A Parliament was being held at Nottingham, where Mortimer and the queen
had lodgings in the castle, while the bishops and barons took apartments
in the town and suburbs. How to get hold of Mortimer was the great
difficulty, for Queen Isabella had the keys of the castle brought up
to her every evening, and placed at her bedside. * Her majesty had gone
round as usual to see everything safe, and all the candles out; but of
course, like other sagacious people, who examine minutely the fastenings
of the doors, she never gave a thought to the cellars. Through one of
these the governor (who, like all the great officers of that period--the
founders of our illustrious families--was a sneaking knave, ready to do
anything for money) admitted Montacute and his followers. They crawled
along a dark passage, at the end of which they were met by Edward,
who conducted them up a staircase into a room adjoining his mother's
chamber. The queen had gone to bed, but Mortimer, the Bishop of Lincoln,
and one or two others, were sitting--probably over their grog--in an
apartment close at hand. Their language had all the earnestness that
might be expected from the time of night, and the manner in which they
were occupied. They were, in fact, all talking at once, when Montacute
and party rushed in, knocking down two knights * who sat near the door,
and seized Mortimer, in spite of the entreaties of Isabella, who ran
screaming out of bed on hearing the noise and confusion.
* Homing, Knyght, Holinshed.
The favourite was dragged off to the nearest station-house, and Edward
issued a proclamation the next morning, announcing his intention to try
his own hand at government forthwith. A Parliament met at Westminster on
the 26th of November, 1330, by which Mortimer was tried and condemned,
though a short time before he enjoyed the command of a large majority.
The favourite had, however, fallen into disgrace, and the old proverb,
"Give a dog a bad name and hang him," was literally realised.
After the death of Mortimer, Queen Isabella was shut up in a place
called the Castle of Risings, on a pension of three thousand a year,
according to one historian, four thousand according to others, while
Rapin unceremoniously cuts her down to the paltry pittance of five
hundred per annum. It is probable that the last named sum is the nearest
the mark, for all agree in saying that "she lived a miserable monument
of blighted ambition," and it is obvious that a miserable monument would
not require an outlay of three or four thousand a year to keep it in
condition during an existence of rather better than a quarter of a
century.
Though Edward had agreed to a truce with the Scotch, he did not scruple
to take a favourable opportunity of breaking it. Though his sister was
married to little Master David Bruce, the nominal king, Edward did not
hesitate to turn that young gentleman off the throne, to make way for
his creature, Edward Baliol. Young David was sent to France, while
Baliol kept up a kind of semblance of royalty, but his rebellious
subjects took every opportunity, when the backs of the English were
turned, to fall upon and baste the bewildered Baliol. Edward was soon
compelled to leave his vassal to get on as he could, for the entire
throne of France appeared to be open to the ambition of the English
sovereign. The French crown seemed to be "open to all parties and
influenced by none," when Edward of England and Philip of Valois became
candidates for the vacancy. The former claimed as grandson of Philip
the Fourth, the latter as grandson of Philip the Third, and each party
endeavoured to complicate the matter as much as he could by producing
a number of perplexing and unintelligible pedigrees. Philip claimed
through his grandfather, who was thought to be a sure card for the
French king to depend upon; but Edward tried to play something stronger,
in the shape of what he affectionately called that "fine old trump his
mother." She, however, was objected to as a female, and the question
was, to save further trouble, referred to the arbitration of the peers
and judges of France, and was decided in favour of Edward's opponent.
The English king declared the French judges were no judges at all, and
refused to be bound by the award; for it was the royal practice of those
days to abide by an agreement only so long as might be convenient.
Edward having appointed the Earl of Brabant his agent, coolly demanded,
through that individual, the French crown. The English seconded their
sovereign in his preposterous request, and he took advantage of their
acquiescence to squeeze out of them all he could in the shape of
subsidies, tallages, and forced loans. He raised money by the most
disgraceful means, and even pawned the crown with the Archbishop of
Treves, who after trying the purity of the gold with the usual test,
unpicking the velvet cap, to examine the setting of the jewels, and
submitting it to as many indignities as a hat in the hands of an old
clothesman, consented to lend about one tenth of its value on the
degraded diadem.
[Illustration:193]
The conversation between the parties, though it has not been
authentically handed down by the chroniclers, may be very easily
imagined. It is probable that Edward, forgetting the dignity of the
king in the meanness of the borrower, may have familiarly asked the
Archbishop to "make it a trifle more" than the sum at first offered. It
may be presumed that the greedy ecclesiastic would have objected that
the crown had been very ill-used; that it got badly treated in the time
of John, and that even Edward himself had had a good deal of hard wear
out of it, which had rubbed off very much of its pristine brilliancy.
But it was not to the comparatively honest expedient of pawning his
own property that the king had recourse, for replenishing his exhausted
treasury. When he had got all he could by pledging his own honours, and
deposited the sceptre and single ball at the sign of the three, he began
the old royal trick of plundering his people.
From the inhabitants of Cornwall Edward took nearly all their tin, and
every part of England allowed itself to be fleeced for the purpose of
affording one man the means of attempting to gratify his ambition at the
expense of an entire people. The money thus obtained was devoted to the
payment of foreign mercenaries, so that he robbed his own subjects
for the double purpose of corruption and usurpation. To enable him
to oppress the French, he bribed the Germans with money obtained by
plundering the English.
He sailed on the 15th of July, 1338, with an army rather more select
than numerous, and landed at Antwerp, where he had secured himself
a friendly reception by sending emissaries before him to marshal the
peasantry into enthusiastic groups, and "get up" the spectacle without
regard to outlay. The burghers were called to numerous rehearsals before
the appointed day, and on the arrival of the English king they were
tolerably perfect in the parts assigned to them.
Edward engaged a few foreign potentates--principally small Germans--to
aid him in his audacious enterprise. Louis of Bavaria, Emperor of
Germany, came to terms; the Dukes of Brabant and Gueldres did not refuse
his money; the Archbishop of Cologne consented to add a few pounds to
his salary; while the Marquis of Juliers, and the Counts of Hainault and
Namur, jumped at a moderate stipend for their services. Every adventurer
who was to be had cheap, found instant employment, and James von
Artaveldt, a brewer of Ghent, the Barclay or Perkins of his time, made
an arrangement for farming out a few of his stoutest draymen. Philip
availed himself of a couple of kings in reduced circumstances--those of
Navarre and Bohemia--besides securing a few dukes who were in want of
a little cash for current expenses. A rope of sand could scarcely
have been more fragile than Edward's band of hired followers. Like a
Christmas-pudding made of plums and other rich ingredients without any
flour to bind it, his supporters, though comprising a compound of dukes,
marquises and counts, with even an archbishop and an emperor, was not
likely to hold together as long as it was deficient in the flower of an
army, a zealous soldiery. The Flemings and Brabanters having spent his
money sneaked off with a promise to meet him _next_ year, and 1338 was
consequently lost in doing nothing. By the middle of September, 1339,
there was another muster of the mercenaries, with whom Edward started
for Cambray, but happening to look back when he got to the frontiers of
France, he saw the Counts of Namur and Hainault disgracefully backing
out of the expedition. Having in vain hallooed to them, and finding that
the more he kept on calling the more they persisted in not coming, he
pushed on as far as St. Quentin, when the rest of his allies struck,
and declared they would not go another step without an advance of wages.
Edward, who had spent all his own money and a good deal of somebody
else's--for he was fearfully in debt--could only say "Very well,
gentlemen, I'm in your hands," and turn into the town of Ghent, where
he took lodgings for a limited period. While here he amused himself by
taking the title of King of France, and he had the French lily quartered
on his arms; which, as Philip said when he heard of it, was "like the
fellow's impudence."
Edward had previously endeavoured to draw his adversary into a battle,
but the latter shirked the contest under various pretexts. Some say that
he was ready for a terrific combat and was "just going to begin" when he
received a letter predicting ill luck, from the king of Naples, who
was looked upon as a sort of Wizard of the South, or royal conjuror.
No fight took place, and Edward ran across to England in the middle
of February, 1340, to make a call upon the pockets of his people. The
Parliament foolishly throwing good money after bad, granted immense
supplies, for which the king thanked them in the fulness of his heart,
for the fulness of his pocket. Returning to Flanders, he met the enemy
at the harbour of Sluys, on the 24th of June, 1340, when a battle
ensued, in which Edward astonished his own followers by his most
successful _début_ in a naval character. He gave orders to the sailors
as freely as if he had been playing in nautical dramas and dancing naval
hornpipes from the days of his infancy. So complete was the victory of
the English that nobody dared inform the French king of the extent of
his calamity, until the court jester was fool enough to put the news in
the shape of a conundrum to Philip. The latter was enjoying his glass of
wine and his nut, when the buffoon in waiting declared that he had a nut
to crack which would prove somewhat too hard for his royal master. "Were
it a pistaccio or a Brazil," cried the king, "I would come at the
kernel of it." When, however, the riddle was put * and the sovereign
had guessed it, the unhappy fool found it no joke, for he was sorely
punished for his ill-judged pleasantry.
* Rapin, vol. iii., p. 178. We have used every possible
exertion to obtain a copy of this celebrated riddle, but
without having succeeded. The nearest Approach we have made
to it is an old conundrum in the fly leaf of the Statutes at
Large, which is nearly as follows:--"What was the greatest
fillip to the success of Edward!" There is no answer added,
but there can be little doubt that some allusion to Philip's
loss giving a fillip to Edward is intended.
Edward's success brought round him troops of friends, and finding
himself strong, he wrote a letter addressed to Philip of Valois,
offering to tackle him singly in a regular stand-up fight man to man, to
pit a hundred soldiers against a hundred on the other side, or to pitch
into each other's armies by a pitched buttle, embracing the entire
strength of their respective companies. The French king, who was not
disposed to give battle, which he thought might end in his taking
a thrashing, evaded the matter, by saying that he had seen a letter
addressed to Philip of Valois, but as it could not be meant for him,
he should certainly decline sending an answer. This shabby subterfuge
succeeded in baffling the English king, who consented to a truce and
returned to his own country.
[Illustration: 196]
Edward arrived in London late one night in November, without a penny in
his pocket. He went at once to the Tower, where everybody had gone to
bed, for he was not expected, and where there were signs of culpable
negligence. There was no fire in his room, and nothing to eat; which put
him into such an ill-humour, that he had three of the judges called up
to be thrown into prison, he turned out the Chancellor, the Treasurer,
and the Master of the Bolls, besides committing to gaol a number of
subordinate officers. Those who had been employed in collecting the
revenue, were the especial objects of his rage, for he expected to
have received a large sum, and was irritated beyond measure at the
contemptible amount of available assets. Stratford, the Archbishop of
Canterbury, on hearing of the king's arrival at the Tower--in what has
perhaps been since called a "towering passion," from the historical
fact--observed to his informant, "Oh! indeed. Well, I shall be off out
of his way," and fled to his official residence. The king sent him a
summons, which he refused to attend, and threatened with excommunication
any rascally officer who might attempt to execute the process. Want of
money soon softened Edward's heart, and Parliament refused a grant until
there had been another confirmation of Magna Charta, which served the
double purpose of a blister to draw the people's cash and a plaster to
heal their wounded liberties.
In the year 1341, little David of Scotland came over with a little
money and a few troops lent to him by the king of France, and with
this assistance the Bruce made a tolerably decent appearance in his own
country. Edward having projects of wholesale robbery abroad, gave up
Scotland as a piece of retail plunder, that was wholly beneath his
attention, and concluded a truce with David, who compromised with
Baliol, by appointing him to keep watch and ward against the Scottish
borderers. A situation in the police seems to have been a sorry
compensation for one who had aspired to a throne, but it is probable
that the pride of Baliol was in some degree consulted by nominating him
A 1 in his Dew capacity.
[Illustration: 197]
One would have thought that Edward had had enough of Continental
warfare, and that "look at home" would have been his motto for the
remainder of his reign, but he was soon induced to join in a squabble
that had arisen about the crown of Brittany. John the Third, the late
duke, had lately died, leaving one brother and a niece named Jane,
who having the misfortune to be lame, had got brutally nicknamed _La
Boiteuse_, in accordance with the coarse and unfeeling practice of that
chivalrous period. The contest for the duchy was between this young
lady, who had married Charles de Blois, the French king's nephew, and
her uncle John de Montfort, who professed to have a superior claim, and
who savagely pooh-poohed her pretensions by allusions to her infirmity.
"Hers is indeed a lame case," he would fiendishly exclaim. "Why, by my
troth, she hasn't got a leg to stand upon." This argument was the old
rule of grammar, that the masculine is worthier than the feminine; but
this arrangement _La Boiteuse_ determined to kick against. Charles de
Blois, her husband, did homage to his uncle Phil for the duchy--Brittany
being a fief of France--while John de Montfort propitiated Edward by
doing homage to him as the lawful sovereign. Philip and Edward thus
became bottleholders to the two competitors; but through the tardiness
of the English king in supporting his man, De Montfort was taken
prisoner. This gentleman had the advantage--or the disadvantage as the
case may be--of being married to a high-spirited woman. It is fortunate
for a man wedded to a vixen wife, when the affectionate virago, instead
of making a victim of him, vents her fury upon his enemies.
Mrs. de Montfort had, according to Froissart, "the courage of a man and
the heart of a lion." In addition to these fascinating qualities she had
the tongue of a true woman. She went about with her child in her arms,
holding forth in a double sense, for she held forth her infant, and was
continually holding forth on the subject of her husband's wrongs to the
populace. A pretty woman, who takes to public speaking, is always sure
of an approving audience; but when she began to give recitations in
character, by putting a steel casque on her head and a sword in her
hand, the effect was truly marvellous. She took a provincial tour, with
the never-failing motto of "Female in Distress" as her watchword; and a
host of young men engaged themselves as assistants under her banner. She
threw herself into a place called Hennebon, where she was besieged by
the French, but she ran up and down the ramparts with all the agility of
a young tigress. She stood firmly among a shower of arrows, and though
danger darted across her every now and then--so much that her casque got
a rapid succession of taps--she merely observed that she had never
been afraid of a living beau and would certainly not shrink from a bow
without vitality. Aid was expected from the English, but as it did not
arrive the Bishop of Leon began to croak most horribly, and proposed to
capitulate. The bishop had been to the larder, and finding provisions
running exceedingly low, declared there was nothing left for them but to
eat humble pie as speedily as possible. He had succeeded in raising an
_émeute d'estomac_ in the garrison, when the countess, who had begged
the troops to hold out a little longer, Saw the English fleet from
the window of her dressing-room. "Here they are!" cried she as she ran
downstairs; and the whole of the inhabitants were soon watching the
arrival of the boats with intense interest. Sir Walter Manny commanded
the squadron, and after a good night's rest and a capital dinner
the next day, which concluded amid a slight shower from the French
battering-ram, he declared that he would not run the risk of having any
more batter pudding from the same quarter. "That ram," he exclaimed,
"must not again disturb me over my mutton;" and he had no sooner dined
than he went forth, followed by a few select soldiers, and broke the
instrument to pieces.
The French, having raised the siege of Hennebon, left Lady de Montfort
leisure to go over to England for the purpose of getting a present of
troops that Edward had promised her. She was returning to France with
her reinforcements when she fell in with a French fleet, and they fell
out as a natural consequence. De Montfort's wife rushed on deck in a
coat of mail over her petticoat of female, and fought with tremendous
vigour.
[Illustration: 199]
One of the foe tauntingly told her the needle was a fitter instrument
for her than the sword, when she rushed upon him, exclaiming, "I want
no needle, fellow, to trim your jacket." She cut the thread of
several existences, and there is no doubt that had the gun cotton been
discovered in those days, she would have used it for the purpose of
whipping, basting, hemming in, felling to the earth, and, in a word,
sewing up her unfortunate antagonists. Darkness having set in upon this
fearful set out, the battle was cut short, for night dropped her curtain
in the middle of the act, and brought it to an abrupt conclusion.
Edward now came over to superintend the war in person, and he began by
looking the danger in the face, which he accomplished by lying several
weeks opposite the foe--an example that was followed by the other side;
and thus the two armies continued to take sights at each other during
the entire winter. At length a truce for three years and eight months
was agreed upon; but its conditions were not attended to. John de
Montfort was to have been released from prison, according to the
agreement; but Philip, by pitiful quibbles, found excuses for keeping
him in closer custody. At length, the old gentleman escaped in the
disguise of a pedlar; but he was cruelly hounded by his enemies, and
with a pack at his back was for some time hunted about, until, by dint
of the most dogged perseverance, he arrived safely in England. Coming
to the door of his own house, he set up a faint cry of "Stay-lace,
boot-lace, shoe-tie," in a disguised voice, which brought the mistress
of the establishment to the window; but she merely shook her head, to
indicate that nothing was wanted. Upon this the supposed pedlar threw
off his hat and wig, and being instantly recognised, was dragged into
the hall, to the surprise of the various servants, until the words,
"It's your master come back," furnished a clue to the mystery. His
wife's joy at meeting her "old man," as she affectionately called him,
was extreme; but the excitement was too much for the veteran, who went
bang off, like an exhausted squib, while Lady de Montfort fell in an
explosion of grief by the side of her husband.
The fortune of war had been oscillating with the regularity of a
pendulum between England and France, when the Earl of Derby threw
himself into the scale with tremendous weight, and turned it completely
in England's favour. In the emphatic language of the day, he was "down
upon the French like a thunderbolt." Edward went off to Flanders to
treat with the free cities for their allegiance, and, in fact, ascertain
the price of those friends of Liberty. Louis the Count, though deprived
of nearly all his revenue, kept up his independence, and refused to pay
allegiance or anything else to Edward. The English king tried to effect
a transfer of the loyalty of the Flemings from Louis, the Count of
Flanders, to his own son, Edward the Black Prince; and with this view he
obtained the support of his old friend James von Artaveldt, the brewer,
whose stout gave him a great ascendency over the actions of the people.
He addressed to them a good deal of frothy declamation, and endeavoured
to brew the storm of revolution; but it ended in very small beer,
amid which Artaveldt himself was eventually washed away through the
impetuosity of the stream he had himself set in motion. A popular
insurrection broke out, and the brewer behaved with great gallantry. He
wore a casque on his head which pointed him out as a butt for the malice
of his enemies. He was cruelly murdered, and Edward vowed vengeance when
he heard that the lifeless bier was all that remained of his friend the
brewer.
[Illustration: 201]
In 1346 the English king landed on the coast of Normandy, with an army
containing not only the flower of his own troops, but a regular bouquet,
in which the English rose was blended with the Welsh leek and a sprig
of the Irish shillalah. He marched towards Paris, and his van had even
entered the suburbs of that city; but, without attacking the capital,
he contented himself with a little arson in the small towns in the
neighbourhood. His antagonist was not inactive, and succeeded in getting
the English into a corner, from which escape seemed almost impossible.
It was necessary to cross the Somme; but Philip and the river were
rather too deep for Edward and his soldiers. Having waited till the
tide went down, they took a desperate plunge, and the foe having also
resolved on making a splash, the two armies met in the middle of the
stream, where they fought with an ardour that was not damped by the
surrounding element. Edward and his troops found as much difficulty in
reaching the Bank as if they had made the attempt in an omnibus during
one of the blockades of Fleet Street. At length they succeeded, and
after travelling for some distance, they put up in the neighbourhood
of the village of Cressy. On the 26th of August, 1346, the English
sovereign took an early supper, and went to bed, having given
instructions for his boots to be brought to his door by dawn the
following morning. The whole army slept well, considering it was the
first night in a strange place; and, having been called by that valuable
valet, the lark, everyone was up and down by the hour of daybreak.
[Illustration: 202]
Breakfast was scarcely concluded when Edward ordered the army to arms,
and sent for the herald in the hopes of getting the news; but from this
quarter he learned nothing. At length he took up his post, and chose
three leaders, a column being assigned to each of them. The first was
under the command of his young Bon, Edward the Black Prince, a youth of
fifteen, who held very high rank in the army, having been included
in every brevet, notwithstanding the brevity of his service. Two
experienced captains--the Earls of Warwick and Oxford--were employed
under him to do the work, so that the boy prince had nothing to do
but to reap the glory of his position. Heaping laurels under such
circumstances was a common practice in those days; and the vulgar
expression "with a hook" may have originated in allusion to the reaping
of the harvest created by another's merit. It must, however, be stated
in justice to the Black Prince, that he proved himself quite equal
to the position in which fortune had placed him. If we examine his
character, we shall find in it many good points, and it may fairly
be said that the Black Prince was by no means so black as history has
painted him. The three divisions took up their position on the hill, and
the archers stood in front, forming a semicircle or bow, from which they
could more effectually discharge their arrows. The Battle of Cressy is
perhaps one of the most interesting in English history; and though part
of it was fought in a tremendous shower of rain, which has caused some
frivolous writer of the period to give it the name of Water Cressy, we
are not induced by this idle and impotent play upon words to lose our
respect for one of the greatest exploits of our countrymen.
Philip slept at Abbeville on the 25th of August, and rising in a
terrible ill-humour, set out early in the morning to give battle. He
started off in such a fit of sulkiness that he did not even give the
word to "march," and breaking suddenly into a run, his impatience
carried him far in advance of his army. By the time he came in sight of
the foe, he was ever so much ahead of his own troops, and was obliged
to sit down quietly until they had come nearly up to him. By some
mismanagement, the troops at the back started off quicker than those in
front, who began to hesitate still more as they approached the enemy;
and thus, one part of the army beginning to back while those behind
pressed forward, a state of confusion which can only be described as
a dreadful squeege was the immediate consequence. "Now then, stupid,"
resounded from rank to rank, and comrade addressed comrade with the
words "Where are you shoving to?" The king got hurried head foremost
almost into the English camp, in spite of the vehement cries of "Keep
back!" which, however, were no sooner acted upon than the rear ranks
were seized with a panic, and the soldiery began tumbling over each
other like those battalions in tin which in youthful days have fallen
prostrate beneath the power of the peashooter.
Philip, who had never intended to take the honour of a foremost rank,
was pushed willy-nilly into the front place, like a gentleman who
happened to be walking down the Haymarket on an opera night, and found
himself suddenly engulfed in a stream which washed him off his legs,
and left him high and dry in a stall to which he had been driven by the
impetuosity of the torrent. Finding himself in the heat of an engagement
in which he had not intended to be so closely engaged, his French
majesty called to the Genoese crossbow-men to advance, but they pleaded
sudden indisposition and fatigue, when Philip's brother deeply offended
them by exclaiming--"See what we get by employing such scoundrels, who
fail us in our need!" The Genoese were rather nettled--that is to say,
somewhat stung--by this remark, and made a rush which was worth no more
than a rush, for they were really worn out with their morning's walk,
and felt fitter to be in bed than in battle. Though their arms and legs
were tired, they still had the full use of their lungs, and began to
shout out with tremendous vehemence, in the hope of frightening the
English. This horrible hooting had no effect, and a Scotch veteran,
by happily exclaiming "Hoot awa!" turned the laugh in favour of the
English. Upon this, the Genoese gave another fearful yell, when one of
Edward's soldiers inquired whether the crossbow-men wanted to frighten
away the birds, and gave them the nickname of the heavy scarecrows. They
advanced a step, when the English archers sent forth a volley of arrows,
which fell like a snowstorm upon the Genoese, who, converting their
shields into umbrellas, tried to take shelter under them. Philip was so
disgusted with this pusillanimous conduct, that he cried out in a fury,
"Kill me these scoundrels, for they stop our way without doing any
good!" And the poor Genoese caught it severely from both sides.
[Illustration: 204]
During the battle, Edward sat on the tip top of a windmill, situated
on the summit of a lofty hill, where, completely out of harm's way, he
could watch the progress of the action. While in this elevated position,
he was asked by a messenger to send a reinforcement to the Prince of
Wales, who was performing prodigies of valour. "I'm glad to hear it,"
said the affectionate father; "but," he added, "return to those who sent
you, and tell them they shall have no help from me. Let the boy win his
spurs," continued the old humbug, who was too selfish to put himself out
of the way to assist his son, and would rather have let him perish than
make any sacrifice to aid him in his arduous struggles.
When these unaided exertions came to a triumphant issue, the father
endeavoured to gain a reflected glory from the brilliance of his son's
achievements. It is, however, due to the reputation of the latter to
assert that the glory was all his own; for his selfish father had taken
care of himself, while the son fought the battle alone, and won it
without any assistance that it was in the power of his parent to have
afforded him.
Poor Philip fought desperately as long as he could, till John of
Hainault, who had several times advised him to "go home and go to bed,
for it was of no use," went up to the horse of the French king, seized
the bridle, and quietly led him off in the direction of the nearest
green-yard. Seeing it was a bad job, Philip requested to be taken to the
castle of La Broye, but the gates were shut, and the chatelain, looking
out of window, inquired who was knocking him up at such an unreasonable
hour. "Me," cried Philip, in the grammar of the period; but "Who's me?"
was the only response of the governor. "Why, don't you know me? I'm
Philip, the fortune of France."
"Pretty fortune, indeed!" muttered the chatelain, as he came downstairs,
keys and candle in hand, to admit his unfortunate sovereign. The king's
suite had dwindled down to five barons, * who turned in anywhere for the
night, on sofas and chairs, while Philip took the spare bed usually kept
for visitors.
Thus ended the memorable Battle of Cressy, from our account of which we
must not omit the incident of the king of Bohemia, who, old and blind,
was perverse enough to tie the bridle of his horse to those of two
knights, and with them he plunged into the midst of the battle.
Considering that he could not have seen his way, there is something very
rash, though perhaps very valiant, in this behaviour. Nor should we
in our admiration of the bravery of the king of Bohemia, forget to
sympathise with the two knights, upon whom he must have been a precious
drag, by tying his horse's bridle to theirs, and making them no doubt
the victims of a most unfortunate attachment. The king of Bohemia of
course fell, for the union he had formed was anything but strength,
and the Prince of Wales picking up his crest--a plume of ostrich
feathers--adopted it for his own, with the celebrated motto of _Ich
Dien_. ** The literal meaning of this motto is simply "I serve," but it
has been very naturally suggested that "I am served out" would have been
a more appropriate translation of the phrase, as long as it appertained
to the unfortunate king of Bohemia. Rapin, the French historian, who
is naturally anxious to make the best case he can for his countrymen,
attributes their defeat at Cressy to the use of gunpowder by the
English, who introduced, for the first time in war, a small magazine of
this startling novelty. Such a _magasin des nouveautés_ of course would
have taken the French by surprise, and would easily have accounted for
any little deficiency of valour they might have exhibited. When the
battle was over, Edward sneaked out of his windmill, where he professed
to have been "overlooking the reserve," and joined his successful son,
whom he warmly congratulated on his position.
* Froissart.
** Doubts have been lately cast on this old story. See the
_Cabinet Portrait Gallery of British Worthies_, vol. i., p.
81,
The night after the battle was of course a gala night with the English,
who lighted fires, torches, and candles, including probably "fifty
thousand additional lamps," in celebration of the victory. So excellent,
however, were the regulations on the occasion, that we have not heard of
a single instance of disturbance or accident. The day after the battle
was disgraced by a series of attacks on some French unfortunates, who
not knowing of the defeat of their king, were coming to his assistance.
It happened that, as if to make the English quite at home, a regular
English fog set in, and some French militia, not being able to see their
way very clearly, mistook a reconnoitring party of the enemy for their
own countrymen. The French hastened to join their supposed comrades, but
soon found out their mistake from the cruel treatment they experienced.
Other stragglers who had missed their way in the mist, were also
savagely attacked, and when Edward heard the facts, he sent out Lords
Cobham and Stafford, with three heralds, to recognise the arms, and two
secretaries to write down the names of those that had fallen. The
party returned in the evening, with a list of eleven princes, eighty
bannerets, twelve hundred knights, and thirty thousand commoners. We can
only say that the herald of those days could not have been such a very
slow affair as the _Herald_ of these, and the secretaries must have
written not merely a running but a galloping hand to have in so few
hours deciphered the arms, and made a list of the names of such an
enormous number of individuals.
Having remained over Sunday at Cressy, Edward set out on Monday morning
for Calais, with the intention of besieging it. While he was occupied
abroad, his enemy, little David Bruce, at the instigation of Philip,
attempted to disturb England. After a brief campaign, in which the
Scotch king was joined by the Earls of Monteith and Fife, David Bruce
was placed in custody. Monteith lost his head for showing his teeth, and
Fife would have had a stop put to him, but for his relationship to the
Royal Family, his mother having been niece to the first Edward.
Calais was kept in a state of blockade, for the English king had
resolved upon hemming in and starving out the inhabitants. John de
Vienne, who was the governor, finding provisions getting low, turned
what he called the "useless mouths" out of the place, and among these
"useless mouths" were a number of women, who must have been rare
specimens of their sex to have kept their mouths in a state of
uselessness. The brutal policy of John de Vienne was to continue weeding
the population as long as he could by turning out the old and helpless,
the women and the children. Seventeen hundred victims were thrust from
the town and driven towards the English lines by the Governor of Calais,
who was reckless of the lives of the citizens so long as the sacrifice
enabled him to hold out and gain a character for bravery.
It is easy for a military commander to win a reputation for extreme
heroism if he is utterly regardless of the expense, and chooses to pay
for it in the blood of those under his control; but it is the duty of
the historian to audit the accounts and justly strike the balance.
In looking into the case of John de Vienne we adjudge him guilty of
fraudulent bankruptcy in his reputation, for he sought to establish
himself in the good books of public opinion by trading on the lives
of the citizens of Calais, which were his only capital. If he were now
before us, we should assume the part of a commissioner, and should say
to him, "Go, sir. We cannot grant you your protection from the heavy
responsibilities you incurred when you wasted human life which you were
bound to preserve as far as you were able. You have violated a sacred
trust; and we must therefore adjourn your further examination _sine
die_, for it is quite impossible to grant you your certificate."
As long as John de Vienne could find anything to eat, and could have
his table tolerably well provided, he held out; but when starvation
threatened himself as well as the citizens, he asked permission to
capitulate. Edward, annoyed by the obstinacy of the resistance, refused
to come to any terms short of an unconditional surrender, but he at
length consented to spare the town on condition of six burgesses coming
forth naked in their shirts, with halters round their necks, and without
anything on their legs, as a proof of their humiliation being utterly
inexpressible. When John de Vienne was apprised of this resolution,
he called a meeting in the market-place, and stated the hard condition
which Edward had imposed, but the governor had not the heroism to
propose to make one of the party required for the sacrifice. He was
exceedingly eloquent in urging others to come forward, and was loud in
his protestations that such an "eligible opportunity," such an "opening
for spirited young men" would never occur again; but the citizens turned
a deaf ear to all his arguments. No one seemed inclined to set a noble
example, but all the inhabitants gave way to a piteous fit of howling,
until Eustace de St. Pierre, a rich burgess, drying his eyes and mopping
up his emotion with the cuff of his coat, offered himself as the first
victim. Five others followed his example, and the six heroes, taking
off their trousers, prepared to throw themselves into the breach, and
slipping off their slippers, went barefooted into the presence of the
conqueror. He eyed the miserable objects with malicious pleasure, and
according to Froissart, insulted the unhappy burgesses by a series
of grimaces, like those with which the clown accompanies the ironical
inquiry of "How are you?" which he always addresses to his intended
victim in a pantomime. The wretched state of the burgesses shivering
in their shirts--but not shaking in their shoes, for they were
barefooted--had a softening influence on all but Edward, who with a
clownish yell of "I've got you!" desired that the headsman might be sent
for immediately.
[Illustration: 208]
The queen threw herself on her knees, and representing that she had
never asked a favour of Edward in her life, entreated him to spare
the trembling citizens. "Look at them!" exclaimed her majesty, as
she dragged one forward and turned him round and round to show what a
miserable object he was. "Look at them! and observe how piteously they
implore mercy; for though their tongues do not speak, their teeth are
constantly chattering." Edward looked at his wife, and then at the
citizens. "I wish," said he to the former, "that you had been----
somewhere else; but take the miserable beggars and do what you can with
them." Philippa instantly took the coil of rope from the necks that were
so nearly on the point of "shuffling off the mortal coil," and told
them to go and get rigged out in a suit of clothes each, which made
the oldest of them observe that "the rigger of the queen was much less
formidable than the rigour of the king, with which they had been so
lately threatened."
The imbecility to which fear had brought their minds is fearfully
shadowed forth in this miserable piece of attempted pleasantry, and it
was perhaps fortunate that Edward did not overhear a pun, the atrocity
of which he might have been justified in never pardoning. The six
citizens having received their dressing, in a more agreeable shape then
they had expected, and having sat down to an excellent dinner, provided
at the queen's expense, were dismissed with a present of six nobles
each, that they might not be without money in their pockets. As they
partook of the meal prepared for them, the wag of the party, whose vapid
jokes had already endangered the lives of himself and his companions,
ventured to observe that he should look upon the ordinary as one of
the most extraordinary events in his life; but as none of the king's
servants were at hand to overhear the miserable _jeu de mot_, it was
not followed by the fatal consequences we might otherwise have been
compelled to chronicle.
On the 3rd of August, 1347, Edward and his queen made their triumphant
entry into Calais, which was transformed into an English colony; and as
the residents of that early period were debtors to the generosity of the
sovereign, the place has become a favourite resort for debtors even to
the present moment.
Edward having returned to England began to try the squeezability of
his Parliament, and got up various pretexts for demanding money. He
pretended to ask advice about carrying on the war with France, but the
Parliament suspecting his intention declined giving any answer to his
message. He next had recourse to intimidation, by spreading a report
that the French contemplated invasion; and though it was little better
than a cry of "Old Bogey," it had the desired effect. There is no doubt
that Edward was guilty of obtaining money under false pretences, for he
and Philip had agreed between themselves for a truce, and yet each taxed
his subjects under the pretence that war might be imminent.
[Illustration: 211]
About the year 1344, according to some, but in the year 1350, on the
authority of Stowe, the celebrated Order of the Garter was founded.
If we may put faith in an old fable, it originated in the Countess of
Salisbury having danced her stockings down at a court ball; when the
king seeing her garter dangling at her heels, took hold of it and gave
it to her, exclaiming, _Honi soit qui mal y pense_, which was a cut
at some females who pretended to be shocked at the incident. Their
smothered exclamations of "Well, I'm sure!"
"Upon my word!" and "Well, really I never! Did you ever?" were thus
playfully rebuked by Edward the Third, who afterwards made the words we
have quoted the motto of the Order. We need scarcely tell our readers in
this enlightened age that _Honi soit qui mal y pense_ is equivalent
to saying that those who see harm in an innocent act, derive from
themselves all the evil that presents itself.
Edward's old enemy, Philip of France, was now dead, but his son and
successor, John, continued the truce, or renewed the accommodation bill,
which was entered into for the purpose of stopping proceedings on
either side. In state affairs, as in pecuniary matters, these temporary
arrangements are seldom beneficial, for they cause a frightful
accumulation of interest, which must some time or other be paid off or
wiped out at a fearful sacrifice.
The Continental successes of the English king were marred by the trouble
that Scotland gave to him, and he was often heard to say that "though he
could make the French poodle--by whom he meant the king of France--do
as he pleased, he hated the constant barking at his heels of the Scotch
terrier." He therefore determined on attempting to buy the country out
and out. So, going over to Roxburgh, he asked Baliol point-blank what
he would take for the whole concern, exactly as it stood, including the
throne, the title-deeds of the kingdom, and the crown and sceptre. "Let
me see. What has it cost me?" said Baliol, evidently contemplating a
bargain; but Edward interrupting him with "A precious deal more than
it is worth," somewhat modified the figure that was on the tip of the
tongue of the Scotch sovereign. "Will fifty thousand marks be too much?"
observed the vendor, with an anxious look. But Edward's rapid "Oh, good
morning!" instantly told the wary Scot the shrewdness of his customer.
"Stop, stop," said Baliol; "I like to do business when I can. What will
you give? for I'm really tired of the thing, and would be glad to accept
any reasonable offer." Edward resumed his seat, made a few calculations
on a scrap of vellum with a pocket-stile, and then, jumping up,
exclaimed, "I'll tell you what I'll do with you. I'll give you five
thousand marks down, and an annuity of £2000 per annum."
The bargain was struck. With the title-deeds laden, Edward joyfully flew
to his own country, and he had scarcely turned his back when "Adieu!"
said Baliol; "you are not the first humbug who, coming to cheat,
have got cheated yourself." The fact was, that the Scotchman, with
characteristic cunning, got the best of the bargain, for the crown had
been fearfully ill-used, the sceptre had got all the glitter worn off by
the hard rubs it had endured, and the throne would cost more to keep in
substantial repair than twice its value.
Edward having bought up the country, began to exercise the right of
ownership by setting fire to little bits of it. He marched through the
Lothians, where he met with loathing on every side, and set
Haddington as well as Edinburgh in flames, which caused Scotland to be
prophetically called the Land of Burns by a sage of the period.
While the king was thus engaged at home, his son Edward, the Black
Prince, so called from the colour of his armour, which he had
blackleaded to save the trouble of keeping it always bright, was
occupied in France, where he fought and won the famous battle of
Poictiers. The truce had, with the customary faithlessness of royalty in
those days, been broken. Young Edward, having a small force, made a most
earnest appeal to his army, and said something very insinuating about
"his sinewy English bowmen."
Before the commencement of the battle, a diplomatist of the name of
Talleyrand, who seems to have been worthy of his celebrated modern
successor, rode from camp to camp trying to arrange the affair, and
making himself very influential with both parties. John was, however,
so confident in the superiority of his numbers that he declined a
compromise, except on the most humiliating terms, to the Black Prince,
who looked blacker than ever when the degrading proposition was made to
him.
On the 19th of September, 1356, the battle began with a duet played by
two trumpets--one on each side--but this did not last long, for neither
party desired to listen to overtures. The French commenced the attack,
but they came to the point a little too soon, for they actually ran
upon the arrows of the English bowmen. The Constable of France tried
to inspire courage into the troops on his side by roaring out
"Mountjoy! St. Denis!" but a stalwart Briton, telling him to hold his
noise, felled him to the ground. A strong body of reserve, who carried
their reserve to downright timidity, fled without striking a blow. They
had scarcely drawn their swords, and received the word of command to
"cut away," when they did literally cut away, and having cut refused
to come again. John of France flourished his battle-axe with ferocious
courage; but at last he received two tremendous blows in the face which
brought him to the ground. His son Philip, a lad of sixteen, fought by
his side, encouraging him with cries of "Give it 'em, father!" which
aroused the almost exhausted John, and caused him to recover his legs.
Every kind of verbal insults was offered to him by the enemy, and
particularly by the Gascons, who indulged in a great deal of their usual
gasconade. "Stand and surrender!" cried a voice; to which John replied,
"If I could stand, I would not surrender, but I suppose I must fall into
your hands." With this he tottered into a circle of English knights,
by whom he was nearly torn to pieces in the scramble that arose for the
royal captive. Some among the crowd of his victors endeavoured to induce
his majesty to place himself under their charge, and one or two began
to talk to him in bad French, when Sir Denis, a real Frenchman, who had
been dismissed from the service of his own country and entered that of
England, addressed the monarch politely in his native tongue. John was
in the act of offering up his glove to this gentleman as a token of
surrender, when the royal gauntlet was torn to pieces by the surrounding
knights, who all wanted to have a finger in it. Everyone was eager
to claim the French monarch, who seemed on the point of being torn to
pieces like a hare by a pack of ill-bred hounds. "I took him," exclaimed
fifty voices at once, when the Earl of Warwick, rushing into the front,
thundered forth in a stentorian voice, "Can't' you leave the man alone?"
and drawing John's arm within his own, led off the conquered king to the
camp of Edward. Warwick took little Philip by the hand, and presented
father and son to the Black Prince, who received them with much
courtesy. *
[Illustration: 214]
He invited them both to supper, waited on the French king at table,
and soothed his grief with probably such kind expressions as "Poor old
chap!"
"Never mind, old fellow!" and other words of respectful sympathy. The
Black Prince made them his companions to London, which they entered in
the character of his prisoners, on the 24th of April, 1357. The pageant
was very magnificent, the citizens hanging out their plate to do honour
to the occasion; and the windows were filled with spoons, just as they
are when a modern Lord Mayor's show is to be seen within the city.
Edward had now a couple of kings in custody; but in November, 1357, one
of them, David Bruce, was released, upon drawing a bill for one hundred
thousand marks on his Scotch subjects. There can be no doubt that the
latter were regularly sold by their weak-minded monarch, who had become
the mere creature of the English sovereign. John remained in captivity
in London, while Edward carried the war into France; but having got
nearly as far as Paris, he was caught in a shower, which completely
wet him down, and diluted all the spirit he had, up to that point,
exhibited. * The wind was terrific; but it was not one of those ill
winds that blow nobody good, for the blow it inflicted on the courage of
Edward made good for those he came to fight against. The French justly
hailed the rain as a welcome visitor, for it completely softened Edward
by regularly soaking him. On the 8th of May, 1360, peace was concluded,
and John was set at large on condition of the payment of three million
crowns of gold, which was rather a heavy sum forgetting one crown
restored to him. Some hostages were given for the fulfilment of the
bargain; but poor John found he had undertaken more than he could
perform, and though he did not exactly stop payment, it was because he
had never commenced that operation. He was exceedingly particular in
money matters, and it annoyed him not to be able to fulfil his pecuniary
arrangements. Some of his bail having bolted, he could bear the
degradation no longer, and he voluntarily went over to London, where he
put himself in prison, as a defaulter, though others say it was a love
affair in England, rather than his honesty as a debtor, which brought
him up to town. The royal insolvent did not long survive, for he died
in the month of April, 1364, at the Palace of the Savoy; and it was
tauntingly said of him by a contemporary buffoon, that the debt of
nature was the only debt he had ever paid.
* Froissart, Knyght, Rynier, and Company.
The Black Prince, who had been created Duke of Aquitaine, governed for
his father in the South of France, but was induced to espouse the cause
of one Pedro, surnamed the Cruel, who, for his ferocious conduct, had
been driven from the throne of Castile. Bertrand du Gueselin, a famous
knight in his day, and Don Enrique, the illegitimate brother of the
tyrant, had expelled him from his dominions, when the Black Prince,
tempted by offers of an enormous salary, undertook to restore Pedro to
his position. Edward fought and conquered, but could not get paid for
his services; and, as he had undertaken the job by contract, employing
an army of mercenaries at his own risk, he was harassed to death by
demands for which he had made himself liable. Captains were continually
calling to know when he intended to settle that little matter, until he
got tired of answering that it was not quite convenient just now; and
he that had never turned his back upon an enemy, ran away as hard as
he could from the importunity of his creditors. Pedro, abandoned by his
chief supporter, agreed to a conference with his half brother Enrique;
but cruelty seems to have been a family failing, for the couple had
scarcely met when they fell upon each other with the fury of wild
beasts, and Pedro the Cruel was stabbed by Enrique the Crueller, who
threw himself at once upon the throne. *
* Froissart.--Mariana.
Charles of France now thought that the harassed mind and declining
health of the Black Prince afforded an eligible opportunity of attacking
him. His Royal Highness resisted as well as he could; but he was so
exceedingly indisposed that he was carried about on a litter from post
to post, as if he had been compelled to rest at the corner of every
street through sheer exhaustion. He marched, or rather was jostled,
towards Limoges, the capital of the Limousin, which he stormed in two
places at once; and at the sight of the pair of breaches he had made,
the women fled in inexpressible terror and confusion. His conduct to
these poor defenceless creatures was merciless in the extreme; and this
one incident in the life of the Black Prince is sufficient to give to
his name all the blackness that is attached to it. Some allowance may,
however, be perhaps made for the state of his health, which now took him
to England to recruit--not in a military but in a physical sense--but it
was too late, for he died at Canterbury, on the 8th of January, 1376, to
the great regret of his father, who only kept the respect of the people
through his son's popularity.
Edward the Third had been for some time leading a very disreputable
life, and had been captivated by one Alice Perrers, to whom he had given
the jewels of the late queen, and who had the effrontery to wear them
when abroad in the public thoroughfares. Among other freaks of his
dotage was a tournament which he gave in Smithfield--the origin, no
doubt, of the once famous Bartholomew Fair--where Alice Perrers figured
in a triumphal chariot, as the Lady of the Sun, the king himself
appearing in the character of the Sun, though it was the general remark
that, as the couple sat side by side, the Sun looked old enough to be
the father.
It was towards the close of this reign that Wycliffe, the celebrated
precursor of Huss, Luther, and Calvin, as well as the curser of popery,
began preaching against the abuses of the Catholic clergy. His cause was
espoused by the Duke of Lancaster, who had been in power since the death
of the Black Prince, and who is said to have taken Wycliffe's part so
ardently, as to have threatened to drag the Bishop of London by the hair
of his head out of St. Paul's Cathedral. Considering that the priest was
all shaven and shorn, it would have been difficult for Lancaster to
have carried out his threat by tugging out the bishop in the manner
specified. It is a curious fact that this alleged attack on one of
the heads of the church was soon followed by a general burden on the
national poll, in the shape of a poll-tax, which was imposed to provide
for the renewal of the war, as the truce in existence was on the point
of expiring.
Edward had now become old and miserable; for having done nothing to gain
the affection of others, he was abandoned at the close of his life, by
even the members of his own family. One or two sycophants clung to him,
in the hope of getting something; but his children had all separate
interests of their own, for the cold and selfish conduct of their parent
had driven them quite away from him. He endeavoured to give decency to
the close of his existence, by a general amnesty for all minor offences;
but it was now too late to gain him friends, and the wretched old man
was left alone with Alice Perrers. He died in her arms at his villa at
Sheen, near Richmond, on the 21st of June, 1377, and she took advantage
of being by his side at his death, to rob him of a valuable ring, which
she took from his finger in his last moments, when he was too weak to
resist the robbery. Were the shade of Edward the Third to present itself
before us for a testimonial, we should advise the spectre, for its
respectability's sake, not to ask us for a character.
Much good was done in the reign we have been describing; but this is
only another illustration of the well-known truth that the prosperity
of a country does not always depend on the virtues of the sovereign.
Perhaps the most valuable measure passed by Edward was an act limiting
to three principal heads the cases of high treason, of which a hundred
heads, all filled with teeth, might until then have been considered
symbolical. This wholesome statute had at least the effect of changing
a Hydra into a Cerberus. The leash of crimes that this Cerberus was
empowered to hunt down were, conspiring the death of the king, levying
war against him, or adhering to his enemies. A curious question arose
some time afterwards under the last of these three divisions, when a
loyal subject was nearly being condemned for adhering to the king's
enemies, though it appeared he had adhered only in the sense of sticking
to them, with a view to punish them.
The conduct of Edward the Third to David Bruce, his brother-in-law, was
unjust in the extreme; and though the Black Prince made his way by his
own talents, he does not appear to have owed his advancement to any
assistance that his father ever afforded him. Some useful alterations
were made in the law, and the power of the Commons advanced; but the
taxes were fearfully increased, as if the liberality of the people was
expected as an equivalent for the liberality of the Government. The
money collected was not altogether wasted in war, for some of it went
in the building of Windsor Castle, of which William of Wickham was the
architect. The first turnpike ever known in England, was started also
under Edward the Third, between St. Giles's and Temple Bar, where to
this day the successor of the ancient pikeman rushes forth to levy a
toll on carts that enter the city. On the same principle, that out of
evil good often comes, Edward the Third may be regarded as a benefactor
to his subjects.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH. RICHARD THE SECOND, SURNAMED OF BORDEAUX.
[Illustration: 217]
IF little and good were always identical. Richard the Second would have
been a very good king, for he was a little boy of eleven years of age
when the crane of circumstances hoisted him on to the throne of his
grandfather. Young Richard was the only surviving son of Edward the
Black Prince, and out of compliment to the juvenile monarch, his
coronation in Westminster Abbey was made as gaudy as possible. No
expense was spared in dresses and decorations; but the ceremony not
being over till it was high time all children should be in bed and
asleep, the boy king was completely exhausted before the spectacle was
half over. Stimulants were administered to keep the child up; but
when the heavy crown was placed on his brow, the diadem completely
overbalanced a head already oscillating from side to side with excessive
drowsiness. His attendants tumbled him into a litter, and hurried him
into a private room, where, by dint of the most scarifying restoratives
held to his nose, he so far recovered as to be enabled to create four
earls and nine knights, partake of a tremendous supper, dance at a ball,
and listen to a little minstrelsy. * It was at the coronation of Richard
the Second that we first find mention in history of a champion rushing
into Westminster Hall, throwing his gauntlet on the ground, and offering
to fight any number--one down and another come on--who may dispute
the title of the sovereign. The gallantry of the challenge is not very
considerable, for it is a well-understood thing beforehand that the
police will keep all suspicious characters out of the Hall, and the only
difficulty required is in backing out of the Hall on horseback; as, if
a claimant to the throne should actually appear, the champion would no
doubt back cleverly out of his challenge. Even this trifling merit must,
however, be assigned to the horse, who is generally a highly-trained
palfrey from the neighbouring amphitheatre, and is let out, trappings
and all included, to the Champion of England for the performance in
which his services are required.
* We get these facts from Walsingham, who gives an elaborate
account of the coronation. Walsingham says, they waltzed
till all was blue, which means, until the coerulean dawn
began to make its appearance.
[Illustration: 218]
Though Richard was not too young for the position of king, it was not
to be supposed that a boy of his age could be of any use whatever, and
twelve permanent councillors were therefore appointed, to do the work of
government. It was expected that the Duke of Lancaster, _alias_ John
of Gaunt, would have been appointed regent, but not one of the king's
uncles was named, and John, looking gaunter * than ever, withdrew in
stately dudgeon to his Castle of Kenilworth.
* John of Gaunt was not so called from his gaunt stature, as
some suppose, but from Ghent, or Gand (then called Gaunt)
where the gent, was born,
The truce with France having expired, without renewal, some attacks were
made on the English coast, and advantage was taken of the circumstance
to ask the Parliament for a liberal supply. Every appeal to the
patriotism of the people was in those days nothing more than an attack
upon their pockets; and it is not improbable that, by an understanding
among the various kings of Europe, one of them should be threatened
with attack if he required a pretext for obtaining a subsidy from his
subjects.
Notwithstanding the money taken from the public purse for the national
defence, the work was so utterly neglected by the Government, that John
Philpot, a shipowner and merchant of London, equipped a small fleet
of his own, with which he captured several of the enemy's vessels. The
authorities feeling the act to be a reflection on their own shameful
dereliction of duty, censured Philpot for his interference; but the
worthy alderman, by replying--"Why did you leave it to me to do,
when you ought to have done it yourselves?" effectually silenced all
remonstrance.
Young Richard, or those who acted for him, continued to make ducks and
drakes of the money of the English, which was being constantly wasted in
wanton warfare. The setting up of a duke here, or the taking down of a
king there, though the English felt no interest whatever in either the
duke or the king, became a pretext for levying a tax on the people. In
order that none should escape, so much per head was imposed on every
one from the highest to the lowest. The tax varied with the rank of the
person; and while a duke or archbishop was assessed at six 'thirteen
four (£6 13s. 4d.) a lawyer was mockingly mulcted of six and eightpence.
Such was the unpopularity of the poll-tax, that a regular pollish
revolution speedily broke out, which was fomented by the exactions of
some mercenary speculators to whom the tax had been farmed out by the
Government. Commissioners were sent into the disturbed districts to
enforce payment, and one Thomas de Bampton, who sat at Brentwood in
Essex, with two serjeants-at-arms, was glad to take to his legs, to
escape the violence of the populace, who sent him flying all the way to
London, where he rushed with his two attendants into the Common Pleas,
and asked for justice. Sir Robert Belknape, the chief, was sitting at
Nisi Prius, when Bampton begged permission to move the court as far as
Essex. The judge followed by clerks, jurors, and ushers, consenting to
the motion, went off to Brentwood, where they had no sooner arrived,
than poor Belknape was seized by the nape of the neck and forced to
flee, while the clerks and jurors were much more cruelly dealt with.
Leaders were all that the people wanted, when a notorious priest who
got the name of Jack Straw--from his being a man of that material--put
himself at the head of the discontents. The throwing up a straw will
often tell which way the wind blows, and the elevation of Jack certainly
indicated an approaching hurricane. During the excitement, one of the
tax-gatherers called upon one Walter the Tyler, of of Dartford, in Kent,
to demand fourpence, due as Miss Walter's Poll-tax. Mrs. Walter, with
the vanity of her sex, wishing to make herself out younger than she
really was, declared that the girl was not of the age liable by law
to the imposition. The collector made a very rude remark on that very
tender point, the age of the elder lady, when she screamed out to
her husband, who was tiling a house in the neighbourhood, to come and
"punish the impertinent puppy." Walter, who had still his trowel in
his hand, replied by crying out "Wait till I get at you;" and the
tax-gatherer insolently calling out "What's that what you say, Wat?" so
irritated Walter, that he at once emptied a hod of mortar on to the head
of the collector. The functionary was, of course, dreadfully mortar-fied
at this incident, but the trowelling he got with the trowel completely
finished him. Everybody applauded what Wat had done, and he was soon
appointed captain of the rebels. They released from prison a Methodist
parson named John Ball, or Bawl, whom they called their chaplain. A
nucleus having been formed, the mob increased with the rapidity of
a snowball, picking up the scum of the earth at every turn, until it
arrived at an alarming magnitude. The Tyler first visited Canterbury,
where he played some practical jokes upon the monks, and then came to
Blackheath, where, finding the young king's mother--the widow of the
Black Prince--he gave the old lady a kiss, and in this operation nearly
every rebel followed his leader. Such were the liberties taken by the
mob in their zeal on behalf of liberty, which they often affect
to pursue by means of the vilest tyranny, cruelty, cowardice, and
oppression. The insurgents made for London, when Walworth, the mayor,
endeavoured to oppose their entrance; but his efforts were vain, and
several parts of the city were burnt and plundered. The Temple was
destroyed by fire, and the lawyers running about in their black gowns
amid the flames suggested a very obvious comparison. Newgate and the
Fleet prisons were broken into, when all the scamps from both places
at once assumed the character of patriots, and joined the cause of the
people.
It is astonishing how easily a scamp who is unfit for any honest
occupation can at once become a friend of the masses. The prisons might
at any time contribute a fresh supply, when the stock of lovers of
liberty on hand may seem to be diminishing. Rapine and murder were
pursued with impunity for some time, the Government leaving matters to
take their chance; until a formal demand having been made by the mob for
the heads of the Chancellor and Treasurer, it was thought high time to
effect a compromise. A proclamation was issued announcing the king's
intention to be at Mile End by a certain hour, and the people were
politely requested to meet him there. On his reaching the spot where he
intended to talk things over with his subjects, he found sixty thousand
of them assembled; and as they all began talking at once, a little
confusion arose until the appointment of a regular spokesman. At length
the demands of sixty thousand tongues were reduced to four heads, and
to these the king agreed very graciously. The dispute might have ended
mildly at Mile End, but for the violent proceedings of those who kept
away from the meeting. These got into the Tower directly Richard's
back was turned, and the least of their offences was the rudeness they
manifested towards the widow of the Black Prince, who had either dropt
in to tea with the Archbishop and Chancellor or was permanently residing
there. This lady had got the name of the Fair Maid of Kent, a title that
had many local variations, according to the part of the county in
which she was spoken of. Sometimes they called her the Dartford Daisy,
sometimes the Canterbury Belle, sometimes the Greenwich Geranium,
sometimes the Woolwich Wallflower, and occasionally, even the Heme Bay
Hollyoak.
The rioters finding her in the Tower, treated the Fair Maid of Kent with
excessive rudeness, comparing her lips to Kentish cherries, and making
them the subject of the well-known game which is played by what
is termed bobbing at the fruit specified. She was, in fact, nearly
smothered in the Tower with the kisses of the malcontents. Her ladies
were, of course, dreadfully shocked, and their screams of "Mi!" at the
treatment of their mistress were truly terrible. When remonstrated with
on the liberty they were taking, they declared liberty to be the sacred
object they were bent on furthering. The Fair Maid of Kent was at length
dragged away by her attendants, who concealed her in a house called the
royal wardrobe, or perhaps put her into a clothes-cupboard, to keep her
out of the way of the rioters.
The Mile End charter had been very nicely written out by order of the
king, but Wat Tyler and his followers refused to have anything to do
with it. Richard tried another charter with more concessions, but
this had no effect; and at length he drew up a third, which went still
further than the two first, for the king, or those who advised him,
cared not how much was promised to answer a temporary purpose, as
there was never any difficulty in breaking a pledge that might be found
inconvenient. Whether or no Wat suspected the worthlessness of charters,
which might be sworn to one day and treated as waste paper the next,
he refused to be satisfied with either of the documents offered to his
approval. Finding written communications utterly useless, Richard rode
into town, with the intention of seeing what could be done by means of a
personal interview.
On reaching Smithfield he met Wat Tyler, and drew up opposite the gate
of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, which was in those days an abbey. The
incident which then happened has been variously described by different
pens, but unless we had at our command some of the Smithfield pens that
happened to be present at the time, we could not vouch for the accuracy
of any particular statement. Some say that Tyler came up in a bullying
attitude, and flourished a dagger; others allege that he seized the
king's bridle, as if he would take out of the royal hands the reins of
power; a few hint that Wat was intoxicated, either with brief authority
or something equally short; but all agree that he received his quietus
at the hands of one of his majesty's attendants.
The merit or responsibility of the death of Wat Tyler has usually been
assigned to Walworth, Lord Mayor of London, who is said to have
killed the rebel with his mace; * but it is doubtful whether the civic
potentate would be carrying his mace about with him during a morning's
ride.
* Others say that the mace in the hands of Walworth was not
the official mace, but a mace belonging to a billiard marker
in the mob. It is pretty certain that, wherever the mace may
have come from, the insolence of Tyler furnished the cue.
The fall of the Tyler had a most depressing influence on his followers,
and Richard, riding up to them, offered his services as their leader.
"Tyler was a traitor," cried the king: "I will be your captain and your
guide," when several of the mob consented to transfer themselves, like
so many tools, from the hands of Wat to those of Richard. Some of the
rioters sneaked quietly away, while those that remained were paralysed;
for it was always the characteristic of an English mob, to go on very
valiantly as long as they had it all their own way, but to turn tail and
flee on the very first symptom of earnest resistance.
Richard, finding himself once more powerful, instead of tempering
justice with mercy, threw in a strong seasoning of the most highly
-spiced cruelty, and commenced a series of executions, in which there
were nearly fifteen hundred victims to royal vindictiveness. As might
have been expected from the state of royal honour at the time, he at
once revoked all the charters to which he had agreed--an act which
proved that Tyler took a very fair view of the worth of the concessions
he had rejected. Jack Straw, one of the rioters, after being tauntingly
told by the authorities that he, Straw, deserved to be thrashed, was
among the sufferers by the law; and an act was passed by which "riots
and rumours and other such things" were turned into high treason.
Considering that rumour has an incalculable number of tongues, which are
not unfrequently all going at once, there must have been plenty to do
under the act by which all rumours were converted into high treason.
In the year 1382, Richard was married to Anne of Bohemia, a most
accomplished Bohemian girl, and the daughter of Charles the Fourth,
the highly respectable emperor. The king had in the commencement of his
reign been surrounded by a low set, placed about him by his mother, the
Princess of Wales, for the purpose of excluding his uncles, who could
not be expected to mix with ministers and officers whose vulgarity was
shocking, and whose meanness was quite detestable. One of these fellows,
John Latimer, a Carmelite friar, and an Irishman, gave Richard a
parchment containing the particulars of a conspiracy to place the crown
on the head of his uncle, the Duke of Lancaster. The duke swore that the
whole story was false; his accuser swore the contrary, and the dispute
was at length settled by the strangulation of Latimer. Sir John Holland,
the king's half-brother, was the alleged perpetrator of the savage act;
and indeed this gentleman subsequently disgraced himself by a homicide
in the royal camp, for he pounced upon and killed one of the favourites.
"You're no favourite of mine," roared Holland, as he perpetrated the
ruffianly act; which proves the holland of that day to have been a very
coarse material.
The Duke of Lancaster having gone abroad to urge a stale, and rather
hopeless, claim to the throne of Castile, Richard was left in the power
of his more turbulent uncle, the Duke of Gloucester. This unpleasant
person at once proposed a permanent Council of Regency, to which the
king objected, when, with dramatic effect, one of the commons produced
from under his cloak the statute by which Edward the Second had been
deposed, and holding it to Richard's head, implied that his consent or
his life were his only alternatives. Upon this he gave his consent, but
about two years afterwards, at a council held in May, 1389, he suddenly
took what is commonly called a new start, and rising up, addressed
Gloucester with the words, "I say, Uncle, do you know how old I am?"
"Of course I do," replied Gloucester, a little puzzled at the oddness
of the question; "you are in your twenty-second year; and a fine boy
you are of your age," continued the crafty duke; "but why so particular
about dates at the present moment?"
"Because," replied the king, "I've been thinking if I'm not old enough
to manage my own affairs now, I never shall be."
[Illustration: 223]
An expression of "hoity toity!" came into the countenance of the duke;
but Richard continued, with much earnestness, that all the young men of
his age were released from the control of their guardians, and he did
not see why he should any longer be kept morally in pinafores. With
this he thanked the council for their past services, which, however, he
declared he should no longer require. Before there was time to prevent
him, he had snatched the seals from the archbishop, and seized the
bunch of keys from the Bishop of Hereford. Everybody was completely
dumbfounded by this exhibition on the part of a lad who had never before
been known to do more than stammer out a bashful "Bo!" to some goose he
may have met with in his youthful wanderings. Gloucester was driven
from the council, and the whole thing was done before anyone present
had time--or if he had time he certainly omitted the opportunity--to
say "Jack Robinson." An affecting reconciliation afterwards took place
between Gloucester and the king; but we believe the reconciliation
itself to have been more affected than the parties who were concerned in
it.
Richard had soon afterwards the misfortune to lose his wife; and in 1394
he went over to Ireland with a considerable army, but, as it would seem,
less for the purpose of making war than making holiday. The English king
never struck a blow, and the Irish did not resist, so that the whole
affair was a good deal like that portion of the performance of Punch, in
which one party is continually bobbing down his head, while the other
is furiously implanting blows on vacancy. Richard entertained the Irish
with great magnificence, and at one of the banquets said the evening was
so pleasant he wished he could make several knights of it. Some of the
guests taking up the idea, persuaded him to make several knights by
knighting them, which he did with the utmost affability.
Richard did not remain very long a widower, for in October, 1396, he
married Isabella, the daughter of Charles the Sixth, an infant prodigy,
for she was scarcely more than seven, though a prodigy, according to
Froissart, of wit and beauty. Our private opinion--which we do not
hesitate to make public--is that there must have been some mistake about
the infant's age, and that the parents and nurses of that period were
not so particular in proving registers and records of birth as they
might, could, or should have been. The wit of a child of seven must have
been fearfully forced to have been so early developed: and in spite of
the tendency there has always been to exaggerate the merits of royalty,
we respectfully submit that the _facetiae_ of a child of seven must
have been of the very smallest description. The king, who had never been
cordially reconciled to Gloucester, was annoyed by the opposition of
the latter to the royal marriage, and resolved on striking a blow at his
uncle as well as at one or two of his chief partisans. Richard's plan
was to ask people to dinner, and in the middle of one of the courses,
give a signal to a sheriff's officer, who was concealed under the
tablecloth, from which he sprang out and arrested the visitor. He served
the Earls of Warwick and Arundel one after the other in this way, having
invited them each in turn to a chop, which it was designed that they
should eventually get through the agency of a hatchet. *
* This must not be confounded with an old legend, that he
asked his friends occasionally to a chop at Hatchett's--the
well-known hotel in Piccadilly.
His uncle Gloucester was not to be caught in this way, and declined
several invitations to a _tête-à-tête_, when Richard, determined to
accomplish his object, went to Bleshy Castle in Essex, where his uncle
was residing. "As you won't come to see me, I've come to see you," were
the king's artful words, when he was naturally invited to partake
of that _fortune du pot_ which is the ever-ready tribute of English
hospitality. While Richard was doing the amiable with the Duchess,
Gloucester, the Duke, was seized by one of the bailiffs in the
_suite_--disguised, of course, as a gentleman of the household--and
hurried to the Essex shore, where he was shoved off in a boat, and
conveyed, almost before he could fetch his breath, to Calais.
It was the practice of Richard to do things by fits and starts; so
that he accomplished an object very often by getting people to aid him
without knowing exactly what they were about, in consequence of the
suddenness with which he claimed their services. A few days after poor
Gloucester had been "entered outwards" for Calais, the king went to
Nottingham Castle, where, taking his uncles Lancaster and York by
surprise, he pulled out a document, requesting them to favour him with
their autographs. They could not very well refuse a request so strangely
made, and it eventually turned out that they had put their names to a
bill of indictment against Gloucester, Warwick and Arundel. A Parliament
was called to try the traitors, who were condemned, as a matter of
course; for Richard, walking into the house with six hundred men-at-arms
and a body-guard of archers, was pretty sure of a large majority.
Arundel was beheaded, and a writ was issued against Gloucester,
commanding him to return from Calais, to undergo the same disagreeable
process.
Fortunately, or unfortunately for the duke, he was dead before the writ
could be served; but the Parliament, though they could not kill him
twice over, indulged the satisfaction of declaring him a traitor after
his decease, by which all his property became forfeited. This proceeding
was a good deal like robbing the dead; but it was by no means contrary
to the spirit of the period. Warwick pleaded guilty, and was sentenced
to perpetual imprisonment in the Isle of Man--a sort of _lucus a non
lucendo_, which was called the Isle of Man from there being scarcely a
man to be seen in the place from one week's end to the other.
The peculiar richness of this reign consists in the historical doubts,
of which it is so full that the chroniclers are thrown into a state of
pleasing bewilderment. Nobody knows what became of Gloucester while in
captivity at Calais; and therefore every writer is at liberty to dispose
of the duke in any manner that may tempt an imagination inclining to
riot and rampancy. The treatment of his Royal Highness becomes truly
dreadful in the hands of the various antiquarians and others who have
undertaken to deal with him. By one set of authorities he is strangled,
in accordance with the alleged orders of the king: others kill him
of apoplexy; a few poison him; ten or a dozen drown him; six or seven
smother him; but all agree in the fact that he was, surreptitiously
settled. We are the only faithful recorders of the real fact, when we
state upon our honour that nobody knows the manner of the duke's death,
which is involved in the dense fogs of dim obscurity. Into these we will
not venture, lest we lose our own way and mislead the reader who may pay
us the compliment of committing himself to our guidance.
Richard having got rid of Gloucester, was anxious for the removal of
Norfolk and Hereford, whom he involved in a quarrel with each other,
intending that they should realise the legend of the Cats of Kilkenny.
When, however, they had entered the lists to decide their dispute by
wager of battle, Richard thought it better to run no risk of either
of them escaping, and he therefore sentenced both to banishment. Poor
Norfolk, a pudding-headed fellow, who might have gone by the name of the
Norfolk Dumpling, was soft enough to die of grief at Venice, on his road
to Jerusalem, whither he contemplated a pilgrimage. Hereford remained in
France, having been promised a pardon, but as it did not arrive he took
French leave to return to England, in 1399, after scarcely more than a
year's absence. His retinue was so small as to be utterly ridiculous,
for it consisted of one exiled archbishop, fifteen knights, and a
small lot of servants, who may be put down as sundries in the little
catalogue. One fool, however, makes many, and one rebellious earl was
soon joined by a number of other seditious nobles.
The plan of Hereford was that of the political quack who pretends to
have a specific for every disease by which the constitution is affected.
He published a puffing manifesto declaring that he had no other object
but the redress of grievances, and that the crown was the very last
thing to which his thoughts were directed. One of his confederates
to whom Hereford was reading the rough draft of his proposed address,
suggested that the disclaimer of the crown which it contained, might
prove inconvenient, when the royal diadem was really obtainable.
"Don't you see," replied the crafty Hereford with a smile, "I have not
compromised myself in any way. I have only said it is the last thing to
which my thoughts are directed, and so indeed it is, for I think of it
the last thing at night as well as the first thing in the morning." Thus
with the salve of speciousness, did the wily earl soothe for a time the
irritations of his not very tender conscience.
The manifesto had its effect, for it is a remarkable fact that they who
promise more than it is possible to perform, find the greatest favour
with the populace; for an undertaking to do what cannot be done
always affords something to look forward to. Expectation is generally
disappointed by fulfilment, and the most successful impostors are
consequently those who promise the most impracticable things without
ever doing anything. The imposition cannot be detected until the
impossibility of the thing promised is demonstrated; and this does not
often happen, for the difficulty of proving a negative is on all hands
admitted. It was therefore a happy idea of Hereford, as a political
adventurer, to promise a redress of every grievance; and if he could
have added to his pledge of interference _de omnibus rebus_ an assurance
of his ultimately applying his panacea to _quodam alia_, there is
little doubt that he would have been even more successful than he was in
augmenting the number of his followers.
By the time he reached London he had got sixty thousand men of all sorts
and sizes about him, for the people in those days were fond of changing
their leaders, and Hereford was popular as the latest novelty. The
Duke of York--the king's uncle--moved to the West End, as Henry and his
forces entered at the East; but Henry of Bolingbroke--alias Hereford,
who was also the nephew of York--invited the latter to a conference.
After talking the matter over, the worthy couple agreed to a coalition;
the conduct of York being very like that of an individual left to guard
a house, and joining with the thief who came to rob the premises.
[Illustration: 227]
Richard, who was in Ireland, knew nothing of what was passing at home,
for in consequence of contrary winds, the non-arrival of "our usual
express" was for three weeks a standing announcement with all the organs
of intelligence. When he received the news from his "own reporter,"
he started for Milford Haven, where he was almost overwhelmed with
disagreeable information from gentlemen who evinced the genius of true
penny-a-liners in making the very most and the very worst of every
calamitous incident. Richard's soldiers seeing that their king more
than ever required their fidelity and aid, immediately, according to the
usual practice, ran away from him. "They deserted," says the chronicler,
"almost to a man," and it is to be regretted that we have not the name
of the "man" who formed the nearly solitary exception to the general
apostacy. Whoever he may have been, he must have exercised a great deal
of self-command, for he was, of course, his own officer; he must have
reviewed himself, as well as gone through the ceremony of putting
himself on duty and taking himself off at the proper periods. We
must not, however, take too literally the calculations of the old
chroniclers, who reduce the number of Richard's adherents to an almost
solitary soldier, for the truth appears to be that the king mustered
almost six thousand men out of the twenty thousand he had brought with
him from Ireland. Flight was therefore his only refuge, and selecting
from his stock of fancy dresses the disguise of a priest, Richard,
accompanied by his two half-brothers, Sir Stephen Scroop, the
Chancellor, and the Bishop of Carlisle, with nine other followers, set
off for the Castle of Conway. There he met the Earl of Salisbury and
a hundred men, who had eaten every morsel of food to be found in the
place, and Richard was occupied in running backwards and forwards from
Conway to Beaumaris, then on to Carnarvon, then back to Conway again, in
a wretched race for a dinner.
It is pitiable to find a king of England reduced to the condition
described in the old nursery ditty. He went to Conway for provisions;
but
"When he got there
The cupboard was bare;"
and the same result followed his visit to Beaumaris and Carnarvon.
Notwithstanding the number of bones that his subjects had to pick with
him, there was not one in the larders of the three castles he visited.
"And so," in the emphatic words of the nursery rhyme, "the poor dog had
none." So complete was the desertion of Richard, that the Master of the
Household, Percy, Earl of Worcester, called all the servants together,
and broke his wand of office, accompanying the act by exclaiming, "Now
I'm off to Chester, to join the Duke of Lancaster." This ceremony was
equivalent to a discharge of all the domestics under him, and the king,
had he returned to his abode, would have been compelled to "do for
himself" in consequence of the disbanding of all his menials. The
members of the establishment, fancying they had an opportunity of
bettering themselves, did not hesitate to follow the example of their
chief, and there is no doubt that a long list, headed _Want Places_, was
at once forwarded to the Duke of Lancaster.
Having ransacked every corner of Conway Castle without finding any
provisions, Richard had nothing left but an unprovisional surrender. He
got as far as Flint Castle, which was only three miles from Chester, but
he found the inhabitants had flinty hearts, and he met with no sympathy.
Henry of Bolingbroke came to meet him, when Richard, touching his hat,
bid welcome to his "fair cousin of Lancaster."
"My lord," replied Henry, somewhat sarcastically, "I'm a little before
my time, but, really, your people complain so bitterly of your not
having the knack to rule them, that I've come to help you." Richard gave
a mental "Umph!" but added, "Well, well, be it as you will," for his
hunger had taken away all his appetite for power. After a repast, unto
which the king did much more ample justice than he had ever done to
his subjects, a hackney was sent for, and Richard rode a prisoner to
Chester.
[Illustration: 229]
No one pitied him as he passed, though the spectacle was a truly
wretched one. The horse was a miserable hack, while Richard himself was
hoarse with a hack-ing cough, caught in the various exposures to wind
and weather he had undergone in his vicissitudes. The dismal _cortège_
having put up at Litchfield for the king and his horse to have a feed,
of which both were greatly in want, Richard made a desperate attempt,
while the waiter was not in the room, to escape out of a window. He had
run a little way from his guards, but a cry of "Stop thief!" caused him
to be instantly pursued, and, when taken, he was well shaken for the
trouble he had occasioned. He was treated with increased severity, and
on arriving in London was conveyed, amid the hootings of the mob, to the
Tower.
Parliament had been appointed to meet on the 29th of September, 1399,
and on that day Richard received in his prison a deputation, to whom he
handed over the crown and the other insignia of royalty. Not satisfied
with the delivery of the sceptre as a proof of the king's abdication,
a wish was expressed to have it in writing, and he signed, as well as
resigned, without a murmur. His enemies had, in fact, determined on
his downfall, and they seemed anxious to be prepared at all points for
dragging the throne from under him. In order to make assurance doubly
or trebly sure, an act of accusation against him was brought before
Parliament on the following day, when Richard's conduct was complained
of in thirty-three, or as some authorities have it, thirty-five *
separate articles.
* The Pictorial History of England, which is generally very
accurate, mentions thirty-three articles. Rapin sets out
substance of thirty-one of the articles, and adds that there
were four others.
There is no doubt that Richard had behaved badly enough, but the
articles, taking the definite and indefinite together, attributed to
him a great deal more than he had really been guilty of. His punishment
having taken place before his trial, it was of course necessary, for the
sake of making matters square, that the offence should be made to meet
the penalty. Had he been tried first and judged afterwards, a different
course might have been taken, but as he had already been deposed, it was
desirable--if only for the look of the thing--that he should be charged
with something which would have warranted the Parliament in passing upon
him a sentence of deposition. Upwards of thirty articles were therefore
drawn up, for the great fact that in laying it on thick some is almost
sure to stick, was evidently well known to our ancestors: He was charged
with spending the revenues of the crown improperly, and choosing bad
ministers, though he might have replied that bad had been the best, and
that he and Hobson were, with reference to choice, in about the same
predicament. He was accused, also, of making war upon the Duke of
Gloucester, as well as on the Earls of Lancaster and Chester, to which
he might have responded that they began it, and that it was only in his
own defence he had treated them as enemies. It was alleged against
him, also, that he had borrowed money and never paid it back again; but
surely this has always been a somewhat common offence, and one which
the aristocracy should be the last persons in the world to treat with
severity. In one article he was charged with not having changed the
sheriffs often enough, and, as if to allow him no chance of escape,
another article imputed to him that he had changed the sheriffs too
frequently. Some of the counts in the indictment were utterly frivolous,
and the twenty-third stated that he had taken the crown jewels to
Ireland, as if he could not legally have done what he pleased with his
own trinket-box.
It must be presumed that Richard allowed judgment to go by default, for
all the accusations were declared to be proved against him. If he had
been assisted by a special pleader, he might have beaten his accusers
hollow on demurrer, for many of the counts in the declaration were, in
legal phraseology, utterly incapable of holding water. * Notwithstanding
the weakness of the articles, they were not attacked by any one in
Parliament except the Bishop of Carlisle, who, in a miserable minority
of one, formed the entire party of his sovereign. The venerable prelate,
in a powerful speech, talked of Richard's tyranny, including his
murder of Gloucester, as mere youthful indiscretion; and described his
excessive use of the most arbitrary power, as the exuberance of gaiety.
The bishop's freedom of speech was fatal to his freedom of person; for
he was instantly ordered into custody by the Duke of Lancaster. No one
followed on the same side as the prelate, whose removal to prison had
the effect of checking any tendency to debate, and the articles were,
of course, agreed to without a division. Sentence of deposition was
accordingly passed on the king, who had been already deposed, and the
people of England revoked all the oaths and homage they had sworn to
their sovereign. Such, indeed, was the determination of his subjects to
overturn their king, that his deposition was not unlike the practical
joke of drawing the throne literally from under him. They knew he had
not a leg to stand upon, and they seemed determined that he should not
have a seat to sit down upon; for even established forms were overturned
in order to precipitate his downfall.
* Mackintosh, who keeps the facts always very dry, seems
inclined to our opinion that the indictment would not have
held water.
What became of Richard after his having been deposed is a point upon
which historians have differed; but the favourite belief is that he was
cut off with an axe by one of his gaolers at Pomfret Castle, where he
was kept in custody. Some are of opinion that he was starved, and died
rather from want of a chop than by one having been administered. Mr.
Tytler believes that the unfortunate exmonarch escaped to Scotland,
where he resided for twenty years; but the story is doubtful, for even
in Scotland it is impossible to live upon nothing, which would have been
the income of Richard after his exclusion from the royal dignity.
When we come to weigh this sovereign in the scale, we can scarcely
allow him to pass without noticing his deficiency. He seems to have had
originally a due amount of sterling metal, but the warmth of adulation
melted away much of the precious ore, as a sovereign is frequently
diminished in value by sweating. To this deteriorating influence may
be added that of the clipping process, to which he was subjected by his
enemies, who were bent on curtailing his power. He had by nature a
noble and generous disposition, which might have made him an excellent
monarch. But our business is with what he really was, and not with
what he might have been. He was alternately cowardly and tyrannical,
in conformity with the general rule--applicable even to boys at
school--that it is the most contemptible sneak towards the stronger who
is towards the weaker the fiercest bully. Wholesome resistance tames him
down into the sneak again, and in pursuance of this ordinary routine,
Richard, from an overbearing tyrant, became a crouching poltroon, when
his enemies got the upper hand of him.
[Illustration: 232]
It was during this reign that the authority of the pope was vigorously
disputed in England, chiefly at the instigation of John Wickliffe,
who denied many of the doctrines of the Church of Rome, and protested
against its supremacy. Its influence was, moreover, weakened by its
being in some sort "a house divided." Avignon had been for some time the
papal residence, but the Italian cardinals having persuaded the pontiff
to return to Rome, the French cardinals set up a sort of opposition
pope, who continued to live at Avignon. Urban did the honours with
great urbanity in the Eternal City, while Clement carried on the papal
business at the old establishment in France, and Europe became divided
between the Clementines and Urbanists.
These two sects of Christians continued to denounce each other to
eternal perdition for some years, and their trial of strength seemed to
consist chiefly in a competition as to which could execrate the other
with the greatest bitterness. This dissension was no doubt favourable
to the views of Wickliffe, who, like other great reformers, renounced
in his old age the liberal doctrines by which he had obtained his early
popularity.
We have alluded in the course of this chapter to a combat which was
about to take place between the Earls of Hereford and Norfolk, in
pursuance of the practice of Wager of Battle, which was in those days
prevalent. It may seem unjust and ridiculous to the present generation,
that the strongest arm or stoutest spear should have settled a legal
difference, but even in our own times it is frequently the longest purse
which determines the issue of a law-suit. The only difference is that
litigants formerly knocked about each other's persons, instead of making
their assaults upon each other's pockets, and the legal phrase, that
"so-and-so is not worth powder and shot," preserves the allegory of
a combat, to which an action-at-law may be compared with the utmost
propriety. There has always been something chivalric in entering upon
the perilous enterprise of litigation, and we are not surprised that the
forensic champions of England should have been originally an order of
Knights Templars. The only military title which is still left to the
legal corps is that of Sergeant, and the black patch in the centre of
their heads is perhaps worn in memory of some wound received by an
early member of their order in the days of Wager of Battle. The sword of
justice may also be regarded as emblematical of the hard fight that is
frequently required on the part of those who seek to have justice done
to them by the laws of their country.
Contemporaneously with the Wager of Battle, there was introduced during
the reign of Henry the Second a sort of option, by which suitors who
were averse to single combat might support their rights by the oaths
of twelve men of the vicinage. Thus it was possible for those who were
afraid of hard hitting to have recourse to hard swearing, if they could
get twelve neighbours to take the oath that might have been required.
These persons were called the Grand Assize, and formed the jurors--a
word, as everybody knows, derived from the Latin _juro_, to swear--but
the duty has since been transferred from the jury to the witnesses, who
not unfrequently swear quite as hard as the most unscrupulous of our
ancestors.
We have seen that there were very few improvements in the reign of
Richard the Second; but we think we may justly say of the sovereign,
that though he did no good to his country, yet, in the well-known words
of a contemporary writer, "He would if he could, but he couldn't."
CHAPTER THE SIXTH. ON THE MANNERS, CUSTOMS, AND CONDITION OF THE PEOPLE.
[Illustration: 234]
BEFORE entering on the fourth book of our history, we may perhaps be
allowed to pause, for the purpose of taking a retrospective glance at
the condition, customs, candlesticks, sports, pastimes, pitchers, mugs,
jugs and manners of the people. It is curious to trace the progress
of art, from the coarse pipkin of the early Briton to the highly
respectable tankard * found in the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, which
proves the teeth of the monks to have been decidedly liquorish. We must
not, however, plunge prematurely into the pot of a more polished
era: but we must go regularly back to the earthenware of our earliest
ancestors.
The furniture of the Britons was substantial rather than elegant. A
round block of wood formed their easiest chair, which, we need hardly
say, was easier to make than to sit upon. The earth served the purpose
of a bed, not only for the parsley but for the people; and in winter
they made fires on the floor, till the Romans, who brought slavery in
one hand, gave the brasier with the other. Thus did even subjugation
tend to civilisation, and the very chains of the conqueror contained
links for the enlightenment of the conquered.
The diet of the Britons was as poor as their apartments, and consisted
chiefly of wild berries, wild boars, and bisons. We have no record of
their cookery, and it is doubtful whether they cooked at all, though
some antiquarians have endeavoured to find evidence of a stew, a roast
or a curry, and have ended after all in making a mere hash of it.
In clothes the Britons were by no means straight-laced, though their
intercourse with the Gauls was of inexpressible advantage to them, for
it introduced the use of Braccæ, or trousers made of fine wool woven in
stripes or chequers. **
* The tankard has no name distinctly bitten into it.
** It is probable that we get out our own word braces from
the Braccæ of our forefathers.
Of the domestic habits of the early tenants of our isle very little is
known, and we regret to say there can be little doubt they might most
of them have been indicted for polygamy had they lived under our present
system of laws, for a plurality of wives was in those days nothing
singular.
Their mode of bringing up children is wrapt in obscurity, but the
treatment, if we are to believe a story told by Salinus, * was rather
less tender than vigorous; for the first morsel of food was put into the
infant's mouth on the point of his father's sword, with the hope that
the child would turn out as sharp a blade as his parent. The Saxons
brought very material improvements to the mode of living in our island,
though we cannot compliment them on the comfort of all their upholstery.
Their chairs were a good deal like our camp-stools, without the material
which forms the seat; for the Anglo-Saxons were satisfied to sit in the
angle formed by the junction of the legs of the article alluded to.
* Pictorial History of England, vol i., book i., chap. vi.,
p. 129.
The drinking-cups in use at this period began to be very elaborate, and
were made of gold or silver, while glass was a luxury unknown, though
the Venerable Bede, who had a good deal of glass in his family, mentions
lamps and vessels of that material. The Anglo-Saxons had beds and
bolsters; but from illustrations we have seen in the Cotton MS., we
think that if, as they made their beds, so they were obliged to lie,
our ancestors could not have slept very pleasantly. Some of the Saxon
bedsteads were sexagonal boxes, into which it was impossible to get,
without folding one's self up into the form of an S; and another
specimen is in the shape of an inverted cocked hat, somewhat smaller
than the person by whom it is occupied. Nothing but a sort of human
half-moon could have found accommodation in this semilunar cradle, in
which to have been "cribbed, cabined, and confined," could not have been
very agreeable.
Costume could scarcely be considered to have commenced before the
Anglo-Saxon period, for the Britons persevered in a style of un-dress
which was barely respectable. It is therefore most refreshing to find
our countrymen at last with stockings to their feet and shirts to their
backs, in which improved case they are to be met with in the Anglo-Saxon
period. The shoe also stands boldly forward at about the same time,
and shows an indication of that polish which was eventually to take a
permanent footing. Amid the many irons that civilisation had in the fire
at this date, are the curling-irons for ladies' hair, which began to
take a favourable turn during the Anglo-Saxon period. The armour worn
by the military part of the population was very substantial, consisting
chiefly of scales, which gave weight to the soldiery, and often turned
the balance in their favour. This species of defence was, however,
too expensive for the common men, who generally wore a linen thorax or
"dickey," with which they offered a bold front to the enemy.
It would be exceedingly difficult to give an accurate account of
Anglo-Saxon life, for there are no materials in existence out of which
a statement could be framed; and though some historians do not object
to have "their own materials made up," we should be ashamed to have
recourse to this species of literary tailoring. We think it better to
cut our coat according to our cloth; and we had rather figure in the
sparest Spencer of fact, than assume the broadest and amplest cloak, if
it were made of a yarn spun from the dark web of ambiguity. What we say,
we know, and what we are ignorant of, we know much better than to talk
about.
[Illustration: 236]
The Anglo-Saxon husbandman was little better than a serf who was paid
for his labour by the landowner; but the former furnished the base,
without which there would have been no _locus standi_ for the latter's
capital. It was customary in those days to encourage the peasantry by
prizes, which did not consist of a coat for a faithful servitude of
nearly a life, but a grant of a piece of the land to which the labourer
had given increased value by his industry.
The proprietors of the soil had not yet learned the wisdom of trying how
much a brute could be made to eat, and how little a human being could
exist upon.
With reference to the domestic habits of the period, it has been clearly
ascertained that people of substance took four meals a day, and as
they took meat at every one, their substance can be no matter of
astonishment. The Britons had not been in the habit of dressing their
food, which is not surprising, for they scarcely dressed themselves;
but the Anglo-Saxons were not so fond of the raw material. With them the
pleasures of the table were carried to excess, and drinking went to such
an extent, that every monk was prohibited from taking any more when his
eyes were disturbed, and his tongue began to stammer. The misfortune,
however, was, that as all who were present at a banquet, generally began
to experience simultaneously a disturbance of the eye and a stammering
of the tongue, no one noticed it in his neighbour, and the orgies were
often continued until the stammering ended in silence, and the optical
derangement finished by the closing of the organs of vision.
The chase was a popular amusement with the Anglo-Saxons, but it does
not seem to have been pursued with much spirit, if we are to believe an
illustration from the Cotton MS. * of the practice of boar-hunting. Two
men and one dog are seen hunting four boars, who are walking leisurely
two and two, while the hound and the hunters are hanging back, as if
afraid to follow their prey too closely. In another picture, from the
Harleian MS., seven men are seen huddled together on horseback, as
if they had all fainted at the sight of a hawk, who flaps his wings
insolently in their faces. Nothing indeed can be more pusillanimous
than the sports of the Anglo-Saxons as shown in the illustrations of
the period. The only wonder is, that the animals hunted did not turn
suddenly round and make sport of the sportsmen.
* Julius, A. 7.
The condition of the great body of the people was that of agricultural
labourers, who, it is said, were nearly as valuable to their employers
or owners as the cattle, and were taken care of accordingly. In this
respect they had an advantage over the cultivators of the soil in our
own time, who remain half unfed, while pigs, sheep, and oxen, are made
too much of by constant cramming.
The Normans added little to the stock of English furniture, for we
have looked through our statistical tables and find nothing that would
furnish an extra leaf to our history. It is, however, about this time
that we find the first instance of a cradle made to rock, an arrangement
founded on the deepest philosophy; for by the rocking movement the
infant is prepared for the ups and downs of life he will soon have to
bear up against.
The reign of John introduces us to the first saltcellar on record,
though, by the way, the first vinegar cruet is of even earlier date, for
it is contemporary with the sour-tempered Eleanor, who is reported to
have played a fearful game at bowls with the unfortunate Rosamond.
When Fashion first came to prevail in dress, Taste had not yet arrived,
and the effect was truly ridiculous. It does not follow, however, that
if Fashion and Taste had existed together, they would have managed to
agree; for although there is often a happy union between the two, they
very frequently remain at variance for considerable periods. Fashion
being the stronger, usually obtains the ascendency in the first
instance; but Taste ultimately prevails over her wayward rival.
In nothing so much as in shoes, have the freaks of Fashion been
exemplified. She has often taken the feet in hand, and in a double sense
subjugated the understanding of her votaries. In the days of Henry the
First shoes were worn in a long peak, or curling like a ram's horn,
and stuffed with tow, as if the natural too was not sufficient for
all reasonable purposes. The rage for long hair was so excessive that
councils * were held on the subject, and the state of the crops was
considered with much anxiety. The clergy produced scissors at the end of
the service to cut the hair of the congregation; and it is said of Serlo
d'Abon, the Bishop of Seez, that he, on Easter Day, 1105, cut every one
of the locks off Henry the First's knowledge-box.
* At Limoges, in 1031, by Pope Gregory the Seventh in 1073,
and at Rouen in 1095,
We have hinted at the out-of-door amusements of the people, but those
pursued within doors may deserve some passing notice. The juggler,
the buffoon, and the tumbler were greatly in request, and we see in
these persons the germ of the wizards, the Ramo Samees, the clowns,
with their "Here we ares," and the various families of India-rubber
incredibles, Mackintosh marvels, or Kensington untrustables, that have
since become in turns the idols of an enlightened British public. That
there is nothing new under the sun, nor in the stars--at least those
belonging to the drama--is obvious enough to anyone who will examine
the records of the past, which contain all that are declared to be
the novelties of the present. Learned monkeys, highly-trained horses,
and--to go a little further back--terrific combats, or sword dances, in
which deadly foes go through mortal conflicts in a _pas de deux_, are
all as old as the hills, the dales, the vales, the mountains, and
the fountains. Even the reading-easel--for those who wish to read
easily--which was advertised but yesterday, and patented the other
day, was a luxury in use as early as the fourteenth century. Even Polka
jackets, imported from Cracow in Poland, were "very much worn," and, for
what we know, the Polka itself may have been danced in all its pristine
purity. In head-dresses we have seen nothing very elegant, for, during
Richard the Second's reign, a yard or two of cloth, cut into no regular
pattern, formed a bonnet or hood for a lady, while an arrangement in fur
very like a muff, constituted the hat of a gentleman.
Out-of-door sports were much in favour during the fourteenth century,
and the priesthood were so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase,
that a clergyman was prohibited from keeping a dog for hunting unless he
had a benefice of at least ten pounds per annum.
[Illustration: 238]
The foxhunting parson is therefore a character as old as the days of
Richard the Second, in whose reign the Bishop of Ely was remarkable for
activity in the field, where the right reverend prelate could take a
difficult fence with the youngest and best of them. He was particularly
active in hunting the wolf, and he often said jestingly, that the
interests of his flock prompted him to pursue its most formidable enemy.
We have seen what our ancestors were in their habits, pleasures, and
pursuits, none of which differed very materially from those that the
people of the present generation are or have been in the habit of
following. As the child is father of the man, the infancy of a country
is the parent of its maturity. Reproduction is, after all, the nearest
approach we can make to novelty, and though in the drama of life "each
man in his time plays many parts," there is scarcely one of which he can
be called the original representative.