After all, Alice Montagu was married almost privately, and without any
preparation. Tidings came that the Duke of Alencon was besieging Cosne,
a city belonging to the Duke of Burgundy, and that instant relief was
needed. The Duke was urgent with Henry to save the place for him, and
set off at once to collect his brilliant chivalry; while Henry, rousing
at the trumpet-call, declared that nothing ailed him but pageants, sent
orders to all his troops to collect from different quarters, and prepared
to take the command in person; while reports daily came in of the great
muster the Armagnacs were making, as though determined to offer battle.
Salisbury was determined not to abide the chances of the battle without
first giving a protector to his little daughter; and therefore, as
quietly as if she had been merely going to mass, the Lady Alice was
wedded to her Sir Richard Nevil, who treated the affair as the simplest
matter of course, and troubled himself with very slight demonstrations of
affection. The wedding took place at Senlis, whither the female part of
the Court had accompanied the King, upon the very day of the parting. No
one was present, except one of Sir Richard's brothers (the whole family
numbered twenty-two), his esquire; and on Alice's side, her father,
Esclairmonde, and a few other ladies.
At the last moment, however, the King himself came up, leaning on
Warwick's arm, looking thin, ill, and flushed, but resolved to do honour
to his faithful Salisbury, at whose request he had permitted the barony
of Montagu to be at once transferred to Nevil, who would thenceforth be
called by that title.
After the ceremony, King Henry kissed the gentle bride, placed a costly
ring upon her finger, and gave his best and warmest wishes to the newly-
married pair. Little guessed any there present what the sound of Warwick
and Salisbury would be in forty years' time to the babe cradled at
Windsor.
As the King passed Esclairmonde, he paused, and said, in an undertone,
'Dear lady, deem not that I have forgotten your holy purpose; but you
understand that there are some who are jealous of any benefit conferred
on Paris save from themselves, and whose alliance I may not risk. But if
God be pleased to grant me this battle also, then, with His good
pleasure, I shall not be forced to have such respect to persons; and when
I return, lady, whether the endowment come from your bounty or no, God
helping us, you shall begin the holy work of St. Katharine's bedeswomen
among the poor of Paris.'
But while Henry V., with all his grave sweetness, spoke these words to
Esclairmonde de Luxemburg, this was the farewell of Countess Jaqueline of
Hainault to Malcolm Stewart:
'Look here, my languishing swain; never mind her scorn, but win your
spurs in the battle that is to be, and then make some excuse to get back
again to us before the two Kings, with all their scruples. Then beshrew
me but she shall be yours! If Monseigneur de Therouenne and I cannot
manage one proud girl, I am not Countess of Hainault!'
This promise sent him away, planning the enjoyment of conquering
Esclairmonde's long resistance, and teaching her where to find happiness.
Should he punish her, by being stern and tyrannical at first? or should
his kindness teach her to repent? When he was a knight, he would be in a
condition to assert his authority, he thought; and of knighthood both he
and Ralf Percy felt almost certain, in that wholesale dubbing of knights
that was wont to be the preliminary of a battle. To be sure, they had
indulged in a good many unlicensed pleasures at Paris--Ralf from sheer
reckless love of sport, Malcolm in his endeavour to forget himself, and
to be manly; but they had escaped detection, and they knew plenty of
young Englishmen, and many more Burgundians and Gascons, who had plunged
far deeper into mischief, and thought it no disgrace, but rather held
that there was some special dispensation for the benefit of warriors.
Malcolm and Ralf were riding with a party of these young men. King Henry
had consented to make his first day's journey as far as Corbeil in a
litter, since only there he was to meet the larger number of his troops,
whom Bedford and Warwick were assembling. James was riding close beside
him, with his immediate attendants; and the two youths, not being needed,
had joined their comrades with the advanced guard of the escort.
It was always a fiction maintained by Henry, that he was marching in a
friendly country; plunder was strictly forbidden, and everything was to
be paid for; but unfortunately, the peasantry on his way never realized
this, and the soldiery often took care they should not. Therefore, when
the advanced guard came to the village that had been marked out for their
halt, instead of finding provisions and forage to be purchased, they met
with only bare walls, and a few stray cats; and while storming and raving
between hunger and disappointment, a report came from somewhere that the
inhabitants had fled, and driven off their cattle to another village some
four miles off, in the woods, on the heights above. Of course, they must
be taught reason. It was true that the men-at-arms, who were under the
command of Sir Christopher Kitson and Sir William Trenton, were obliged
to abide where they were, much as Kitson growled at being unable to
procure a draught of wine for Trenton, whom he had been nursing for weeks
under intermitting fever, caught at Meaux; but the young gentlemen were
well pleased to show themselves under no Yorkshireman's orders, and
galloped off _en masse_ to procure refreshment for their horses and
themselves, further stimulated by the report that the Armagnacs had left
a sick man behind them there, who might be a valuable prisoner.
By and by, a woodland path brought the disorderly party, about forty in
number, including their servants and the ruffians who always followed
whenever plunder was to be scented, out upon a pretty French village of
the better class, built round a green shaded with chestnuts, under which,
sure enough, were hay-carts, cows, sheep, and goats, and their owners,
taking refuge in a place thought to be out of the track of the invaders.
Here were the malicious defrauders of the hungry warriors. Down upon
them flew the angry foragers. Soon the pretty tranquil scene was ringing
with the oaths of the plundering and the cries of the plundered; the
cattle were being driven off, the houses and farm-yards rifled, blood was
flowing, and what could not be carried off was burning. The search for
the Armagnac prisoner had, however, relaxed after the first inquiry, and
Malcolm, surprised that this had been forgotten, suddenly bethought him
of the distinction he should secure by sending a valuable prize to
Esclairmonde's feet. He seized on an old man who had not been able to
fly, and stood trembling and panting in a corner, and demanded where the
sick man was. The old man pointed to a farm-house, round which clouds of
smoke were rolling, and Malcolm hurried into it, shouting, 'Dog of an
Armagnac, come out! Yield, ere thou be burnt!'
No answer; and he dashed forward. In the lower room was a sight that
opened his eyes with horror--no other than the shield of Drummond, with
the three wavy lines; ay, and with it the helmet and suit of armour,
whereof he knew each buckle and brace!
'Patie! Patrick! Patrick Drummond!' he wildly shouted, 'are you there?'
No answer; and seeing through the smoke a stair, he rushed up. There, in
an upper room, on a bed, lay a senseless form, suffocated perhaps by the
smoke, but unmistakably his cousin! He called to him, seized him, shook
him, dragged him out of bed, all in vain; there was no sign of animation.
The fire was gaining on the house; Malcolm's own breath was failing, and
his frenzied efforts to carry Patrick's almost giant form to the stairs
were quite unavailing. Wild with horror, he flew shouting down-stairs to
call Halbert, whom he had left with his horse, but neither Halbert nor
horse was in sight, nor indeed any of the party. Not a man was in sight,
except a few hurrying far out of reach, as if something had alarmed them.
He wrung his hands in anguish, and was about to make another attempt to
drag Patrick down from the already burning house, when suddenly a troop
of horse was among the scene of desolation, and at their head King James
himself. Malcolm flew to the King, cutting short his angry exclamation
with the cry, 'Help! help! he will burn! Patrick! Patie Drummond!
There!'
James had scarce gathered the sense of the words, ere, leaping from his
horse, he bounded up the stairs, through the smoke, amid flakes of
burning thatch falling from the roof, groped in the dense clouds of smoke
for the senseless weight, and holding the shoulders while Malcolm held
the feet, they sped down the stair, and rested not till they had laid him
under a chestnut tree, out of reach of the crash of the house, which fell
in almost instantly.
'Does he live?' gasped Malcolm.
'He will not,' said the King, 'if his nation be known here. Keep out of
his sight! He must hear only French!'
Remembering how inexorably Henry hung every Scotch prisoner, Malcolm's
heart sank. This was why no one had sought the prisoner. A Scot was not
available for ransom! Should he be the murderer of his cousin, Lily's
love?
Meantime James hurriedly explained to Kitson that here was the sick man
left by the enemy, summoned Sir Nigel to his side, closed his own visor,
and called for water; then hung over the prisoner, anxious to prevent the
first word from being broad Scotch. In the free air, some long sobs
showed that Patrick was struggling back to life; and James at once said,
'Rendez vous, Messire;' but he neither answered, nor was there meaning in
his eyes. And James perceived that he was bandaged as though for broken
ribs, and that his right shoulder was dislocated, and no doubt had been a
second time pulled out when Malcolm had grasped him by the arms. He
swooned again at the first attempt to lift him, and a hay-cart having
been left in the flight of the marauders, he was laid in it, and covered
with the King's cloak, to be conveyed to Corbeil, where James trusted to
secure his life by personal intercession with Henry. He groaned heavily
several times, but never opened his eyes or spoke articulately the whole
way; and James and Sir Nigel kept on either side of the cart, ready to
address him in French the first moment, having told the English that he
was a prisoner of quality, who must be carefully conveyed to King James's
tent at Corbeil. Malcolm was not allowed to approach, lest he should be
recognized; and he rode along in an agony of shame and suspense, with
very different feelings towards Patrick than those with which he had of
late thought of him, or of his own promises. If Patrick died through
this plundering raid, how should he ever face Lily?
It was nearly night ere they reached Corbeil, where the tents were
pitched outside the little town. James committed his captive to the
prudent care of old Baird, bidding him send for a French or Burgundian
surgeon, unable to detect the Scottish tongue; and then, taking Malcolm
with him, he crossed the square in the centre of the camp to the royal
pavilion, opposite to which his own was pitched.
It was a sultry night, and Henry had insisted on sleeping in his tent,
declaring himself sick of stone walls; and as they approached his voice
could be heard in brief excited sentences, giving orders, and asking for
the King of Scots.
'Here, Sir,' said James, stopping in where the curtain was looped up, and
showed King Henry half sitting, half lying, on a couch of cushions and
deer-skins, his eyes full of fire, his thin face flushed with deep
colour; Bedford, March, Warwick, and Salisbury in attendance.
'Ho! you are late!' said Henry. 'Did you come up with the caitiff
robbers?'
'They made off as we rode up. The village was already burnt.'
'Who were they? I hope you hung them on the spot, as I bade,' continued
Henry, coughing between his sentences, and almost in spite of himself,
putting his hand to his side.
'I was delayed. There was a life to save: a gentleman who lay sick and
stifled in a burning house.'
'And what was it to you,' cried Henry, angrily, 'if a dozen rebel
Armagnacs were fried alive, when I sent you to hinder my men from growing
mere thieves? Gentleman, forsooth! One would think it the Dauphin
himself; or mayhap Buchan. Ha! it is a Scot, then!'
'Yes, Sir,' said James; 'Sir Patrick Drummond, a good knight, hurt and
helpless, for whom I entreat your grace.'
'You disobeyed me to spare a Scot!' burst forth Henry. 'You, who call
yourself a captain of mine, and who know my will! He hangs instantly!'
'Harry, bethink yourself. This is no captive taken in battle. He is a
sick man, left behind, sorely hurt.'
'Then wherefore must you be meddling, instead of letting him burn as he
deserved, and heeding what you undertook for me? I _will_ have none of
your traitor ruffians here. Since you have brought him in, the halter
for him!--Here, Ralf Percy, tell the Provost-marshal--'
He was interrupted, for James unbuckled his sword, and tendered it to
him.
'King Harry,' he said gravely, 'this morning I was your friend and
brother-in-arms; now I am your captive. Hang Patrick Drummond, who aided
me at Meaux in saving my honour and such freedom as I have, and I return
to any prison you please, and never strike blow for you again.'
'Take back your sword,' said Henry. 'What folly is this? You knew that
I count not your rebel subjects as prisoners of war.'
'I did not know that I was saving a defenceless man from the flames to be
used like a dog. I never offered my arm to serve a savage tyrant.'
'Take your sword!' reiterated Henry, his passion giving way before
James's steady calmness. 'We will look into it to-morrow: but it was no
soldierly act to take advantage of my weariness, to let my commands be
broken the first day of taking the field, and bring the caitiff here. We
will leave him for the night, I say. Take up your sword.'
'Not till I am sure of my liegeman's life,' said James.
'No threats, Sir. I will make no promise,' said Henry, haughtily; but
the words died away in a racking cough.
And Bedford, laying his hand on James's arm, said, 'He is fevered and
weary. Fret him no longer, but take your sword, and get your fellow out
of the camp.'
James was too much hurt to make a compromise. 'No,' he said; 'unless
your brother freely spares the life of a man thus taken, I must be his
prisoner--but his soldier never!'
He left the tent, followed by Malcolm in an agony of despair and self-
reproach.
Henry's morning decisions were not apt to vary from his evening ones.
There was a terrible implacability about him at times, and he had never
ceased to visit his brother of Clarence's death upon the Scots, on the
plea that they were in arms against their king. Even Bedford obviously
thought that the prisoner would be safest out of his reach; and this
could hardly be accomplished, since Patrick had been placed in James's
tent, in the very centre of the camp, near the King's own. And though
Bedford and March might have connived at his being taken away, yet the
mass of the soldiery would, if they detected a Scot being smuggled away
into the town, have been persuaded that King James was acting
treacherously.
Besides, the captive himself proved to be so exhausted, that to transport
him any further in his present state would have been almost certainly
fatal. A barber surgeon from Corbeil had been fetched, and was dealing
with the injuries, which had apparently been the effect of a fall some
days previously, probably when on his way to join the French army at
Cosne; and the first fever of these hurts had no doubt been aggravated by
the adventures of the day. At any rate Patrick lay unconscious, or only
from time to time groaning or murmuring a few words, sometimes French,
sometimes Scotch.
Malcolm would have fallen on his knees by his side, and striven to win a
word or a look, but James forcibly withheld him. 'If you roused him into
loud ravings in our own tongue, all hope of saving him would be gone,' he
said.
'Shall we? Oh, can we?' cried Malcolm, catching at the mere word _hope_.
'I only know,' said the King, 'that unless we do so by Harry's good-will,
I will never serve under him again.'
'And if he persists in his cruelty?'
'Then must some means be found of carrying Drummond into Corbeil. It
will go hard with me but he shall be saved, Malcolm. But this whole army
is against a Scot; and Harry's eye is everywhere, and his fierceness
unrelenting. Malcolm, this _is_ bondage! May God and St. Andrew aid
us!'
When the King came to saying that, it was plain he deemed the case past
all other aid.
Malcolm's misery was great. The very sight of Patrick had made a mighty
revulsion in his feelings. The almost forgotten associations of
Glenuskie were revived; the forms of his guardian and of Lily came before
him, as he heard familiar names and phrases in the dear home accent fall
from the fevered lips. Coldingham rose up before him, and St. Abbs, with
Lily watching on the rocks for tidings of her knight--her knight, to whom
her brother had once promised to resign all his lands and honours, but
who now lay captured by plunderers, among whom that brother made one, and
in peril of a shameful death. Oh, far better die in his stead, than
return to Lily with tidings such as these!
Was this retribution for his broken purpose, and for having fallen away,
not merely into secular life, but into sins that stood between him and
religious rites? The King had called St. Andrew to aid! Must a proof of
repentance and change be given, ere that aid would come? Should he vow
himself again to the cloister, yield up the hope of Esclairmonde, and
devote himself for Patrick's sake? Could he ever be happy with Patrick
dead, and Esclairmonde driven and harassed into being his wife? Were it
not better to vow at once, that so his cousin were spared he would return
to his old purposes?
Almost had he uttered the vow, when, tugging hard at his heart, came the
vision of Esclairmonde's loveliness, and he felt it beyond his strength
to resign her voluntarily; besides, how Madame of Hainault and
Monseigneur de Therouenne would deride his uncertainties; and how
intolerable it would be to leave Esclairmonde to fall into the hands of
Boemond of Burgundy.
Such a renunciation could not be made; he did not even know that
Patrick's safety depended on it; and instead of that, he promised, with
great fervency of devotion, that if St. Andrew would save Patrick
Drummond, and bring about the two marriages, a most splendid monastery
for educational purposes, such as the King so much wished to found,
should be his reward. It should be in honour of St. Andrew, and should
be endowed with Esclairmonde's wealth, which would be quite ample enough,
both for this and for a noble portion for Lily. Surely St. Andrew must
accept such a vow, and spare Patrick! So Malcolm tried to pacify an
anguish of suspense that would not be pacified.