Good, to do him the highest honor in his power, created him a knight of
the illustrious order of the Golden Fleece. Of his single combats
afterwards we shall but speak of one fought at Brussels, in honor of the
son of the Duke of Burgundy, then eighteen years old. Jacques de Lelaing
was selected to tilt with the young count,--doubtless with the idea that
he could be trusted not to harm him. In the first course that was run
the count shattered his spear against the shield of Jacques, who raised
his own weapon and passed without touching his adversary. This
complaisance displeased the duke, who sent word to the knight that if he
proposed to play with his adversary he had better withdraw at once. They
ran again. This time both splintered their spears, and both kept their
seats, much to the delight of Duke Philip.
On the next day the grand tourney came off. To behold it there were
present no less than two hundred and twenty-five princes, barons,
knights, and squires. That day the youthful Count de Charolais
acquitted himself nobly, breaking eighteen spears,--and possibly some
bones of his antagonists. He carried off the prize, which was bestowed
upon him by the ladies of his father's court, and Duke Philip gloried in
the prowess of his son.
With that tournament ended the record of the single combats of Jacques
de Lelaing. War followed, the duke and his robber barons fighting
against the rich cities of Belgium, and spoiling many of them. In those
wars Sir Jacques took part. At length, in June, 1453, siege was being
made against the Château de Pouckes, a stronghold against whose walls
the Burgundians plied a great piece of artillery, an arm which was then
only fairly coming into use. Behind this stood Sir Jacques, with a
number of other nobles, to watch the effect of the shot. Just then came
whizzing through the air a stone bullet, shot from a culverin on the
walls of the castle, the artillerist being a young man of Ghent, son of
Henry the Blindman. This stone struck Sir Jacques on the forehead and
carried away the upper half of his head, stretching him dead on the
field. He was yet a young man when death thus came to him. Only eight
years before he had made his first appearance in the lists, at Nancy.
Philip the Good was infuriated when he heard of the loss of his favorite
knight. He vowed that when the Château was taken every soul in it should
be hung from the walls. He kept his word, too, with a few exceptions,
these being some priests, a leprous soldier, and a couple of boys. One
of these lads made his way in all haste to Ghent, and not until well out
of reach of the _good_ Philip did he reveal the truth, that it was his
hand which had fired the fatal shot.
And so ended the life of our worthy knight-errant, the prize-fighter of
an earlier day than ours, the main difference between past and present
being that his combats were fought with battle-axe and sword instead of
fists, and that his backers were princes, his admirers high-born ladies,
instead of the low-lived class of bruisers who now support such
_knightly_ exhibitions. Four centuries and more have passed since the
days of Sir Jacques. It is to be hoped that long before another century
has passed, there will be an end of all single combats in civilized
lands.
_LOUIS THE POLITIC AND CHARLES THE BOLD._
In the latter half of the fifteenth century Europe had two notable
sovereigns, Louis XI. of France and Charles the Bold, or Charles the
Rash, of Burgundy; the one famous in history for his intricate policy,
the other for his lack of anything that could fairly be called policy.
The relations between these two men ranged from open hostility to a
peace of the most fragile character. The policy of Louis was of the kind
that was as likely to get him into trouble as out of it. The rashness
and headstrong temper of Charles were equally likely to bring trouble in
their train. In all things the two formed a strongly contrasted pair,
and their adjoining realms could hardly hope for lasting peace while
these men lived.
The hand of Charles was ever on his sword. With him the blow quickly
followed the word or the thought. The hand of Louis--"the universal
spider," as his contemporaries named him--was ever on the web of
intrigue which he had woven around him, feeling its filaments, and
keeping himself in touch with every movement of his foes. He did not
like war. That was too direct a means of gaining his ends. It was his
delight to defeat his enemies by combinations of state policy, to play
off one against another, and by incessant intrigue to gain those ends
which other men gained by hard blows.
Yet it is possible for a schemer to overdo himself, for one who trusts
to his plots and his policy to defeat himself by the very neatness and
intricacy of his combinations, and so it proved on one occasion in the
dealings between these two men. The incident which we propose to relate
forms the subject of "Quentin Durward," one of the best-known novels by
Sir Walter Scott, and is worth telling for itself without the
allurements of romance.
"Louis had a great idea of the influence he gained over people by his
wits and his language," says one of his biographers. "He was always
convinced that people never said what ought to be said, and that they
did not set to work the right way." He liked to owe success to himself
alone, and had an inordinate opinion of his power both of convincing and
of deceiving people. In consequence, during one of his periods of
strained relations with Charles of Burgundy, which his agents found it
impossible to settle, this royal schemer determined to visit Charles in
person, and try the effect on his opponent of the powers of persuasion
of which he was so proud.
It was as rash a project as Charles himself could have been guilty of.
The fox was about to trust himself in the den of the angry lion. But
Louis persisted, despite the persuasions of his councillors, sent to
Charles for a letter of safe-conduct, and under its assurance sought
the Duke of Burgundy in his fortified town of Péronne, having with him
as escort only fourscore of his Scotch guard and sixty men-at-arms.
It was a mad movement, and led to consequences of which Louis had not
dreamed. Charles received him civily enough. Between rash duke and
politic king there was every show of amity. But the negotiations went on
no more rapidly now than they had done before. And soon came news which
proved that Louis the schemer had, for once at least, played the fool,
and put himself in a position of the utmost danger.
The policy of the royal spider had been stretched too far. His webs of
plot had unluckily crossed. In truth, shortly before coming to Péronne,
he had sent two secret agents to the town of Liége, to stir the unruly
citizens up to rebellion against the duke. Quite forgetting this trifle
of treachery, the too-hasty plotter had sought the duke's stronghold
with the hope of placating him with well-concocted lies and a smooth
tongue. Unluckily for him, his agents did not forget their orders.
The Liégoise broke out into rebellion, under the insidious advice of the
French king's agents, advanced and took the town of Tongres, killed some
few people, and made prisoner there the bishop of Liége and the lord of
Humbercourt. The fugitives who brought this news to Péronne made the
matter even worse than this, reporting that the bishop and lord had
probably been killed. Charles believed them, and broke into a fury that
augured badly for his guest.
"So the king came here only to deceive me!" he burst out. "It is he who
by his ambassadors excited these bad folks of Liége! By St. George, they
shall be severely punished for it, and he himself shall have cause to
repent."
The measures taken by the incensed duke were certainly threatening. The
gates of the town and castle were closed and guarded by archers. Louis
was to all intents and purposes a prisoner, though the duke, a little
ashamed, perhaps, of his action, affirmed that his purpose was to
recover a box of gold and jewels that had been stolen from him.
The den of the lion had closed on the fox. Now was the time for the fox
to show his boasted wit, for his position was one of danger. That
rash-headed Duke of Burgundy was never the man to be played with, and in
his rage was as perilous as dynamite. It was, in truth, an occasion
fitted to draw out all the quickness and shrewdness of mind of Louis,
those faculties on which he prided himself! To gain friends in the
castle he bribed the household of the duke. As for himself he remained
quiet and apparently easy and unsuspicious, while alertly watchful to
avail himself of any opportunity to escape from the trap into which he
had brought himself. During the two days that succeeded, the rage of
Charles cooled somewhat. Louis had offered to swear a peace, to aid
Charles in punishing the Liégoise for their rebellion, and to leave
hostages for his good faith. This the angry duke at first would not
listen to. He talked of keeping Louis a prisoner, and sending for Prince
Charles, his brother, to take on himself the government of France. The
messenger was ready for this errand; his horse in the court-yard; the
letters written. But the duke's councillors begged him to reflect. Louis
had come under his safe-conduct. His honor was involved. Such an act
would be an eternal reproach to Burgundy. Charles did reflect, and
slowly began to relent. He had heard again from Liége. The affair was
not so bad as he had been told. The bishop and lord had been set free.
The violent storm in the duke's mind began to subside.
Early in the next day the irate duke entered the chamber of the castle
in which he held his royal guest a prisoner. The storm had fallen, but
the waves still ran high. There was courtesy in his looks, but his voice
trembled with anger. The words that came from his lips were brief and
bitter; there was threat in his manner; Louis looked at him with more
confidence than he felt.
"Brother," he said, "I am safe, am I not, in your house and your
country?"
"Yes," answered the duke, with an effort at self-repression; "so safe
that if I saw an arrow from a bow coming towards you I would throw
myself in the way to protect you. But will you not be pleased to swear
to the treaty just as it is written?"
"Yes, and I thank you for your good-will," said Louis, heartily.
"And will you not be pleased to come with me to Liége to help me punish
the treason committed against me by these Liégoise, all through you and
your journey hither? The bishop is your near relative of the house of
Bourbon."
"Yes, Pâques-Dieu!" replied Louis; "and I am much astounded by their
wickedness. But let us begin by swearing this treaty; and then I will
start with as many or as few of my people as you please."
"My brother, the fox, is over-willing," may have been the thought that
passed through the duke's mind. "He is ready to lose his foot to get his
body out of the trap."
But whatever his thoughts, in action he took prompt measures to bind the
slippery king to his promise. From Louis's boxes was produced the cross
of St. Laud, claimed to be made of the wood of the true cross, and so
named because it was usually kept in the church of St. Laud, at Angers.
It was said to have belonged to Charlemagne, and Louis regarded it as
the most sacred of relics. On this the king swore to observe the treaty,
though it contained clauses to which he would not have assented under
other circumstances. The document was immediately signed. Louis, for the
first moment since learning of his almost fatal blunder, breathed at
ease. As for the second part of his promise, that of helping Charles to
punish the townsmen whom he had himself stirred to rebellion, it little
troubled his conscience--if he possessed any sentiment that could
properly be denominated by this name.
On the day after the signing of the treaty the two princes set out
together. Charles was followed by his army, Louis by his modest
body-guard, which had been augmented by three hundred men-at-arms, just
arrived from France. On the 27th of October [1468] they arrived at the
rebellious city. There seemed no trouble to get into it. No wall or
ditch surrounded it. The duke had previously deprived it of these
obstacles to his armies. But an obstacle remained in the people, who
could not easily be brought to believe that the king of France and the
Duke of Burgundy, those fire-and water-like potentates, were true
allies. The thing seemed impossible. Louis was their friend, and would
certainly strike for them. They made a sortie from the city, shouting,
"Hurrah for the king! Hurrah for France!"
To their consternation, they saw Louis and Duke Charles together at the
head of the advancing army, the king wearing in his hat the cross of St.
Andrew of Burgundy, his false voice shouting "Hurrah for Burgundy!"
The surprise of the Liégoise was shared by many of the French, whose
sense of national honor was shocked to see so utter a lack of pride and
so open a display of treachery in their monarch. They had not deemed his
boasted policy capable of such baseness. Louis afterwards excused
himself with the remark, "When pride rides before, shame and hurt
follow close after," a saying very pretty as a politic apothegm, but not
likely to soothe the wounded pride of France.
The treachery of Louis roused a different feeling in the hearts of the
Liégoise,--that of indignation. They determined to defend their city,
despite its lack of ramparts, and met the advancing army with such
spirit that it was obliged to convert its assault into a siege. Night
after night the Burgundian army was troubled by the bold sorties of the
citizens. In one of these the duke and king both were in danger of
capture. At ten o'clock, one night, about six hundred well-armed men
made a sudden assault upon the duke's quarters. They were ill-defended.
Charles was in bed. Only twelve archers were on guard, and these were
playing at dice. The assault came with startling suddenness. The archers
seized their arms, but had great difficulty in defending the door-way.
Charles hastened to put on breast-plate and helmet and to join them.
But only the opportune arrival of aid saved him from being seized in the
midst of his army.
Louis ran a similar danger. His quarters had simultaneously been
attacked. Luckily for him, his Scotch guardsmen were more ready than
those of Burgundy. They repulsed the attack, with little heed whether
their arrows killed hostile Liégoise or friendly Burgundians. As for the
assailants, they found it easier to get into the French camp than out of
it. They were killed almost to a man.
On the next day the duke and his councillors determined on an assault.
The king was not present, and when he heard of it he did not favor the
plan.
"You have seen the courage of these people," he remarked. "You know how
murderous and uncertain is street-fighting. You will lose many brave men
to no purpose. Wait two or three days, and the Liégoise will certainly
come to terms."
Most of the Burgundian captains were of the same opinion. The duke,
whose rash spirit could ill brook opposition, grew angry.
"He wishes to spare the Liégoise," he angrily exclaimed. "What danger is
there in this assault? There are no walls; they cannot put a single gun
in position; I certainly will not give up the assault. If the king is
afraid, let him get him gone to Namur."
This insult to the king, which shocked the Burgundians themselves, was
repeated to him, and received in silence. He had made up his mind to
drain the cup of humiliation to the dregs. The next day, October 30, the
assault was made, Charles at the head of his troops. Louis came up to
join him.
"Bide your time," said Charles. "Put not yourself uselessly in danger. I
will send you word when it is time."
"Lead on, brother," answered Louis. "You are the most fortunate prince
alive; I will follow you."
On they marched--into, as it proved, an undefended city. The Liégoise
had been discouraged by the fall of many of their bravest men. It was
Sunday; no attack was looked for; "the cloth was laid in every house,
and all were preparing for dinner"; the Burgundians moved through empty
streets, Louis following with his own escort, and shouting, "Hurrah for
Burgundy!"
By mid-day the vengeance of Charles was complete; the town had been
pillaged; there was nothing left to take in house or church; many a
floor was stained with blood; Liége for the time was ruined.
As for the arch-deceiver to whom all this was due, he completed his work
of baseness by loading the duke with praises, his tone and manner so
courteous and amiable that Charles lost the last shreds of his recent
anger.
"Brother," said the king the next day, "if you still need my help, do
not spare me. But if you have nothing more for me to do, it would be
well for me to go back to Paris, to make public in my court of
parliament the arrangement we have come to together; otherwise it would
risk becoming of no avail. You know that such is the custom of France.
Next summer we must meet again. You will come into your duchy of
Burgundy, and I will go and pay you a visit, and we will pass a week
joyously together in making good cheer."
It may be that this smooth speech was accompanied by a mental
commentary,--"Let me once get from under your claws, my playful tiger,
and I will not be fool enough to put myself back there again,"--but if
so nothing of the kind appeared on his face.
Charles made no answer. He sent for the treaty, and left it to the king
to confirm or renounce it, as he would. Louis expressed himself as fully
satisfied with its terms, and on the next day, November 2, set out on
his return to France. Charles kept him company for some distance. On
parting, the king said,--
"If my brother Charles, who is in Brittany, should not be content with
the assignment which I, for love of you, have made him, what would you
have me do?"
"If he do not please to take it, but would have you otherwise satisfy
him, I leave that to the two of you to settle," said Charles.
With these words he turned back, leaving Louis to pursue his way free
once more, "after having passed the most trying three weeks of his
life."
That the fox kept faith with the lion, or the lion with the fox, is not
to be looked for. New disputes broke out, new battles were fought,--not
now in alliance,--and the happiest day in the life of Louis XI. was that
in which he heard that Charles of Burgundy, the constant thorn in his
chaplet, had fallen on the fatal field of Nancy, and that France was
freed from the threatening presence of the bold and passionate duke.
_CHARLES THE BOLD AND THE SWISS._
On the 6th of February, 1476, Duke Charles of Burgundy marched from
Besançon to take the field against the Swiss, between whom and Burgundy
hostilities had broken out. There were three parties to this war, Louis
XI. being the third. That politic monarch had covertly stirred up the
Swiss to their hostile attitude, promised them aid in money, if not in
men, and now had his secret agents in both camps, and kept himself in
readiness to take advantage of every circumstance that might be turned
to his own benefit. Leaving Tours, he went to Lyons, that he might be
within easy distance of the seat of war. And not long had he been there
before news of the most gratifying character came to his ears, Duke
Charles had met the foe, and--but we anticipate.
The army of Burgundy was a powerful one, having not less than thirty or
forty thousand men and a strong train of artillery. It was followed, as
was Charles's fashion in making war, with an immense baggage-train.
Personally his habits were simple and careless, but he loved to display
his riches and magnificence, and made his marches and encampments
as much scenes of festival as of war. What this showy duke wanted from
their poor cities and barren country the Swiss could not very well see.
"The spurs and the horses' bits in his army are worth more money than
the whole of us could pay in ransom if we were all taken," they said.
Without regard to this, Charles marched on, and on February 19 reached
Granson, a little town in the district of Vaud. Here fighting had taken
place, and hither soon came the Swiss battalions. Powerful fellows they
were, bold and sturdy, and animated with the highest spirit of freedom.
On they marched, timing their long strides to the lowings of the "bull
of Uri" and the "cow of Unterwalden," two great trumpets of buffalo horn
which, as was claimed, Charlemagne had given to their ancestors.
Against these compact battalions, armed with spears eighteen feet long,
the squadrons of Burgundy rode in vain. Their lines were impregnable.
Their enemies fell in numbers. In the end the whole Burgundian army,
seized with panic, broke and fled, "like smoke before the northern
blast."
So sudden and complete was the defeat that Charles himself had to take
to flight with only five horsemen for escort, and with such haste that
everything was left in the hands of the foe,--camp, artillery, treasure,
the duke's personal jewels, even his very cap with its garniture of
precious stones and his collar of the Golden Fleece.
The Swiss were as ignorant of the value of their booty as they were
astonished at the completeness of their victory. Jewels, gold, silver,
rich hangings, precious tapestry, had little value in their eyes. They
sold the silver plate for a few pence, taking it for pewter. The silks
and velvets found in the baggage-wagons of the duke, the rich cloth of
gold and damask, the precious Flanders lace and Arras carpets, were cut
in pieces and distributed among the peasant soldiers as if they had been
so much common canvas. Most notable of all was the fate of the great
diamond of the duke, which had once glittered in the crown of the Great
Mogul, and was of inestimable value. This prize was found on the road,
inside a little box set with fine pearls. The man who picked it up
thought the box pretty and worth keeping, but saw no use for that bit of
shining glass inside. He threw this contemptuously away. Afterwards he
thought it might be worth something, to be so carefully kept, and went
back to look for it. He found it under a wagon, and sold it to a
clergyman in the neighborhood for a crown. This precious stone, one of
the few great diamonds in the world, is now in the possession of the
Emperor of Austria, its value enhanced to him, it may be, by its strange
history.
There was only one thing in this event that did not please Louis
XI.,--that Charles had left the field alive. He sent him advice, indeed,
to let those poor folks but hard fighters of the Alps alone, well
convinced that the fiery duke would not take his counsel. In truth,
Charles, mad with rage, ordered that all the soldiers who had fled from
the field should be put to death, and that the new recruits to be raised
should be dealt with in the same manner if they did not march to his
camp with all haste. It cannot be said that this insane command was
obeyed, but so intense was his energy, and so fierce his rage against
the Swiss, that in no great time he had a fresh army, of from
twenty-five to thirty thousand men, composed of Burgundians, Flemings,
Italians, and English.
Late in May he was again on the march,--with much less parade and
display than before,--and on the 10th of June pitched his camp before
the little town of Morat, six leagues from Berne.
Everywhere as he went he left word that it was war to the death on which
he was bent. His pride had been bitterly wounded. He vowed to heal it in
the blood of his foes.
The Swiss were preparing with all haste, and advancing to Berne. The
governor of Morat sent them word to be at ease concerning him. "I will
defend Morat," he said, and to garrison and people he swore that he
would hang the first who spoke of surrender. For ten days he had held
out against Charles's whole army, while his countrymen were gathering.
The men of Zurich were the last to reach Berne. On the 21st of June, in
the evening, the Swiss encamped near their foes.
"Have those hounds lost heart, pray?" the duke had just said; "I was
told that we were about to get at them."
His wish was to be gratified in a way he had not meant; they were about
to get at him. The next day, June 22, opened with a pelting rain.
Later, the sun burst through the clouds. With its first beams the Swiss
were in motion, marching on the camp of their foes.