which arise when men are roused to violence by injustice, and for the
time break all the bonds of mercy and moderation which ordinarily
control them. Regret at their insensate rage is sure to succeed all such
outbreaks. Retribution is likely to follow. Consternation came to the
burghers of Laon when calm thought returned to them. They had defied the
king. What would he do? To protect themselves they added to the burden
of their offences, summoning to their aid Thomas de Marle, the son of
Lord Enguerraud de Coucy, a man who was little better than a brigand,
and with a detestable reputation for cruelty and ferocity.
De Marle was not quite ready to undertake this task. He consulted his
people, who declared that it would be folly for their small force to
seek to defend such a city against the king. He thereupon induced the
burghers to meet him in a field, about a mile from the city, where he
would make answer to their request. When they had come, he said,--
"Laon is the head of the kingdom; it is impossible for me to keep the
king from making himself master of it. If you fear his arms, follow me
to my own land, and you will find in me a protector and a friend."
Their consternation was extreme at this advice. For the time being they
were in a panic, through fear of the king's vengeance, and the
conference ended in many of them taking the advice of the Lord of Marle,
and flying with him to his stronghold. Teutgaud was among the number
that accepted his protection.
The news of their flight quickly spread to the country places around
Laon. The story went that the town was quite deserted. The peasants,
filled with hopes of plunder, hastened to the town, took possession of
what empty houses they found, and carried off what money and other
valuables they could discover. "Before long," says Guibert, "there arose
between the first and last comers disputes about the partition of their
plunder; all that the small folks had taken soon passed into the hands
of the powerful; if two men met a third quite alone they stripped him;
the state of the town was truly pitiable. The burghers who had quitted
it with Thomas de Marle had beforehand destroyed and burnt the houses
of the clergy and grandees whom they hated; and now the grandees,
escaped from the massacre, carried off in their turn from the houses of
the fugitives all means of subsistence and all movables to the very
hinges and bolts."
What succeeded must be briefly told. The story of the events here
described spread through the kingdom. Thomas de Marle was put under ban
by the king and excommunicated by the church. Louis raised an army and
marched against him. De Marle was helpless with illness, but truculent
in temper. He defied the king, and would not listen to his summons.
Louis attacked his castles, took two of them, Crecy and Nogent, and in
the end forced him to buy pardon by a heavy ransom and an indemnity to
the church. As for the burghers who had taken refuge with him, the king
showed them no mercy. They had had a hand in the murder of Bishop
Gaudri, and all of them were hung.
The remaining story of Laon is too long for our space. The burghers
continued to demand their liberties, and in 1128 a new charter was
granted them. This they retained, except during some intervals, until
that later period when the mediæval system of municipal government came
to an end, and all the cities and towns fell under the direct control of
the deputies of the king.
_HOW BIG FERRÉ FOUGHT FOR FRANCE._
It was in the heart of the Hundred Years' War. Everywhere France lay
desolate under the feet of the English invaders. Never had land been
more torn and rent, and never with less right and justice. Like a flock
of vultures the English descended upon the fair realm of France,
ravaging as they went, leaving ruin behind their footsteps, marching
hither and thither at will, now victorious, now beaten, yet ever
plundering, ever desolating. Wherever they came the rich were ruined,
the poor were starved, want and misery stared each other in the face,
happy homes became gaping ruins, fertile fields became sterile wastes.
It was a pandemonium of war, a frightful orgy of military license, a
scene to make the angels weep and demons rejoice over the cruelty of
man.
In the history of this dreadful business we find little to show what
part the peasantry took in the affair, beyond that of mere suffering.
The man-at-arms lorded it in France; the peasant endured.
Yet occasionally this down-trodden sufferer took arms against his
oppressors, and contemporary chronicles give us some interesting insight
into brave deeds done by the tiller of the soil. One of these we propose
to tell,--a stirring and romantic one. It is half legendary, perhaps,
yet there is reason to believe that it is in the main true, and it
paints a vivid picture of those days of blood and violence which is well
worthy of reproduction.
In 1358 the king of Navarre, who had aided the English in their raids,
suddenly made peace with France. This displeased his English allies, who
none the less, however, continued their destructive raids, small parties
marching hither and thither, now victorious, now vanquished, an
interminable series of minor encounters taking the place of large
operations. Both armies were reduced to guerilla bands, who fought as
they met, and lived meanwhile on the land and its inhabitants. The
battle of Poitiers had been recently fought, the king of France was a
prisoner, there was no organization, no central power, in the realm, and
wherever possible the population took arms and fought in their own
defence, seeking some little relief from the evils of anarchy.
The scene of the story we propose to tell is a small stronghold called
Longueil, not far from Compiègne and near the banks of the Oise. It was
pretty well fortified, and likely to prove a point of danger to the
district if the enemy should seize it and make it a centre of their
plundering raids. There were no soldiers to guard it, and the peasants
of the vicinity, Jacques Bonhomme (Jack Goodfellow) as they were called,
undertook its defence. This was no unauthorized action. The lord-regent
of France and the abbot of the monastery of St. Corneille-de-Compiègne,
near by, gave them permission, glad, doubtless, to have even their poor
aid, in the absence of trained soldiery.
In consequence, a number of the neighboring tillers of the soil
garrisoned the place, providing themselves with arms and provisions, and
promising the regent to defend the town until death. Hither came many of
the villagers for security, continuing the labors which yielded them a
poor livelihood, but making Longueil their stronghold of defence. In all
there were some two hundred of them, their chosen captain being a tall,
finely-formed man, named William a-Larks (_aux Alouettes_). For servant,
this captain had a gigantic peasant, a fellow of great stature,
marvellous strength, and undaunted boldness, and withal of extreme
modesty. He bore the name of Big Ferré.
This action of the peasants called the attention of the English to the
place, and roused in them a desire to possess it. _Jacques Bonhomme_ was
held by them in utter contempt, and the peasant garrison simply brought
to their notice the advantage of the place as a well-fortified centre of
operations. That these poor dirt delvers could hold their own against
trained warriors seemed a matter not worth a second thought.
"Let us drive the base-born rogues from the town and take possession of
it," said they. "It will be a trifle to do it, and the place will serve
us well."
Such seemed the case. The peasants, unused to war and lacking all
military training, streamed in and out at pleasure, leaving the gates
wide open, and taking no precautions against the enemy. Suddenly, to
their surprise and alarm, they saw a strong body of armed men entering
the open gates and marching boldly into the court-yard of the
stronghold, the heedless garrison gazing with gaping eyes at them from
the windows and the inner courts. It was a body of English men-at-arms,
two hundred strong, who had taken the unguarded fortress by surprise.
Down came the captain, William a-Larks, to whose negligence this
surprise was due, and made a bold and fierce assault on the invaders,
supported by a body of his men. But the English forced their way inward,
pushed back the defenders, surrounded the captain, and quickly struck
him to the earth with a mortal wound. Defence seemed hopeless. The
assailants had gained the gates and the outer court, dispersed the first
party of defenders, killed their captain, and were pushing their way
with shouts of triumph into the stronghold within. The main body of the
peasants were in the inner court, Big Ferré at their head, but it was
beyond reason to suppose that they could stand against this compact and
well-armed body of invaders.
Yet they had promised the regent to hold the place until death, and they
meant it.
"It is death fighting or death yielding," they said. "These men will
slay us without mercy; let us sell them our lives at a dear price."
"Gathering themselves discreetly together," says the chronicler, "they
went down by different gates, and struck out with mighty blows at the
English, as if they had been beating out their corn on the
threshing-floor; their arms went up and down again, and every blow dealt
out a mighty wound."
Big Ferré led a party of the defenders against the main body of the
English, pushing his way into the outer court where the captain had
fallen. When he saw his master stretched bleeding and dying on the
ground, the faithful fellow gave vent to a bitter cry, and rushed with
the rage of a lion upon the foe, wielding a great axe like a feather in
his hands.
The English looked with surprise and alarm on this huge fellow, who
topped them all in height by a head and shoulders, and who came forward
like a maddened bull, uttering short, hoarse cries of rage, while the
heavy axe quivered in his vigorous grasp. In a moment he was upon them,
striking such quick and deadly blows that the place before him was soon
void of living men. Of one man the head was crushed; of another the arm
was lopped off; a third was hurled back with a gaping wound. His
comrades, seeing the havoc he was making, were filled with ardor, and
seconded him well, pressing on the dismayed English and forcing them
bodily back. In an hour, says the chronicler, the vigorous fellow had
slain with his own hand eighteen of the foe, without counting the
wounded.
This was more than flesh and blood could bear. The English turned to
fly; some leaped in terror into the ditches, others sought to regain the
gates; after them rushed Big Ferré, still full of the rage of battle.
Reaching the point where the English had planted their flag, he killed
the bearer, seized the standard, and bade one of his followers to go
and fling it into the ditch, at a point where the wall was not yet
finished.
"I cannot," said the man; "there are still too many English there."
"Follow me with the flag," said Big Ferré.
Like a woodman making a lane through a thicket, the burly champion
cleared an avenue through the ranks of the foe, and enabled his follower
to hurl the flag into the ditch. Then, turning back, he made such havoc
among the English who still remained within the wall, that all who were
able fled in terror from his deadly axe. In a short time the place was
cleared and the gates closed, the English--such of them as were
left--making their way with all haste from that fatal place. Of those
who had come, the greater part never went back. It is said that the axe
of Big Ferré alone laid more than forty of them low in death. In this
number the chronicler may have exaggerated, but the story as a whole is
probably true.
The sequel to this exploit of the giant champion is no less interesting.
The huge fellow whom steel could not kill was slain by water,--not by
drowning, however, but by drinking. And this is how it came to pass.
The story of the doings at Longueil filled the English with shame and
anger. When the bleeding and exhausted fugitives came back and reported
the fate of their fellows, indignation and desire for revenge animated
all the English in the vicinity. On the following day they gathered
from all the camps in the neighborhood and marched in force on Longueil,
bent on making the peasants pay dearly for the slaughter of their
comrades.
This time they found entrance not so easy. The gates were closed, the
walls well manned. Big Ferré was now the captain of Longueil, and so
little did he or his followers fear the assaults of their foes, that
they sallied out boldly upon them, their captain in the lead with his
mighty axe.
Fierce was the fray that followed. The peasants fought like tigers,
their leader like a lion. The English were broken, slaughtered, driven
like sheep before the burly champion and his bold followers. Many were
slain or sorely wounded. Numbers were taken, among them some of the
English nobles. The remainder fled in a panic, not able to stand against
that vigorous arm and deadly axe, and the fierce courage which the
exploits of their leader gave to the peasants. The field was cleared and
Longueil again saved.
Big Ferré, overcome with heat and fatigue, sought his home at the end of
the fight, and there drank such immoderate draughts of cold water that
he was seized with a fever. He was put to bed, but would not part with
his axe, "which was so heavy that a man of the usual strength could
scarcely lift it from the ground with both hands." In this statement one
would say that the worthy chronicler must have romanced a little.
The news that their gigantic enemy was sick came to the ears of the
English, and filled them with joy and hope. He was outside the walls of
Longueil, and might be assailed in his bed. Twelve men-at-arms were
chosen, their purpose being to creep up secretly upon the place,
surround it, and kill the burly champion before aid could come to him.
The plan was well laid, but it failed through the watchfulness of the
sick man's wife. She saw the group of armed men before they could
complete their dispositions, and hurried with the alarming news to the
bedside of her husband.
"The English are coming!" she cried. "I fear it is for you they are
looking. What will you do?"
Big Ferré answered by springing from bed, arming himself in all haste
despite his sickness, seizing his axe, and leaving the house. Entering
his little yard, he saw the foe closing covertly in on his small
mansion, and shouted, angrily,--
"Ah, you scoundrels! you are coming to take me in my bed. You shall not
get me there; come, take me here if you will."
Setting his back against a wall, he defended himself with his usual
strength and courage. The English attacked him in a body, but found it
impossible to get inside the swing of that deadly axe. In a little while
five of them lay wounded upon the ground, and the other seven had taken
to flight.
Big Ferré returned triumphantly to his bed; but, heated by his
exertions, he drank again too freely of cold water. In consequence his
fever returned, more violently than before. A few days afterwards the
brave fellow, sinking under his sickness, went out of the world,
conquered by water where steel had been of no avail. "All his comrades
and his country wept for him bitterly, for, so long as he lived, the
English would not have come nigh this place."
And so ended the short but brilliant career of the notable Big Ferré,
one of those peasant heroes who have risen from time to time in all
countries, yet rarely have lived long enough to make their fame
enduring. His fate teaches one useful warning, that imprudence is often
more dangerous than armed men.
We are told nothing concerning the fate of Longueil after his death.
Probably the English found it an easy prey when deprived of the peasant
champion, who had held it so bravely and well; though it may be that the
wraith of the burly hero hung about the place and still inspired his
late companions to successful resistance to their foes. Its fate is one
of those many half-told tales on which history shuts its door, after
revealing all that it holds to be of interest to mankind.
_BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN._
In the castle of Motte-Broon, near Rennes, France, there was born about
the year 1314 "the ugliest child from Rennes to Dinan," as an
uncomplimentary chronicle says. He was a flat-nosed, swarthy,
big-headed, broad-shouldered fellow, a regular wretch, in his own
mother's words, violent in temper, using his fist as freely as his
tongue, driving his tutor away before he could teach him to read, but
having no need to be taught to fight, since this art came to him by
nature. At sixteen he fled from home to Rennes, where he entered into
adventures, quarrels, and challenges, and distinguished himself by
strength, courage, and a strong sense of honor.
He quickly took part in the wars of the time, showed his prowess in
every encounter, and in the war against Navarre, won the highest honors.
At a later date he engaged in the civil wars of Spain, where he headed
an army of thirty thousand men. In the end the adventurers who followed
him, Burgundian, Picard, Champagnese, Norman, and others, satisfied with
their spoils, left him and returned to France. Bertrand had but some
fifteen hundred men-at-arms remaining under his command when a great
peril confronted him. He was a supporter of Henry of Transtamare, who
was favorable to France, and who had made him Constable of Castile.
This was not pleasing to Edward III. of England. Don Pedro the Cruel, a
king equally despised and detested, had been driven from Castile by the
French allies of his brother Henry. Edward III. determined to replace
him on the throne, and with this intent sent his son, the Black Prince,
with John Chandos, the ablest of the English leaders, and an army of
twenty-seven thousand men, into the distracted kingdom.
A fierce battle followed on April 3, 1367. The ill-disciplined soldiers
of Henry were beaten and put to rout. Du Guesclin and his men-at-arms
alone maintained the fight, with a courage that knew no yielding. In the
end they were partly driven back, partly slain. Du Guesclin set his back
against a wall, and fought with heroic courage. There were few with him.
Up came the Prince of Wales, saw what was doing, and cried,--
"Gentle marshals of France, and you too, Bertrand, yield yourselves to
me."
"Yonder men are my foes," exclaimed Don Pedro, who accompanied the
prince; "it is they who took from me my kingdom, and on them I mean to
take vengeance."
He came near to have ended his career of vengeance then and there. Du
Guesclin, incensed at his words, sprang forward and dealt him so furious
a blow with his sword as to hurl him fainting to the ground. Then,
turning to the prince, the valiant warrior said, "Nathless, I give up my
sword to the most valiant prince on earth."
The prince took the sword, and turning to the Captal of Buch, the
Navarrese commander, whom Bertrand had years before defeated and
captured, bade him keep the prisoner.
"Aha, Sir Bertrand," said the Captal, "you took me at the battle of
Cocherel, and to-day I've got you."
"Yes," retorted Bertrand; "but at Cocherel I took you myself, and here
you are only my keeper."
Pedro was restored to the throne of Castile,--which he was not long to
hold,--and the Prince of Wales returned to Bordeaux, bringing him his
prisoner. He treated him courteously enough, but held him in strict
captivity, and to Sir Hugh Calverley, who begged that he would release
him at a ransom suited to his small estate, he answered,--
"I have no wish for ransom from him. I will have his life prolonged in
spite of himself. If he were released he would be in battle again, and
always making war."
And so Bertrand remained in captivity, until an event occurred of which
the chroniclers give us an entertaining story. It is this event which it
is our purpose to relate.
A day came in which the Prince of Wales and his noble companions, having
risen from dinner, were amusing themselves with narratives of daring
deeds of arms, striking love-passages, and others of the tales with
which the barons of that day were wont to solace their leisure. The talk
came round to the story of how St. Louis, when captive in Tunis, had
been ransomed with fine gold, paid down by weight. At this point the
prince spoke, somewhat unthinkingly.
"When a good knight is made prisoner in fair feat of arms," he said,
"and sworn to abide prisoner, he should on no account depart without his
master's leave. But one should not demand such portion of his substance
in ransom as to leave him unable to equip himself again."
The Sire de Lebret, who was friendly to Du Guesclin, answered,--
"Noble sire, be not angry if I relate what I have heard said of you in
your absence."
"By my faith," said the prince, "right little should I love follower of
mine, sitting at my table, if he heard a word said against my honor and
apprised me not of it."
"Sire," answered he of Lebret, "men say that you hold in prison a knight
whose name I well know, whom you dare not deliver."
"That is true," broke in Oliver de Clisson; "I have heard the same
said."
The prince heard them with a countenance that reddened with anger.
"I know no knight in the world," he declared, "who, if he were my
prisoner, I would not put to a fair ransom, according to his ability."
"How, then, do you forget Bertrand du Guesclin?" said Lebret.
The prince doubly changed color on hearing this. He felt himself fairly
caught, and, after a minute's indecision, he gave orders that Bertrand
should be brought before him.
The knights who went in search found Bertrand talking with his
chamberlain, as a relief to his weariness.
"You are come in good time," he said to his visitors, and bade the
chamberlain bring wine.
"It is fitting that we should have good and strong wine," said one of
the knights, "for we bring you good and pleasant tidings, with the best
of good-will."
"The prince has sent us for you," said another. "We think you will be
ransomed by the help of the many friends you have in court."
"What say you?" answered Bertrand. "I have not a half-penny to my purse,
and owe more than ten thousand livres in this city, which have been lent
me since I have been held prisoner here. I cannot well ask more from my
friends."
"How have you got rid of so much?" asked one of his visitors.
"I can easily answer for that," said Bertrand, with a laugh. "I have
eaten, drunk, given, and played at dice. A little money is soon spent.
But that matters not; if once free I shall soon pay it. He who, for my
help, lends me the keys of his money, has it in the best of keeping."
"Sir, you are stout-hearted," answered an officer. "It seems to you that
everything which you would have must happen."
"By my faith, you are right," said Bertrand, heartily. "In my view a
dispirited man is a beaten and discomfited one."
"Surely there is enchantment in your blood," rejoined the officer, "for
you seem proof against every shock."
Leaving Bertrand's chamber, they sought that in which was the prince and
his companions. The prisoner was dressed in a rough gray coat, and bore
himself with manly ease and assurance. The prince laughed pleasantly on
seeing him.
"Well, Bertrand, how are you?" he asked.
"Sir, when it shall please you, I may fare better," answered Bertrand,
bowing slightly. "Many a day have I heard the rats and mice, but it is
long since I have heard the song of birds. I shall hear them when it is
your pleasure."
"That shall be when you will, Bertrand," said the prince. "I require you
only to swear never to bear arms against me nor these with me, nor to
assist Henry of Spain. If you consent to this, we shall set you free,
pay your debts, and give ten thousand florins to equip you anew. If you
refuse, you shall not go."
"Then, sir," answered Bertrand, proudly, "my deliverance will not come
to pass, for before I do this, may I lie chained by the leg in prison
while I live. With God's will, I shall never be a reproach to my
friends, but shall serve with my whole heart the good king of France,
and the noble dukes of Anjou, Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon, whose
subject I have been. But, so please you, worthy prince, suffer me to
go. You have held me too long in prison, wrongfully and without cause.
Had I been free I had intended to go from France, to work out my
salvation by fighting the Saracens."
"Why, then, went you not straight, without stopping?" asked the prince.