were coming, and that they had attacked the lines. He declared the story
was a lie, and drove the messenger with an insulting reproof from his
tent. What, these base peasants? To attack his army? The thing was
incredible! For all that, he left the tent and hurried to the point
indicated. It was true, they had attacked, and were already driving back
his men.
Charles rallied them as he best could. The battle was desperate. All the
remainder of the day it continued. But before nightfall the Swiss were
everywhere victorious, the Burgundians everywhere beaten. Charles had
still three thousand horsemen, but they, too, broke before the fierce
charges of the Swiss, and in the end he escaped with difficulty, having
but a dozen men at his back, and leaving eight or ten thousand of his
soldiers dead on the field, the greater part of them killed after the
fight by the relentlessly furious Swiss.
Charles, obstinate, furious, wild with rage, sought to collect another
army, but failed. No men could be found willing to bear arms against
those terrible Swiss. He shut himself up for weeks in one of his
castles, dismayed, inconsolable, heated with passion, ready to crush the
world if his hand could have grasped it, a sorry spectacle of
disappointed ambition and overthrown pride.
Other enemies rose against him. René II., duke of Lorraine, whom he had
robbed of his dominions and driven from Nancy, now saw an opportunity to
recover his heritage. He had been wandering like a fugitive from court
to court. Before Morat he had joined the Swiss, and helped them to their
victory. Now, gathering a force, he re-entered his duchy, besieged
Nancy, then feebly garrisoned, and pressed it hard. The governor sent
messengers to Duke Charles, asking for aid. He received none. The duke
did not even reply to him. He seemed utterly dispirited. In this
emergency the governor surrendered, and René had his own again.
Yet at that very moment, Charles the Bold, throwing off his apathy, was
marching upon Lorraine, with a small army which he had hastily
collected. On the 22d of October, 1476, he reached Nancy, which was once
more besieged. At his approach, Duke René left the town, but left it
well garrisoned. He went in search of reinforcements. These he found in
Switzerland, the agents of Louis XI. promising them good pay, while
their hatred of Charles made them fully ready for the service.
On January 4, 1477, René, having led his new army to Lorraine, found
himself face to face with the army of Charles the Bold, who was still
besieging Nancy. Charles held council with his captains.
"Well," he said, "since these drunken scoundrels are upon us, and are
coming here to look for meat and drink, what ought we to do?"
"Fall back," was the general opinion. "They outnumber us. We should
recruit our army. Duke René is poor. He will not long be able to bear
the expense of the war, and his allies will leave him as soon as his
money is gone. Wait but a little, and success is certain."
The duke burst into one of his usual fits of passion.
"My father and I," he cried, "knew how to thrash these Lorrainers, and
we will make them remember it. By St. George, I will not fly before a
boy, before René of Vaudemont, who is coming at the head of this scum!
He has not so many men with him as people think; the Germans have no
idea of leaving their stoves in winter. This evening we will deliver the
assault against the town, and to-morrow we will give battle."
He did give battle on the morrow,--his last, as it proved. The fray did
not last long, nor was the loss of life in the field great. But the
Burgundians broke and fled, and the pursuit was terrible, the Lorrainers
and their Swiss and German allies pursuing hotly, and killing all they
found. René entered Nancy in triumph, and relieved the citizens from the
famine from which they had long suffered. To show him what they had
endured in his cause, there were piled up before his door "the heads of
the horses, dogs, mules, cats, and other unclean animals which had for
several weeks past been the only food of the besieged."
The battle over, the question arose, what had become of the Duke of
Burgundy? None could answer. Some said a servant had carried him
wounded from the field; others, that a German lord held him prisoner.
But a page soon appeared who said he had seen him fall and could lead to
the spot. He did so, conducting a party to a pond near the town, where,
half buried in the mud, lay several dead bodies lately stripped. Among
the searchers was a poor washerwoman, who, seeing the glitter of a ring
on the finger of one of the corpses, turned it over, and cried, "Ah! my
prince!"
All rushed to the spot. The body was examined with care. There was no
doubt, it was that of Charles of Burgundy. His rash and violent
disposition had at length borne the fruit that might have been
anticipated, and brought him to an end which gave the highest
satisfaction to many of his foes, and to none more than to Louis XI. of
France. He was buried with great pomp, by the order of Duke René. In
1550 the emperor Charles V., his great grandson, had his body taken to
Bruges, and placed on the tomb the following inscription:
"Here lieth the most high, mighty, and magnanimous prince, Charles, Duke
of Burgundy, ... the which, being mightily endowed with strength,
firmness, and magnanimity, prospered awhile in high enterprises,
battles, and victories, as well at Montlhéry, in Normandy, in Artois,
and in Liége, as elsewhere, until fortune, turning her back on him, thus
crushed him before Nancy."
To-day it might be written on his tomb, "His was a fitting end to a
violent, lawless, and blood-thirsty career."
_BAYARD, THE GOOD KNIGHT._
Good knights were abundant in the romance of the age of chivalry; they
seem to have been greatly lacking in its history. Of knights without
fear there were many; of knights "without fear and without reproach" we
are specially told of but one, Pierre du Terrail, Chevalier de Bayard,
"_Le chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_." Many are the stories of the
courage, the justice, the honor, the mercy, the intrepidity in war, the
humanity and kindliness of spirit in peace, which make this admirable
character an anomaly in that age of courteous appearance and brutal
reality yclept the "age of chivalry." One such story we have to tell.
The town of Brescia had been taken by the French army under Gaston de
Foix, and given up to pillage by his troops, with all the horrors which
this meant in that day of license and inhumanity. Bayard took part in
the assault on the town, and was wounded therein, so severely that he
said to his fellow-captain, the lord of Molart,--
"Comrade, march your men forward; the town is ours. As for me, I cannot
pull on farther, for I am a dead man."
Not quite dead, as it proved. He had many years of noble deeds before
him still. When the town was taken, two of his archers bore him to a
house whose size and show of importance attracted them as a fair harbor
for their lord. It was the residence of a rich citizen, who had fled for
safety to a monastery, leaving his wife to God's care in the house, and
two fair daughters to such security as they could gain from the hay in a
granary, under which they were hidden.
At the loud summons of the archers the lady tremblingly opened the door,
and was surprised and relieved when she saw that it was a wounded knight
who craved admittance. Sadly hurt as Bayard was, his instinct of
kindness remained active. He bade the archers to close the door and
remain there on guard.
"Take heed, for your lives," he said, "that none enter here unless they
be some of my own people. I am sure that, when this is known to be my
quarters, none will try to force a way in. If, by your aiding me, you
miss a chance of gain in the sack of the town, let not that trouble you;
you shall lose nothing by your service."
The archers obeyed, and the wounded knight was borne to a rich chamber,
the lady herself showing the way. When he had been laid in bed, she
threw herself on her knees before him, and pleadingly said,--
"Noble sir, I present you this house and all that is therein, all of
which, in truth, I well know to be yours by right of war. But I
earnestly pray that it be your pleasure to spare me and my two young
daughters our lives and honor."
"Madam," answered the knight, with grave courtesy, "I know not if I can
escape from my wound; but, so long as I live, trust me that no harm
shall come to you and your daughters, any more than to myself. Only keep
them in their chambers; let them not be seen; and I assure you that no
man in the house will take upon himself to enter any place against your
will."
These words the lady heard with joy, and on Bayard's request that he
should have a good surgeon without delay, she and one of the archers set
out in quest of the best that could be found. Fortunately, it proved
that the knight's wound, though deep, was not mortal. At the second
dressing Master Claude, the surgeon of Gaston de Foix, took him in hand,
and afterwards attended him assiduously until his wound was healed, a
process which took about a month. After the first dressing of the wound,
Bayard asked his hostess, in kindly tones, where her husband was.
"I know not, my lord, if he be dead or alive," she answered, bursting
into tears. "If he be living, I am sure he has taken refuge in a
monastery where he is well known."
"Let him return home," answered Bayard. "I shall send those after him
who will see that he has no harm."
The lady, elate with hope, sent to inquire, and found that her husband
was really where she had supposed. Bayard's steward and the two archers
were sent for him, and conducted him safely through the turmoil of the
streets, where war's ravage, in its worst form, was still afoot. On his
arrival, the knight received him with a courteous welcome, and bade him
not to be alarmed, as only friends were quartered upon him, and he
should suffer no loss in person or estate.
For a month the wounded knight lay on his couch, where, though he was
made as comfortable as possible by the assiduous ministrations of his
grateful host and hostess, he suffered much from his hurt. At the end of
that time he was able to rise and walk across the chamber, though still
very weak. But news came that a great battle between the French and the
Spaniards was likely soon to be fought, and the brave Bayard burned with
warlike desire to take part in the conflict.
"My dear friend," he said to the surgeon, "tell me if there is any
danger in setting me on the march. It seems to me that I am well, or
nearly so; and, in my judgment, to stay here longer will do me more harm
than good, for I fret sorely to be thus tied."
"Your wound is not yet closed," said the surgeon, "though it is quite
healed inside. After another dressing you may be able to ride, provided
that your barber attends to dressing it with ointment and a little lint
every day. The worst of the wound is now on the surface, and, as it will
not touch your saddle, you will run no risk in riding."
Bayard heard these words with gladness, and at once gave orders to his
people to prepare for the road, as he would set out for the army in two
days.
Meanwhile, his host and hostess and their children were far from well at
ease. Until now their guest had protected and spared them, but they knew
too well the habits of soldiers to imagine that he intended to do this
without being abundantly paid for the service. They held themselves as
his prisoners, and feared that he might yet force them to ransom
themselves with the utmost sum their estate would afford, perhaps ten or
twelve thousand crowns. Yet he had been so gentle and kindly that the
good lady entertained hopes that he might prove generous, if softened by
a suitable present. Therefore, on the morning of the day which he had
fixed for his departure, she appeared in his chamber, followed by a
servant who carried a small steel box.
Bayard had been walking up and down the room to try his leg, and had now
thrown himself into a chair to rest. The lady fell upon her knees before
him; but before he would permit her to speak he insisted that she should
rise and be seated.
"My lord," she began, "I can never be thankful enough for the grace
which God did me, at the taking of this town, in directing you to this
our house. We owe to you our lives and all that we hold dear. Moreover,
from the time that you arrived here, neither I nor the least of my
people have endured a single insult, but all has been good-will and
courtesy, nor have your folks taken a farthing's worth of our goods
without paying for them. I am aware that my husband, myself, my
children, and all my household are your prisoners, to be dealt with
according to your good pleasure, in person and goods; but, knowing the
nobleness of your heart, I am come to entreat you humbly to have pity on
us, and extend to us your wonted generosity. Here is a little present we
make you; and we pray that you may be pleased to take it in good part."
She opened the box which the servant held, and Bayard saw that it was
filled with golden coins. The free-hearted knight, who had never in his
life troubled himself about money, burst out laughing, and said,--
"Madam, how many ducats are there in this box?"
His action, so different from what she expected, frightened the poor
woman. Thinking it to indicate that the sum was below his expectations,
she said hurriedly,--
"My lord, there are but two thousand five hundred ducats; but, if you
are not content, we will find a larger sum."
"By my faith, madam," he warmly replied, "though you should give a
hundred thousand crowns, you would not do as well towards me as you have
done by the good cheer I have had here and the kind attendance you have
given me. In whatsoever place I may happen to be, you will have, so long
as God shall grant me life, a gentleman at your bidding. As for your
ducats, I will have none of them, and yet I thank you; take them back;
all my life I have always loved people much more than crowns. And take
my word for it that I go away as well pleased with you as if this town
were at your disposal and you had given it to me."
The good lady listened to him with deep astonishment. Never had she
dreamed of such a marvel as this, a soldier who did not crave money. She
was really distressed by his decision.
"My lord," she said, "I shall feel myself the most wretched creature in
the world if you will not take this small present, which is nothing in
comparison with your past courtesy and present kindness."
Seeing how firm she was in her purpose, he said, with a gentle smile,--
"Well, then, I will take it for love of you; but go and fetch me your
two daughters, for I would fain bid them farewell."
Much pleased with his acceptance, the lady left the room in search of
her daughters, whom the knight knew well, for they had solaced many of
the weary hours of his illness with pleasant chat, and music from their
voices and from the lute and spinet, on which they played agreeably.
While awaiting them he bade the servant to empty the box and count the
ducats into three lots, two of a thousand each and one of five hundred.
When the young ladies entered, they would have fallen on their knees as
their mother had done before them, but Bayard would not consent that
they should remain in this humble attitude.
"My lord," said the elder, "these two poor girls, who owe so much to
your kindness, are come to take leave of you, and humbly to thank your
lordship for your goodness, for which they can make no return other than
to pray that God may hold you in His good care."
"Dear damsels," answered Bayard, much affected, "you have done what I
ought to do; that is, to thank you for your good company, for which I am
much beholden. You know that fighting men are not likely to be laden
with pretty things to present to ladies. I am sorry not to be better
provided. But here are some ducats brought me by your lady-mother. Of
these I give to each of you a thousand towards your marriage; and for my
recompense you shall, if it please you, pray God for me, as you have
offered."
He swept the ducats from the table into their aprons, forcing them to
accept them whether they would or not. Then, turning to his hostess, he
said,--
"Madam, I will take these five hundred ducats that remain for my own
profit, to distribute among the poor sisterhoods of this town which have
been plundered; and to you I commit the charge of them, since you,
better than any other, will understand where they are most needed. And
with this mission I take my leave of you."
Then he bade them adieu by touching their hands, after the Italian
fashion, "and they fell upon their knees, weeping so bitterly that it
seemed as if they were to be led out to their deaths."
The dinner hour came and passed. When it was over the knight quickly
left the table and called for his horses, being eager to be gone for
fear the two armies might come to battle in his absence. As he left his
chamber to seek his horse, the two fair daughters of the house came down
to bid him a final farewell and to make him presents which they had
worked for him during his illness.
One gave him a pair of pretty and delicate bracelets, made of gold and
silver thread, worked with marvellous neatness. The other presented him
a handsome purse of crimson satin very cleverly ornamented with the
needle. The knight received these graceful gifts with warm thanks,
saying that presents which came from hands so fair were more to him than
a hundred-fold their value in gold. To do them the more honor, he put
the bracelets on his wrists and the purse in his sleeve, and assured
them that, as long as they lasted, he would wear them for love of the
givers.
Then, mounting, the good knight rode away, leaving more tears of joy and
heartfelt gratitude behind him than can be said of few soldiers since
the world began. It was not for fame he had wrought, or of fame he had
thought, but he won high fame by his generous behavior, for his
treatment of his Brescian hosts is still quoted as the rarest deed in
his chaplet of good actions.
The two archers who had stayed with Bayard failed not to receive the
promised reward. Gaston de Foix, the Duke of Nemours, sent the knight a
number of presents, among them five hundred crowns, and these he divided
between the archers whom he had debarred from their share of the spoil.
It will suffice to say, in conclusion, that he reached the army in time
to take part in the battle that followed, and to add therein to his fame
as a "good knight without fear."
_EPISODES IN THE LIFE OF A TRAITOR._
At the early hour of one o'clock in the morning of September 8, 1523, a
train of men-at-arms and servants, headed by a tall, stern-faced,
soldierly-looking man, rode from the gates of the strong castle of
Chantelle, and headed southward in the direction of Spain. The leader
was dressed in armor, and carried sword by side and battle-axe at his
saddle-bow. Of his followers, some fifteen of them were attired in a
peculiar manner, wearing thick jackets of woollen cloth that seemed as
stiff as iron mail, and jingled metallically as they rode. Mail they
were, capable of turning arrow or spear thrust, but mail of gold, not of
iron, for in those jackets were sewed up thirty thousand crowns of gold,
and their wearers served as the ambulatory treasury of the proud soldier
at their head.
This man was no less a personage than Charles, Duke of Bourbon,
Constable of France, the highest personage in the kingdom next to the
monarch himself, but now in flight from that monarch, and from the
soldiers who were marching to environ Chantelle and carry him as a
prisoner to the king. There had been bad blood between Bourbon and
Francis I., pride and haughtiness on the one side, injustice and
indecision on the other; wrong to the subject, defiance to the king;
and now the "short-tempered" noble and great soldier had made a
moonlight flitting, bent on cutting loose from his allegiance to France,
and on lending the aid of his sword and military skill to her hereditary
foes.
For a month Bourbon and his followers wandered around the provinces of
southern France. Incessantly he changed his road, his costume, his
companions, his resting-place, occasionally falling in with soldiers of
the king who were on their way to take part in the wars in Italy,
seeking in vain for adherents to his cause, and feeling his way by
correspondence to an understanding with the enemies of France. In early
October he entered the domains of the emperor, Charles V., and
definitely cut loose from his allegiance to the king.
The news of this defection filled Francis with alarm. He had, by his
injustice, driven his greatest soldier from the realm, and now sought to
undo the perilous work he had done. He put off his journey to join the
army marching to Italy, and sent a messenger to the redoubtable
fugitive, offering restitution of his property, satisfaction in full of
his claims, and security for good treatment and punctual payment.
Bourbon curtly refused.
"It is too late," he said.
"Then," said the envoy, "I am bidden by the king to ask you to deliver
up the sword of constable and the collar of the order of St. Michael."
"You may tell the king," answered Bourbon, shortly, "that he took from
me the sword of constable on the day that he took from me the command
of the advanced guard to give it to M. d'Alençon. As for the collar of
his order, you will find it at Chantelle under the pillow of my bed."
Francis made further efforts to win back the powerful noble whom he had
so deeply offended, but equally in vain. Bourbon had definitely cut
loose from his native land and was bent on joining hands with its mortal
foes. Francis had offended him too deeply to be so readily forgiven as
he hoped.
It is not the story of the life of this notable traitor that we propose
to tell, but simply to depict some picturesque scenes in his career.
Charles V. gladly welcomed him, and made him his lieutenant-general in
Italy, so that he became leader against the French in their invasion of
that land. We next find him during the siege of Milan by the army of
Francis I., one of whose leaders was Chevalier Bayard, "the good
knight," who was the subject of our last story. The siege was destined
to prove a fatal affair for this noble warrior. The French found
themselves so hard pressed by the imperial army under the Constable de
Bourbon that they fell back to await reinforcements. Near Romagnano, on
the banks of the Sesia, they were thrown into disorder while seeking to
pass the stream, and Bonnivet, their leader, was severely wounded. The
Count de St. Pol and Chevalier Bayard took command. Bayard, always first
in advance and last in retreat, charged the enemy at the head of a body
of men-at-arms. It proved for him a fatal charge. A shot from an
arquebuse gave him a mortal wound.
"Jesus, my God," he cried, "I am dead!"
He took his sword by the handle, kissed its cross-hilt as an act of
devotion, and repeated the _Miserere_,--"Have pity on me, O God,
according to Thy great mercy!"
In a moment more he grew deathly pale and grasped the pommel of the
saddle to keep him from falling, remaining thus until one of his
followers helped him to dismount, and placed him at the foot of a tree.
The French were repulsed, leaving the wounded knight within the lines of
the enemy. Word of Bayard's plight was quickly brought to Bourbon, who
came up with a face filled with sympathetic feeling.
"Bayard, my good friend, I am sore distressed at your mishap," he said.
"There is nothing for it but patience. Give not way to melancholy. I
will send in quest of the best surgeons in this country, and, by God's
help, you will soon be healed."
Bayard looked up at him with dying eyes, full of pity and reproach.
"My lord, I thank you," he said, "but pity is not for me, who die like a
true man, serving my king; pity is for you, who bear arms against your
prince, your country, and your oath."
Bourbon made no answer. He turned and withdrew, doubtless stung to the
soul by the reproachful words of the noblest and honestest man of that
age. His own conscience must have added a double sting to Bayard's
words. Such is the bitterest reward of treason; it dares not look
integrity in the face.