a
costly ring there. Then, taking off his cap, he put his hands over his
face, uttering a few words of fervent thanksgiving almost within himself,
and then turning to the esquire, made further inquiries after his wife's
welfare, took from him the letter that Archbishop Chicheley had sent,
poured out a cup of wine for him, bade the lords around make him good
cheer, but craved license for himself to retire.
It was so unlike his usual hilarious manner that all looked at one
another in anxiety, and spoke of his unusual susceptibility to fatigue
and care; while the squire, looking at the rich jewel in his hand,
declared within disappointment in his tone, that he would rather have had
a mere flint stone so he had heard King Harry's own cheery voice.
James was not the least anxious of them, but long ere light the next
morning Henry stood at his bedside, saying, 'I must go round the posts
before mass, Jamie. Will you face the matin frost?'
'I am fitter to face it than thou,' said James, rising. 'Is there need
for this?'
'Great need,' said Henry. 'Here are these fresh forces all aglow within
their first zeal, and unless they are worse captains than I suppose them,
they will attempt some mischief ere long--nor is any time so slack as
cock-crow.'
James was speedily ready, and, within some suppressed sighs, so was
Malcolm, who knew himself in duty bound to attend his master, and was
kept on the alert by seeing Ralf Percy also on foot. But it was a great
relief to him that the young gentleman murmured in no measured terms
against the intolerable activity of their kings. No other attendants
went within them, since Henry was wont to patrol his camp with as little
demonstration as possible.
'I would scarcely ask a dog to come out with me this wintry morn,' said
he, as he waved back his sleepy chamberlain, Fitzhugh, and took his
brother king's arm; 'but I could not but crave a turn with thee, Jamie,
ere the hue and cry of rejoicing begins.'
'That is poor welcome for your heir,' said James.
'Poor child!' said Henry; then, after they had walked some space in
silence, he added, 'You'll mock me, but I would that this had not
befallen at Windsor. I had laid my plans that it should be otherwise;
but ladies are ill to guide.'
'And wherefore should it not have been at fair Windsor? If I can love it
as a prison, sure your son may well love it as a cradle.'
'No dishonour to Windsor,' said Henry; 'but, sleeping or waking, this
whole night hath this adage rung in my ears--
"Harry, born at Monmouth, shall short time live and all get;
Harry, born at Windsor, shall long time live and lose all."'
'A most choice piece of royal poesy and prophecy,' laughed James.
'Nay, do not charge me with it, thou dainty minstrel. It was sung to me
by mime old Herefordshire nurse, when Windsor seemed as little within my
reach as Meaux, and I never thought of it again till I looked to have a
son.'
'Then balk the prophecy,' said James; 'Edward born at Windsor got enough,
and lived long enough to boot!'
'Too late!' was the answer. 'The Archbishop christened the poor child
Harry in the very hour of his birth.'
'Poor child!' echoed James, rather sarcastically.
'Nay, 'tis not solely the rhyme,' said Henry; 'but this has been a
wakeful night, and not without misgivings whether I am one who ought to
look for joy in his children.'
'What is past was not such that you alone should cry _mea culpa_,' said
James.
'I never thought so till now,' said Henry. 'Yet who knows? My father
was a winsome young man ere his exile, full of tenderness to us all, at
the rare times he was with us. Who knows what cares may make of me ere
my boy learns to knew me?'
'You will not hold him aloof, and give him no chance of loving you?'
'I trow not! I'll have him with me in the camp, and he and my brave men
shall be one another's pride. Which Roman emperor is it that hears the
nickname his father's soldiers gave him as a child? Nay--Caligula was
it? Omens are against me this morning.'
'Then laughs them to scorn, and be yourself,' said James. 'Bless God for
the goodly child, who is born to two kingdoms, won by his father's and
his grandsire's swords.'
'Ah!' said Henry, depressed by failing health, a sleepless night, and
hungry morning, 'maybe it were better for him, soul and body both, did I
stand here Duke of Lancaster, and good Edmund of March yonder were head
of realm and army.'
'Never would he be head of this army,' said James. 'He would be snoring
at Shene; that is, if he could sleep for the trouble the Duke of
Lancaster would be giving him.'
Henry laughed at last. 'Good King Edmund, he would assuredly never try
to set the world right on its hinges. Honest fellow, soon he will be as
hearty in his congratulations as though he did not lie under a great
wrong. Heigh-ho! such as he may be in the right on't. I've marvelled of
late, whether any priest or hermit could bring back my old assurance,
that all this is my work on earth, or tell me if it be all one grand
error. Men there have been like Caesar, Alexander, or Charlemagne, who
thought my thoughts and worked them out; and surely Church and nations
cry aloud for purifying. Jerusalem, and a general council--I saw them
once clear and bright before me; but now a mist seems to rise up from
Richard's blood, and hide them from me; and there comes from it my
father's voice when he asked on his deathbed what right I had to the
crown. What would it be if I had to leave this work half done?'
He was interrupted by the sight of a young knight stealing into the camp,
after a furtive expedition to Paris. It was enough to rouse him from his
despondent state; and the severity of his wrath was in full proportion to
the offence. Nor did he again utter his misgivings, but was full of his
usual alacrity and life, as though daylight had restored his buoyancy.
James, on the way back to the thanksgiving mass, interceded for last
night's offenders, as an act of grace suitable to the occasion; but Henry
was inexorable.
'Had they stood to die like Englishmen, they had not lied like dogs! 'he
said; 'and as dogs they shall hang!'
In fact, in the critical state of his army, he knew that the only safety
lay in the promptest and sternest justice; and therefore the three
foremost in accusing King James of treachery were hung long before noon.
However, he called for the two Yorkshiremen, and thus addressed them:
'Well done, my masters! Thanks for showing Scots and Frenchmen what
stuff Englishmen are made of! I keep my word, good fellows. Kneel down,
and I'll dub each a knight. How now! what are you blundering and
whispering for?'
'So please you, Sir,' said Kitson, 'this is no matter to win one's spurs
for--mere standing still without a blow.'
'I would all had that same gift of standing still,' returned Henry. 'What
is it sticks in your gizzard, friend? If 'tis the fees, I take them on
myself.'
'No, Sir,' hoarsely cried both.
And Kitson explained: 'Sir, you said you'd knight the one of us that was
foremost. Now, the two being dubbed, we shall be but where we were
before as to Mistress Agnes of Mineshull, unless of your good-will you
would be pleased to let us fight out the wager of the heriard in all
peace and amity.'
Henry burst out laughing, with all his old merriment, as he said, 'For no
Mistress Agnes living can I have honest men's lives wasted, specially of
such as have that gift of standing still. If she does not knew her own
mind, one of you must get himself killed by the Frenchmen, not by one
another. So kneel down, and we'll make your knighthood's feast fall in
with that of my son.'
Thus Sir Christopher Kitson and Sir William Trenton rose up knights; and
bore their honours with a certain bluntness that made them butts, even
while they were the heroes of the day; and Henry, who had resumed his gay
temper, made much diversion out of their mingled shrewdness and
gruffness.
'So,' muttered Malcolm to Ralf Percy, 'we are passed over in the self-
same matter for which these fellows are knighted.'
'Tush!' answered Percy; 'I'd scorn to be confounded with a couple of
clowns like them! Moreover,' he added, with better reason, 'their valour
was more exercised than ours, inasmuch as they thought there was
treachery, and we did not. No, no; when my spurs are won, it shall be
for some prowess, better than standing stock-still.'
Malcolm held his tongue, unwilling that Percy should see that he did feel
this an achievement; but he was vexed at the lack of reward, fancying
that knighthood would be no small step in the favour of that imaginary
Esclairmonde whom he had made for himself.
'Light of the world' he loved to call her still, but it was in the
commonplace romance of his time, the mere light of beauty and grace
illuminating the world of chivalry.