Cressy and Poictiers

CHAPTER XXXVII
A MYSTERIOUS VISIT

It was the evening of Saturday, the 16th of October, 1347 – the day preceding that which was the anniversary of the battle of Neville's Cross – and Calais was about to be left to the keeping of Aymery de Pavie and the garrison with which he had been furnished to guard the town against any attempt to recover it by force or stratagem.

Next day the squires and pages of the Prince of Wales were to embark; and I, by no means sorry to exchange the dulness of the conquered town for Westminster and Windsor, was seated, in solitude, in one of the chambers of the castle appropriated to the prince's household, reflecting on the events of a twelvemonth which, assuredly, had been somewhat eventful, and endeavouring, with juvenile enthusiasm, to anticipate what the coming year would bring forth, when I was suddenly aroused from my reverie by the sound of light footsteps, and, looking up with a start, I found that a woman of tall and elegant form was before me.

I rose mechanically, and, as in duty bound, bent my head with all the respect which an apprentice of chivalry owes to the sex which he has solemnly sworn to serve, and protect, and defend. But I did so with very peculiar feelings. In truth, though my visitor was closely veiled, I had an instinctive belief that the figure was not wholly unknown to me, and that it was associated with memories the reverse of agreeable. I had no time, however, to recall circumstances, or to speculate on probabilities, for, without delay, she raised her veil, and looked me full in the face; and, as she did so, I recognised, with astonishment, the woman whom I had seen on the night of my mysterious adventure at Caen.

I started again, and this time as if an adder had stung me; but I rapidly remembered the resolutions I had formed as to that memorable occasion; and, quickly recovering my serenity, I motioned her to a seat, resumed mine, and spoke first.

"Methinks, madam," said I, in a significant tone, "we have met before."

"It is true," she replied, without evincing the slightest agitation. "But it is not of our having met that I would speak. So far as that meeting is concerned, let bygones be bygones, and let us speak of something of more importance to you – mayhap, also, to me. It is meet that you should know I have on my mind what deeply concerns you, and therefore am I here."

"Gramercy for the interest you show in me, madam," exclaimed I calmly. "I would fain hope, however, that what you have to say may be spoken without my drinking to strengthen my heart against failing during the narrative; for, on my faith, I cannot but deem that wine drunk in your presence becomes wondrously intoxicating."

And I looked at my fair visitor with an air of superiority; for, in truth, I felt, at the moment, that I could not twice be deluded by the same person. Nevertheless, she was utterly unmoved, and, after a pause, resumed.

"A truce to jesting, young sir," said she, "and listen to me with attention, for know that I am in possession of that secret which, of all others, you desire to gain possession of – I mean the secret of your birth."

I felt my heart beat tumultuously, and my blood flow quicker through my veins, as she spoke; but, still remembering Caen, and resolved not to give way to excitement, I restrained myself, as I often in my day have done a too-eager steed, and answered calmly.

"Mayhap," said I, "this secret is, after all, of small value; and to me – as you may suppose – it every day has become, and will become, of less value."

"And wherefore, young sir?"

"It is in obscurity," continued I, "that men ponder and most perplex themselves with such points, and rear castles in imagination. Now, in my case, life is all action and ambition. Boy as I am, I have placed my foot firmly on the ladder of life, and I neither fear to climb nor doubt my strength so to do; and what other inspiration does a man want than the consciousness of brave deeds and duties faithfully performed?"

"It is bravely spoken," said she, without change of tone or countenance; "and yet, could you guess all that my tongue could tell, you would not speak of the consequence so lightly."

"Now, by all the saints!" exclaimed I, losing patience, and with it all command of my temper, "wherefore, woman, tantalise me thus? If you know aught that relates to my birth – be it good or bad – speak, and I will listen; or, if you will not speak frankly, cease to tempt my curiosity with vague hints, which ever elude the grasp of my comprehension, as the rainbow eludes the grasp of the child."

"Be patient," said she, "and, in this far, I will explain. The secret, as I tell you, is in my possession, but as yet it is not mine to tell – it is another's. When my mother was on her death-bed, she committed it to me with her latest breath; but, as it concerns one greater than my mother, it cannot be told till Death has claimed that personage as his prey. Nay, interrupt me not," she continued, as my impatience was on the point of breaking forth in words; "when that event happens – and ere long it must happen – I will seek you out and find you, no matter whether you are in court, or camp, or even in prison; for I also have an interest in the truth being known, and more closely than you fancy are our fates linked together."

"You are mysterious," remarked I with a sneer, for I was greatly disappointed at the result of the communication; and, albeit my curiosity was sharpened, and my imagination excited, I recovered, outwardly at least, my calm demeanour.

"Ha!" exclaimed she, in a tone which indicated that she was offended at my sneer, "it seems that you are somewhat incredulous of my statement. Peradventure, you will give more credit to my words when I give you a token you cannot mistake. I tell you that a mark was set upon you in the cradle, which you are likely to carry to the grave."

I raised my head in silent curiosity.

"Yes," she continued, "it appears on your right shoulder, and is the form of a lion."

Now I could no longer doubt that this woman, whom I had met under circumstances which were assuredly not calculated to give her a favourable place in my opinion, really knew something, more or less, of the tragedy connected with my birth, and, in some measure, had my fate in her hands; and the idea that my future, as it were, should be in any degree dependent on one who had conspired against my liberty, if not my life, was not only perplexing, but overwhelming. In my agitation, I rose and walked to the casement, hoping to calm my thoughts by looking out upon the clear October night. In this position I rapidly regained my equanimity, and that kind of mental energy which enables us to form resolutions.

"By St. George and St. Cuthbert, under whose patronage I have fought against my country's foes," I exclaimed, with a sudden gleam of hope, "this woman cannot be without a heart. I will appeal to her humanity to tell me as much, at least, of what relates to this secret as may enable me to penetrate the rest. Nor do we now part till I have proved whether or not prayers and intreaties will open her lips to satisfy me in respect of the rank which my father held."

But in this attempt I was not to have the satisfaction of succeeding. When I turned round, the woman stood facing me, with her veil still raised, and an earnest expression on her countenance.

"Lady," said I imploringly, "I pray you to tell me frankly who you are, and how you happen to know more of my affairs than I myself know."

"Ask not now," replied she, "who I am, or whence I come, or whither I go. In good time you shall learn all. But," continued she, "hearken to what I have to say, and, in whatever light you regard me, disregard not the words I now speak. I am an Englishwoman, I have an English heart, and I would fain impart by your agency a warning to England's king, to whom I and mine have been beholden. Let King Edward, I say, beware! or the prize on which he so highly prides himself will escape his grasp. Already treachery is at work. Calais is sold for French gold; and if the king looks not to its security, and that right early, Calais will, ere long, be in the hands of his foes."

At this startling intelligence I bent my head, and mused for a few moments as to its probability. When I again looked up, my visitor was gone. I followed instantly, but still too late; she had disappeared. My curiosity, however, was so highly excited that I rushed on, and meeting Robert Salle – who was then attached as a squire to Aymery de Pavie, and who, being one of the strongest and handsomest Englishmen of his day, afterwards, though merely the son of a mason, acquired great renown for his ability and courage, and took knighthood from King Edward's own hand – arrested his steps.

"Sir squire," asked I hastily, "marked you any woman pass this way?"

"Assuredly," answered he, much marvelling at my excitement, "Eleanor de Gubium did pass – she whom men call the fairest English-woman in Calais."

"And who," inquired I eagerly, "may this Eleanor de Gubium be when in her own country?"

"Beshrew me if I can tell," replied the squire; "only this is certain," added he with a smile, "that she is one of whom my lord the governor is so enamoured that men say she has bewitched him; and he commits to her the innermost secrets of his heart."

"You mean Sir Aymery de Pavie?" said I, more agitated than ever.

"Surely none other," he replied curtly. "Who else than Sir Aymery de Pavie should I mean? I trow there is but one Governor of Calais."

CHAPTER XXXVIII
CALAIS IN PERIL

Much marvelling at the unexpected warning I had so strangely received, and attaching the more importance to the communication the longer I considered the matter, I felt, after long reflection, that I should not be by any means justified in locking it up in my own breast and keeping it to myself.

It was true, and I felt strongly, that I could not, under the circumstances, tell a very satisfactory story; for Eleanor de Gubium had been mysterious, and I somewhat dreaded the ridicule to which my narrative of her visit might expose me, even if it did not involve me in more unfortunate consequences. But from childhood my grandsire had impressed on me the necessity of doing what I perceived to be my duty at all hazards; and no sooner was I in England than I hastened to the palace of Westminster, where the king was then holding his court, and, seeking out the Prince of Wales, told plainly to him what had been told to me.

I quickly perceived that my story made no impression on the mind of the prince, and that he considered I had been fooled by a mad woman or by an impostor. At first, indeed, he was inclined to laugh to scorn the idea of Calais being in danger; but, on second thoughts, he intimated his intention of communicating my statement to the king; and when, without delay, he did so, the result was not what he seemed to expect. Not so lightly did King Edward treat the matter as the prince had done. Far from despising or neglecting the warning, he summoned me to his presence, questioned me closely, though more courteously than was his wont in such cases, as to the particulars of my story, and, by his manner and words, indicated his conviction that there was treachery at work which must be defeated.

"On my faith," said the king, bending his brow and shaking his head, "this must be looked to, and that speedily; and, seeing that no man is so likely as Aymery de Pavie to know what is passing in Calais, he must be ordered to cross the seas and come hither without loss of time."

"Sire," said I, beginning to be alarmed at the serious aspect the affair was assuming, "I crave pardon of your highness when I beg you to bear in mind that I have cast suspicion on no man, but merely related what was said to me."

"You have done what was your duty," replied the king somewhat sternly, "and well will it be for others if they can prove that they have done theirs."

And now not an hour was lost in despatching a messenger to Calais; and, with all possible speed, Aymery de Pavie, in obedience to the king's command, came to England, and made his appearance at the palace of Westminster.

Not having the least idea, however, of the nature of the business on which he had been summoned to England, and aware of the high favour which he had hitherto enjoyed at the English court, the Lombard entered the royal presence with perfect confidence, and, having bent his knee, stood calmly awaiting the king's commands.

"Ha, Sir Aymery! Sir Aymery!" said the king, taking the Lombard aside, "wot you what was the response of the oracle of Delphi, when consulted by a king of the olden times, known as Philip of Macedon, on the best way of carrying on war?"

"Sire, I know not," answered the Lombard, with a smile.

"Well, Sir Aymery," continued the king, "it was, if I remember aright, to make gold his weapon, and he would conquer all. Moreover, the advice proved most advantageous to his affairs, and he afterwards owned that he had taken more towns with money than with arms; that he never forced a gate till after having tried to open it with a golden key; and that he did not deem any fortress impregnable into which a mule laden with treasure could find entrance."

"Sire," said the Lombard, slightly colouring, and beginning to give way to agitation, "of all this I was ignorant."

"I doubt it not, Sir Aymery," resumed the king – "I doubt it not; but I imagine that such is not the case with Philip of Valois. In truth, it seems to me that my adversary has bethought him, in his troubles, of the response of the oracle, and determined to try the system pursued with such success by his namesake of Macedon. What say you, Sir Aymery?"

The Lombard was silent with surprise and consternation, and appeared to tremble and gasp for breath.

"Answer me, sir," said the king sternly. "Deem you my words but idle air?"

"Sire," replied the Lombard, with a last desperate effort not to betray himself, "I am in all things yours to command."

"By St. George and my grandsire's sword! and so, methinks, you ought, if you knew more of gratitude than the name, Sir Aymery," exclaimed the king angrily. "I brought you up from a child; I showed you much favour; and I entrusted to you what I hold dearest in the world, save my wife and children – I mean the town and castle of Calais; and, to requite all my kindness, you have sold them to the French. Now for this, I say, you deserve death."

At this stage the Lombard suddenly drew energy from the excess of his despair, and, flinging himself on his knees, raised his hands in supplication.

"Ah, gentle king," cried he, "for God's sake have mercy upon me! All that you have said is very true. I confess that I have entered into a treaty with the French to deliver up Calais for twenty thousand crowns; but, as it was not to be fulfilled till December, and I have not received a single penny, there is still time to break the bargain."

"Mayhap, Sir Aymery," said the king; "nevertheless, no punishment could be too severe for your ingratitude and the treachery you have meditated; and, were Philip of Valois in my place, he would send you straight to the gallows. But do as I bid, and I promise that your life shall be spared. Nay, speak not, but listen. It is my wish that you continue this treaty; that you say nothing of my having discovered your treason; and that you inform me of the day on which you engage to deliver up Calais."

"Sire, I will obey you in all things," cried the Lombard, inspired with feelings similar to those that animate the heart of a man suddenly rescued from the danger of being swallowed up in the sea.

"Well, then," added the king, "on these conditions I promise you my pardon, and, that you may earn it, your first duty is to return to your post at Calais, to keep the nature of our interview secret, even from the wild winds, and, on peril of your life, not again to be false to me for a moment, even in your thoughts."

"Sire," said the Lombard earnestly, "I swear on my soul, to handle the business so that it shall turn out wholly for your advantage."

CHAPTER XXXIX
THE LORDS DE OV

From the first hour of my arrival at Westminster, after returning from Calais, I had naturally been eager to visit my grandsire's homestead, of which, in the midst of battles and sieges, I had often dreamt pleasant dreams when stretched at rest on a foreign soil. But I felt, in some degree, responsible for the warning I had brought to England as to Calais being in peril; and during the time that elapsed between my communication to the Prince of Wales and the arrival of Aymery de Pavie I did not deem myself quite at liberty to leave the palace. No sooner, however, did I ascertain this much, at least, that the result of the Lombard's interview with the king had justified my intelligence, than I asked, and obtained, permission to repair, for a brief period, to the scene of my childhood.

Resolving to set out betimes next day, I availed myself of the interval to proceed to the Falcon, and hear such tidings of my kinsfolk as Thomelin of Winchester could impart. As I left the courtyard of the palace in a joyous mood, I encountered Lord De Ov, who was entering on horseback and with high feudal pride; and again he eyed me with a display of malice which renewed all the perplexity which his conduct had so frequently created in my mind.

"Why, in the name of all the saints, has this haughty young lord selected me, of all people, as the object of his hatred?" I asked myself for the hundredth time, and continued to question myself in vain, as I strode along the bush-grown Strand, and made for Gracechurch.

On reaching the Falcon, I found, to my disappointment, that Thomelin of Winchester was not at his hostelry, and, on inquiring more closely, I learned, somewhat to my alarm, that he had been summoned by my grandsire some days earlier, that he had set out in haste, and that he had not returned. Musing over this intelligence, and by no means in so joyous a mood as that in which I left Westminster, I was issuing from the Falcon, when a small body of horse halted at the door; and, looking up, I, by the twilight, recognised in their leader no less memorable a man than my Northern friend, John Copeland, now a knight banneret, and famous for his adventure with the King of Scots.

I doffed my bonnet as I made the discovery, and held the knight's stirrup as he dismounted from his strong steed.

"Ha, master page!" cried he, recognising me in turn, "you have not come North to try your prowess against the Scots, as I asked you. Nevertheless, we have met again."

"Even so, sir knight," I replied frankly. "And yet, to tell the truth, if I have refrained from coming North, it was not from any expectation of seeing you in the South, considering the high duties you are now called on to perform."

"And wherefore should you see me not in the South, boy?" asked Copeland. "Deem you," added he, not concealing the pride he felt in his elevation, "that the king, when he comes home, hath nothing to say to a man whom he trusts to hold such posts as Warden of Berwick, and Governor of the Castle of Roxburgh?"

"Nay, on my faith," replied I, laughing, "far be it from me to hazard any such assertion. Rather let me give you joy of your prosperous fortunes."

"Thanks, master page; and mayhap – as men, whether young or old, are ever envious – you would like to add that prosperity is not always a proof of merit. But be that as it may, I will, in this hostelry, rest my long limbs for a while ere I proceed to Westminster, and gladly drink a cup with thee for the sake of old acquaintance."

I accepted the invitation, and without delay we were seated and quaffing the wine of Bordeaux in the guest-room of the Falcon.

"Beshrew me, boy!" remarked Copeland, looking at me keenly as he raised his cup to his lips and took a long draught, "it grieves me to perceive that, young as you are, you have the marks of care on your face. What ails you?"

"I can scarce tell," replied I sadly; "but this I know – that, one short hour since, my heart was light and merry as the month of May."

"And what has since happened to sadden your brow?" asked he kindly.

"More than one thing has happened to discompose me; for, in truth, to be frank with you, I met, as I came hither, a young lord, of whom I know little, save that he is mine enemy, and that his hate seems as bitter as it is causeless. Now, as I wish to live in charity with all men, if I could, I own that, had I no other cause for sadness, this alone would vex my spirit."

"Of whom speak you?" asked Copeland, with unveiled curiosity.

"Of the young Lord De Ov," answered I.

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the Northernman.

"What?" asked I; "know you aught of him?"

"Ay," answered Copeland slowly and grimly, "more, by St. John of Beverley! than he would care to hear; but nothing, I own, to enable me to guess why he should bear malice towards such as you."

"But what know you of him?" asked I eagerly.

"This, at least," replied Copeland in a low tone, "that he feels his seat less soft than a bed of down, and that his temper is severely tried at times."

"In what way?" asked I.

"Why, simply because men say – or, at least, whisper, if they dare not say it aloud – that he is not the true heir of the barons whose titles he bears and whose lands he possesses. But you must have heard something of the story?"

"Not a whisper," said I. "I pray you relate it. I am all attention."

"I will relate it," said Copeland; "but understand, master page, that what I say is under the rose: it is not safe to speak freely of the great."

"Credit me, sir knight, you are safe with me," exclaimed I firmly; "I am incapable of betraying any man's confidence."

"Well, then," began Copeland, "you must know that, in the year 1330, soon after King Edward – the second of the name – was cruelly murdered in Berkeley Castle – for a cruel murder it was – Isabel the queen and Roger de Mortimer, with whom Queen Isabel was deemed much too familiar, held sway in the country."

"I have heard that such was the case," said I.

"At that time," continued Copeland, "rumours, which assuredly were false, ran about to the effect that King Edward was still alive, and that he was a prisoner in Corfe Castle; and a conspiracy, in which many good men took part, was formed to restore him to liberty."

"Even so," said I; "of this I have heard vaguely."

"At the head of that conspiracy," continued Copeland, "was Edmund, Earl of Kent, the young king's uncle, who, believing his brother to be still alive, rashly went to Corfe Castle, and asked the governor of the fortress to conduct him to Sire Edward; for which indiscretion he was tried at Winchester and executed."

"I have heard that sad tale," said I, interrupting; "how the earl's sentence caused such indignation that even the headsman declined to do his office; how he remained four hours on the scaffold before any one could be found to enact the part of executioner; and how, finally, a malefactor from the Marshalsea, on being bribed with a promise of pardon, undertook to behead him."

"It was even as you relate it," said Copeland, resuming; "and it happened that one of the men of rank engaged in the conspiracy of which the Earl of Kent was head, was Edward, Lord De Ov, a brave warrior, whose wife was a daughter of the house of Merley. Now, it was generally considered that this Lord De Ov – who, I may mention, was marvellously skilful in those chivalrous tricks which you, and striplings like you, value so highly – might have escaped to France, as the Lord Viscount Beaumont and others did about the same time, and lived, like them, to return to England in happier days; but, unluckily for his chances of escape, he had a younger brother named Roger, who, from base motives, betrayed him. So, instead of getting off, he was taken, while lurking on the coast, carried to Winchester, and hanged in that city on a high gibbet."

"My curse on the brother who could be guilty of such treachery!" exclaimed I, my blood boiling with indignation.

"But," continued Copeland, heedless of my interruption, "this was not all. Edward, Lord De Ov, had a wife and infant son; and for Roger's purpose it was necessary to make away with them also; and accordingly the widow was decoyed away by Margery, one of the queen's gentlewomen, who pretended that she had been sent for by her husband, and, carrying with her the infant son, left her husband's castle at Winchester. For years neither mother nor son was heard of. At length, however, they were reputed to have died, and corpses, said to be theirs, were brought North, and buried in the chapel of the castle; and Roger De Ov became lord of all. But Roger soon after pined and died; and, when he went the way of all flesh, his son, who is now lord, succeeded to his feudal power. But men still say that, somewhere or other, the widow and son of Edward, Lord De Ov, yet live, and that one day or other there will be an overturn; and now you comprehend wherefore my lord sits less easy in his seat than he might otherwise, do, and how there may be people living whose demands put his temper to the test."

"Assuredly," said I, "the story is sufficiently plain, albeit involving a mystery."

"And, if I mistake not," remarked Copeland significantly, "there are at least two people alive who could clear that mystery up to satisfaction."

"Who may they be?" asked I.

"One," answered he in a whisper, "is no less a personage than Isabel the queen, now residing, in gentle captivity, at Castle Rising."

"And the other?" I inquired eagerly, for my curiosity was by this time excited.

"The other," answered he, "is a person of fewer years and lesser rank than Queen Isabel. She is daughter of a Northern squire who was an honest man, and mine own kinsman, and married the queen's gentlewoman of whom I spake. I cast my eyes by chance on the damsel when in the camp before Calais, and recognised her in an instant. Nay, more, I made enquiries, and learned that her beauty exercised enormous influence over the heart of Aymery de Pavie, and that her threats exercised as much over the conduct of Lord De Ov, insomuch that one did as she liked from love, and the other from fear."

I involuntarily uttered an exclamation of surprise, and my agitation was so great that it well-nigh got the better of my discretion and of all the resolutions I had formed. However, I regained my equanimity, and calmly renewed the conversation.

"And what name bears this wondrous demoiselle, sir knight? by what name is she known?" asked I, with what coolness I could command.

"The demoiselle is known by the name of Eleanor de Gubium," was Copeland's reply.