On a burning day in July, nearly a year from the time of their parting,
the twin brothers met once more in the camp before Calais, where they
had parted the previous autumn. Raymond had been long in throwing off
the effect of the severe injuries which had nearly cost him his life
after the Battle of Crecy; but thanks to the rest and care that had been
his in his uncle's house, he had entirely recovered. Though not quite so
tall nor so broad-shouldered and muscular as Gaston, who was in truth a
very prince amongst men, he was in his own way quite as striking, being
very tall, and as upright as a dart, slight and graceful, though no
longer attenuated, and above all retaining that peculiar depth and
purity of expression which had long seemed to mark him out somewhat from
his fellow men, and which had only intensified during the year that had
banished him from the stirring life of the camp.
"Why, Brother," said Gaston, as he held the slim white hands in his
vise-like clasp, and gazed hungrily into the face he had last seen so
wan and white, "I had scarce dared to hope to see thee again in the camp
of the King after the evil hap that befell thee here before; but right
glad am I to welcome thee hither before the final act of this great
drama, for methinks the city cannot long hold out against the famine
within and our bold soldiers without the walls. Thou hast done well to
come hither to take thy part in the final triumph, and reap thy share of
the spoil, albeit thou lookest more like a youthful St. George upon a
church window than a veritable knight of flesh and blood, despite the
grip of thy fingers, which is well-nigh as strong as my own."
"I will gladly take my share in any valorous feat of arms that may be
undertaken for the honour of England and of England's King. But I would
sooner fight with warriors who are not half starved to start with. Say
not men that scarce a dog or a cat remains alive in the city, and that
unless the citizens prey one upon the other, all must shortly perish?"
"Yea, in very truth that is so; for, as perchance thou hast heard, a
vessel was sighted leaving Calais harbour but a few short days ago, and
being hotly pursued, was seen to drop a packet overboard. That packet at
ebb tide was found tied to an anchor, and being brought to the King and
by him opened, was found to contain those very words addressed to the
King of France by the governor of the city, praying him to come speedily
to the rescue of his fortress if he wished to save it from the enemy's
hand. Our bold King having first read it, sent it on posthaste to his
brother of France, crying shame upon him to leave his gallant subjects
thus to perish with hunger. Methinks that message will shame yon laggard
monarch into action. How he has been content to idle away the year, with
the foe besieging the key of his kingdom, I know not. But it is a warm
welcome he shall get if he comes to the relief of Calais. We are as
ready to receive him here as we were a year ago on the field of Crecy!"
"Ay, in fair fight with Philip's army would I gladly adventure my life
again!" cried Raymond, with kindling eyes; "but there be fighting I have
small relish for, my Gaston, and I have heard stories of this very siege
which have wrung my heart to listen to. Was it true, brother, that
hundreds of miserable creatures, more than half of them women and little
children, were expelled from the city as 'useless mouths,' and left to
starve to death between the city walls and the camp of the English, in
which plenty has all the winter reigned? Could that be true of our
gallant King and his brave English soldiers?"
A quick flush dyed Gaston's cheek, but he strove to laugh.
"Raymond, look not at me with eyes so full of reproach. War is a cruel
game, and in some of its details I like it little better than thou. But
what can we soldiers do? Nay, what can even the King do? Listen, and
condemn him not too hastily. Long months ago, soon after thou hadst left
us, the same thing was done. Seventeen hundred persons -- men, women,
and children -- were turned out of the town, and the King heard of it
and ordered some of them to be brought before him. In answer to his
question they told him that they were driven from the city because they
could not fight, and were only consuming the bread, of which there was
none to spare for useless mouths. They had no place to go to, no food to
eat, no hope for the future. Then what does our King do but give them
leave to pass through his camp; and not only so, but he orders his
soldiers to feed them well, and start them refreshed on their way; and
before they went forth, to each of them was given, by the royal order,
two sterlings of silver, so that they went forth joyously, blessing the
liberality and kindness of the English and England's King. But thou must
see he could not go on doing these kindly acts if men so took advantage
of them. He is the soul of bravery and chivalry, but there must be
reasonable limits to all such royal generosity."
Raymond could have found in his heart to wish that the limit had not
been quite so quickly reached, and that the hapless women and children
had not been left to perish miserably in the sight of the warmth and
plenty of the English camp; but he would not say more to damp his
brother's happiness in their reunion, nor in that almost greater joy
with which Roger received him back.
"In faith," laughed Gaston, "I believe that some of the wizard's art
cleaves yet to yon boy, for he has been restless and dreamy and unlike
himself these many days; and when I have asked him what ailed him, his
answer was ever the same, that he knew you were drawing nigh; and verily
he has proved right, little as I believed him when he spoke of it."
Roger had so grown and improved that Raymond would scarce have
recognized in him the pale shrinking boy they had borne out from the
house of the sorcerer three years before. He had developed rapidly after
the first year of his new life, when the shackles of his former
captivity seemed finally broken; but this last year of regular soldier's
employment had produced a more marked change in his outward man than
those spent in the Brotherhood or at Raymond's side. His figure had
widened. He carried himself well, and with an air of fearless alertness.
He was well trained in martial exercises, and the hot suns of France had
bronzed his cheeks, and given them a healthy glow of life and animation.
He still retained much of his boyish beauty, but the dreaminess and
far-away vacancy had almost entirely left his eyes. Now and again the
old listening look would creep into them, and he would seem for a few
moments to be lost to outward impressions; but if recalled at such
moments from his brief lapse, and questioned as to what he was thinking,
it always proved to be of Raymond, not of his old master.
Once or twice he had told Gaston that his brother was in peril -- of
what kind he knew not; and Gaston had wondered if indeed this had been
so. One of these occasions had been just before Christmastide, and the
date being thus fixed in his mind, he asked his brother if he had been
at that time exposed to any peril. Raymond could remember nothing save
the vindictive threat of Peter Sanghurst, and Gaston was scarce disposed
to put much faith in words, either good or bad, uttered by such a man as
that.
And now things began to press towards a climax in this memorable siege.
The French King, awakened from his long and inexplicable lethargy by the
entreaties of his starving subjects so bravely holding the town for a
pusillanimous master, and stung by the taunts of the English King, had
mustered an army, and was now marching to the relief of the town. It was
upon the last day of July, when public excitement was running high, and
all men were talking and thinking of an approaching battle, that word
was brought into the camp, and eagerly passed from mouth to mouth, to
the effect that the King of France had despatched certain messengers to
hold parley with the royal Edward, and that they were even now being
admitted to the camp by the bridge of Nieulay -- the only approach to
Calais through the marshes on the northeast, which had been closely
guarded by the English throughout the siege.
"Hasten, Raymond, hasten!" cried Gaston, dashing into the small lodging
he and his brother now shared together. "There be envoys come from the
French King. The Prince will be with his father to hear their message,
and if we but hasten to his side, we may be admitted amongst the number
who may hear what is spoken on both sides."
Raymond lost no time in following his brother, both eager to hear and
see all that went on; and they were fortunate enough to find places in
the brilliant muster surrounding the King and his family, as these
received with all courtesy the ambassador from the French monarch.
That messenger was none other than the celebrated Eustache de
Ribeaumont, one of the flower of the French chivalry, to whom, on
another occasion, Edward presented the celebrated chaplet of pearls,
with one of the highest compliments that one brave man could give
another. The boys, and indeed the whole circle of English nobility,
looked with admiration at his stately form and handsome face, and though
to our ears the message with which he came charged sounds infinitely
strange, it raised no smile upon the faces of those who stood around the
royal Edward.
"Sire," began the messenger, "our liege lord, the King of France, sends
us before you, and would have you know that he is here, and is posted on
the Sandgatte Hill to fight you; but intrenched as you are in this camp,
he can see no way of getting at you, and therefore he sends us to you to
say this. He has a great desire to raise the siege of Calais, and save
his good city, but can see no way of doing so whilst you remain here.
But if you would come forth from your intrenchments, and appoint some
spot where he could meet you in open fight, he would rejoice to do it,
and this is the thing we are charged to request of you."
A shout, led by the Prince of Wales, and taken up by all who stood by,
was proof enough how acceptable such a notion was to the ardent spirits
of the camp; for it was not a shout of derision, but one of eager
assent. Indeed, for a moment it seemed as though the King of England
were disposed to give a favourable reply to the messenger; but then he
paused, and a different expression crossed his face. He sat looking
thoughtfully upon the ground, whilst breathless silence reigned around
him, and then he and the Queen spoke in low tones together for some few
minutes.
When Edward looked up again his face had changed, and was stern and set
in expression.
"Tell your lord," he said, speaking slowly and distinctly, "that had he
wished thus to fight, he should have sent his challenge before. I have
been near a twelvemonth encamped before this place, and my good people
of England have been sore pressed to furnish me with munitions for the
siege. The town is now on the point of falling into my hands, and then
will my good subjects find plunder enough to recompense them for their
labour and loss. Wherefore tell your lord that where I am there will I
stay; and that if he wishes to fight he must attack me in my camp, for I
assuredly have no intention of moving out from it."
A slight murmur of disappointment arose from the younger and more ardent
members of the crowd; but the older men saw the force of the King's
words, and knew that it would be madness to throw away all the
hardly-earned advantages of those long months just for a piece of
chivalrous bravado. So De Ribeaumont had to ride back to the French camp
with Edward's answer; and ere two more days had passed, the astonishing
news was brought to the English lines that Philip had abandoned his
camp, which was now in flames, and was retreating with his whole army by
the way he had come.
"Was ever such a craven coward!" cried the Prince, in indignant
disappointment; for all within the English camp had been hoping for
battle, and had been looking to their arms, glad of any incident to vary
the long monotony of the siege. "Were I those gallant soldiers in yon
fortress, I would serve no longer such a false, treacherous lord. Were
my father but their king, he would not leave them in such dire strait,
with an army at his back to fight for him, be the opposing force a
hundredfold greater than it is!"
And indeed it seemed as though the brave but desperate garrison within
those walls saw that it was hopeless to try to serve such a master. How
bitter must their feelings have been when Philip turned and left them to
their fate may well be imagined. Hopeless and helpless, there was
nothing but surrender before them now; and to make the best terms
possible was the only thing that remained for them. The day following
Philip's dastardly desertion, the signal that the city was ready to
treat was hung out, and brave Sir Walter Manny, whose own history and
exploits during the campaigns in Brittany and Gascony would alone fill a
volume either of history or romance, was sent to confer on this matter
with the governor of the city, the gallant De Vienne, who had been
grievously wounded during the long siege.
Raymond's sympathies had been deeply stirred by what he had heard and
imagined of the sufferings of the citizens, and with the love of
adventure and romance common to those days, he arrayed himself lightly
in a dress that would not betray his nationality, and followed in the
little train which went with Sir Walter. The conference took place
without the walls, but near to one of the gates. Raymond did not press
near to hear what was said, like the bulk of the men on both sides who
accompanied the leaders, but he passed through the eager crowd and made
for the gate itself, the wicket of which stood open; and so calm and
assured was his air, and so deeply were the minds of the porters stirred
by anxiety to know the fate of the town, that the youth passed in
unheeded and unchallenged, and once within the ramparts he could go
where he chose and see what he would.
But what a sight met his eyes! Out into the streets were flocking the
inhabitants, all trembling with anxiety to hear their fate. Every turn
brought him to fresh knots of famine-stricken wretches, who had almost
lost the wish to live, or any interest in life, till just stirred to a
faint and lingering hope by the news that the town was to be surrendered
at last. Gaunt and hollow-eyed men, women little better than skeletons,
and children scarce able to trail their feeble bodies along, were
crowding out of the houses and towards the great marketplace, where the
assembly to hear the conditions was likeliest to meet. The soldiers, who
had been better cared for than the more useless townsfolk, were
spectre-like in all conscience; but the starving children, and the
desperate mothers who could only weep and wring their hands in answer to
the piteous demand for bread, were the beings who most stirred Raymond's
heart as he went his way amongst them.
Again that sense of horror and shrinking came upon him that he had
experienced upon the field of Crecy amongst the dying and the dead. If
war did indeed entail such ghastly horrors and frightful sufferings,
could it be that glorious thing that all men loved to call it?
Curious glances began to be levelled at him as he passed through the
streets, sometimes pausing to soothe a wailing child, sometimes lending
a hand to assist a tottering woman's steps, and speaking to all in that
gentle voice of his, which with its slightly unfamiliar accent smote
strangely upon the ears of the people. He wore no helmet on his head,
and his curly hair floated about his grave saint-like face, catching
golden lights from the glory of the August sunshine.
"Is it one of the blessed saints?" asked a little child of his mother,
as Raymond paused in passing by to lay a caressing hand upon his head,
and speak a soft word of encouragement and hope to the weary mother.
And the innocent question was taken up and passed from mouth to mouth,
till it began to be whispered about that one of the holy saints had
appeared in their midst in the hour of the city's deadly peril. As
Raymond passed on his way, many a knee was bent and many a pleading
voice asked a blessing; whilst he, feeling still as one who moves in a
dream, made the sign of the cross from time to time over some kneeling
suppliant without understanding what was said of him or why all eyes
were bent upon him.
But the great town bell was ringing now to summon the citizens to
assemble themselves together to hear the final terms agreed upon for the
capitulation of the city, and all else was forgotten in the overwhelming
anxiety of that moment; for none could form a guess what terms would be
granted to a town in such sore straits as was theirs. The English King
could be generous and merciful, but he could also be stern and
implacable; and the long resistance made by the town was like to have
stirred his wrath, as well as the fact that the sea port of Calais had
done more harm to his ships and committed more acts of piracy than any
other port in France.
Raymond himself had great fears for the fate of the hapless town, and
was as eager as any to hear what had been decreed.
"Sure if the King could see the famished gathering here his heart would
relent," murmured the youth to himself, as he looked round at the sea of
wan faces gathered in the open square.
But the grave and sorrowful expression upon the governor's face told
that he had no very happy tidings to impart. He stood upon a flight of
steps where all men could well behold him, and in the dead silence that
fell upon the multitude every word spoken could be distinctly beard.
"My friends," he said, in grave, mournful accents, "I come to you with
news of the only terms of capitulation that I have been able to win from
England's King. I myself offered to capitulate if he would permit all
within the walls to depart unharmed, whilst his demand was for
unconditional surrender. The brave knight who came forth to confer with
me went back more than once to strive to win for us better terms, and
his intercession was thus far successful. The King will take the rest of
the citizens to mercy if six of their chief burgesses be given up to his
vengeance, and appear before him bareheaded and barefooted, with halters
about their necks and the keys of the city in their hands. For such
there will be no mercy. Brave Sir Walter Manny, who bore hack this
message with so sorrowful a countenance, bid me not hope that the lives
of these men would be spared. He said he saw the fierce sparkle in
Edward's eyes as he added, grinding his teeth, 'On them will I do my
will.' Wherefore, my good friends, we are this day in a great strait,
and I would that I might myself give up my life to save the town; but
the King's command is that it shall be six of the burgesses, and it is
for you and them to say if these hard conditions shall be accepted."
The deepest silence had hitherto prevailed in that vast place, but now
it was broken by the weeping and wailing of a great multitude. Raymond's
throat swelled and his eyes glistened as he looked around upon that sea
of starving faces, and tried to realize all that this message must mean
to them. If his own life could have paid the ransom, he would have laid
it down that moment for these miserable weeping beings; but he was
helpless as the brave governor, and could only stand and see the end of
the drama.
Slowly up the steps of the marketplace, where stood the governor of the
city, advanced a fine-looking man in the prime of life, and a hushed
murmur ran through the crowd, in which Raymond caught the name of
Eustache de St. Pierre. This man held up his hand in token that he
wished to speak, and immediately a deathlike silence fell again upon the
crowd.
"My friends," spoke the clear deliberate voice, "it would be a great
pity and mischief to let such a people as this assembled here die by
famine or any other way, if a means can be found to save them; and it
would be great alms and great grace in the sight of the Lord for any one
who could save them from such harm. I have myself so great hope of
finding grace and pardon in the sight of our Lord, if I die to save this
people, that I will be the first, and will yield myself willingly, in
nothing but my shirt, with my head bare and a halter round my neck, to
the mercy of the King of England."
As these simple but truly heroic words were spoken a burst of weeping
and blessing arose from the crowd, women pressed forward and fell at the
feet of the worthy citizen, and Raymond said in his heart:
"Sure if the King of England could but see it, there is more chivalry in
yon simple merchant than in half the knights who stand about his throne."
It is seldom that a noble example is thrown away upon men. Hardly had
the burst of weeping died away before two more men, brothers, to judge
by their likeness to each other, mounted the steps and stood beside St.
Pierre. He held out his hand and greeted them by name.
"My good friends Jacques and Peter de Wisant, we go hand in hand to
death, as we have gone hand in hand in other ventures of another kind.
And hither to join us comes our good friend Jehan d'Aire. Truly if we
march to death, we shall march in good company."
The full number was soon made up. Six of the wealthiest and best known
of the citizens came forward and stood together to be disrobed and led
before the King.
But Raymond could bear the sight no longer. With a bursting heart he
hurried through the crowd, which made way wonderingly for him as he
moved, and went straight towards the gate by which he had entered, none
hindering his path.
"It is the blessed saint who came amongst us in our hour of need," said
the women one to another, "and now perchance he goes to intercede with
the mighty conqueror! See how his face is set towards the gate; see the
light that shines in his eyes! Sure he can be no being of this earth,
else how could he thus come and go in our beleaguered city!"
The guard at the gate looked with doubtful eyes at the stranger, and one
man stood in his path as if to hinder him; but Raymond's eyes seemed to
look through and beyond him, and in a clear, strange voice he said:
"In the name of the Blessed Son of God, I bid thee let me pass. I go
upon an errand of mercy in that most Holy Name."
The man fell back, his comrades crossed themselves and bent the knee.
Raymond passed out of the gate, scarce knowing how he had done so, and
sped back to the English camp as if his feet had wings. With that same
strangely rapt expression upon his face, he went straight to the lodging
of the Prince of Wales, and entering without ceremony found not only the
Prince there, but also his royal mother, the gracious Queen Philippa.
Bending his knee to that fair lady, but without one thought beyond the
present urgent need of the moment, Raymond told all his tale in the ear
of the Queen and the Prince. With that power of graphic description
which was the gift of his vivid imagination and deep sense of sympathy
with the needs of others, he brought the whole scene before the eyes of
his listeners the crowded marketplace, the famine-stricken people in
their extremity and despair, the calm heroism of the men who willingly
offered their lives to save those of their townspeople, and the wailing
multitude watching the start of the devoted six going forth to a
shameful and ignominious death on their behalf.
And as Raymond spoke the Prince's cheek flushed, and the eyes of the
beautiful Queen kindled and filled with sudden tears; and rising to her
feet she held out her hand to Raymond and said:
"Good lad, I thank thee for thy tale, and the request thy lips have not
spoken shall be granted. Those men shall not die! I, the Queen of
England, will save them. I pledge thee here my royal word. I will to my
noble husband and win their pardon myself."
Raymond sank upon his knee and kissed the fair hand extended to him, and
both he and the Prince hastened after the Queen, who hoped to find her
royal husband alone and in a softened mood, as he was wont to be after
the stress of the day was over.
But time had fled fast whilst Raymond had been telling his tale, and
already notice had been brought to Edward of the approach of the six
citizens, and he had gone forth into a pavilion erected for his
convenience in an open part of the camp; and there he was seated with
grim aspect and frowning brow as his Queen approached to speak with him.
"I will hear thee anon, good wife," he said, seeing that she craved his
ear. "I have sterner work on hand today than the dallying of women. Stay
or go as thou wilt, but speak not to me till this day's work is carried
through."
Raymond's heart sank as he heard these words, and saw the relentless
look upon the King's face. None realized better than he the cruel side
to the boasted chivalry of the age; and these middle-aged burgesses,
with no knightliness of dress or bearing, would little move the loftier
side of the King's nature. There would be no glamour of romance
surrounding them. He would think only of the thousands of pounds the
resistance of the city had cost him, and he would order to a speedy
death those whom he would regard as in part the cause of all this
trouble and loss.
The Queen made no further effort to win his notice, but with graceful
dignity placed herself beside him; whilst the Prince, quivering with
suppressed excitement, stepped behind his father's chair. Raymond stood
in the surrounding circle, and felt Gaston's arm slipped within his. But
he had eyes only for the mournful procession approaching from the
direction of the city, and every nerve was strained to catch the
lightest tone of the Queen's voice if she should speak.
The governor of Calais, though disabled by wounds from walking, was
pacing on horseback beside the devoted six thus giving themselves up to
death; and as he told how they had come forward to save their fellow
citizens from death, tears gathered in many eyes, and brave Sir Walter
Manny, who had pleaded their cause before, again threw himself upon his
knees before his sovereign, and besought his compassion for the brave
burgesses.
But Edward would not listen -- would not allow the better feelings
within him to have play. With a few angry and scathing words, bidding
his servants remember what Calais had cost them to take, and what the
obstinacy of its citizens had made England pay, he relentlessly ordered
the executioner to do his work, and that right quickly; and as that grim
functionary slowly advanced to do the royal bidding, a shiver ran
through the standing crowd, the devoted six alone holding themselves
fearlessly erect.
But just at the moment when it seemed as if all hope of mercy was at an
end, the gentle Queen arose and threw herself at her husband's feet, and
her silvery voice rose clear above the faint murmur rising in the throng.
"Ah, gentle Sire, since I have crossed the sea with great peril, I have
never asked you anything; now I humbly pray, for the sake of the Son of
the Holy Mary and your love of me, that you will have mercy on these six
brave men!"
Raymond's breath came so thick and fast as he waited for the answer,
that he scarce heard it when it came, though the ringing cheer which
broke from the lips of those who stood by told him well its purport.
The King's face, gloomy at first, softened as he gazed upon the graceful
form of his wife, and with a smile he said at last:
"Dame, I wish you had been somewhere else this day; but I cannot refuse
you. I put them into your keeping; do with them what you will."
Raymond felt himself summoned by a glance from the Prince. The
Queen-mother had bidden him take the men, and feast them royally, and
send them away with rich gifts.
As the youth who had done so much for them forced his way to the side of
the Prince, his face full of a strange enthusiasm and depth of feeling,
the citizens looked one upon another and whispered:
"Sure it was true what the women said to us. That was the youth with the
face of painted saint that we saw within the walls of the city. Sure the
Blessed Saints have been watching over us this day, and have sent an
angel messenger down to deliver us in our hour of sorest need!"