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THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
Historical Tales
The Romance of Reality
BY
CHARLES MORRIS
AUTHOR OF "half-hours WITH THE BEST AMERICAN
AUTHORS," "tales FROM THE DRAMATISTS," "KING
ARTHUR AND THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND-TaBLE," ETC.
ENGLISH
PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1902
Copyright, 1893,
BY
|. B= LippiNcoTT Company.
Printed bv J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
CONTENTS.
PAea
How England became Christian 7
The Wooing of Elfrtda 17
King Alfred and the Danes 80
Tub End of Saxon England 45
Hereward the Wake 6?
Death of the Red King 72
How the White Ship Sailed 80
The Captivity of Richard Cceur de Lion .... 87
A Contest for a Crovtn 100
KoBiN Hood and the Knight of the Rueful Coun-
tenance 113
Wallace, the Hero of Scotland 127
Bruce at Bannockburn 139
The Siege of Calais 161
The Black Prince at Poitiers 163
Wat Tyler and the Men of Kent 174
The White Rose of England 185
The Field of the Cloth of Gold 201
The Story of Arabella Stuart 215
Love's Knight-Errant 227
The Taking of Pontefract Castle 241
The Adventures of a Royal Fugitive 260
Cromwell and the Parliament 280
The Relief of Londondkrry 288
The Hunting of Braemar 297
The Flight of Prince Charles 306
Trafalgar and the Death of Nelson 320
The Massacre of an Army 329
3
203931 1
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
ENGLISH.
PAGK
Canterbxtrt Cathedral {Frontispiece).
Scene on the Kiver Avon 31
Ely Cathedral ' .... "-^
Statue of Richard Cceur de Lion 97
The Wallace Monument, Stirling 133
Stirling Castle
Church of Notre Dame, Poitiers 167
Henry the Eighth 2^'
The Eoyal Palace, Madrid 239
Oliver Cromwell 281
Edinburgh Castle 301
The Old Temerairb 321
I/OPV ENGLAND BECAME
CHRISTIAN,
One day, in the far-off sixth ceiitury, a youthfu)
deacon of the Roman Church walked into the slave-
market of Rome, situated at one extremity of the an-
cient Forum. Gregory, his name ; his origin from an
ancient noble family, whose gcnealogj^ could be traced
back to the days of the early Csesars. A youth was
this of imperial powers of mind, one who, had he
lived when Rome was mistress of the physical world,
might have become emperor ; but who, living when
Rome had risen to lordship over the spiritual world,
became pope, — the famous Gregory the Great.
In the Forum the young deacon saw that which
touched his sympathetic soul. Here cattle were being
sold ; there, men. His eyes were specially attracted
by a group of youthful slaves, of aspect such as he
nad never seen before. They were bi'ight of com-
plexion, their hair long and golden, their expression
of touching innocence. Their fair faces were
Btrangely unlike the embrowned complexions to
which he had been accustomed, and he stood looking
at them in admiration, while the slave-dealers ex-
tolled their beauty of face and figure.
7
8 HISTORICAL TALES.
" From what country do these young men come ?**
asked Gregory.
" They are English, Angles," answered the dealers.
" Not Angles, but angels," said the deacon, with a
feeling of poetic sentiment, " for they have angel-
like faces. From what country come they?" ho
repeated.
"They come from Deira," said the merchants.
"2>e ird" he rejoined, fervently; "ay, plucked
from God's ire and called to Christ's mercy. And
what is the name of their king ?"
" Ella," was the answer.
" Alleluia shall be sung there !" cried the enthusi-
astic young monk, his imagination touched by the
significance of these answers. He passed on, musing
on the incident which had deeply stirred his sym-
pathies, and considering how the light of Christianity
could be shed upon the pagan lands whence these
fair strangers came.
It was a striking picture which surrounded that
slave-market. From where the young deacon stood
could be seen the capitol of ancient Rome and the
grand proportions of its mighty Coliseum ; not far
away the temple of Jupiter Stator displayed its
magnificent columns, and other stately edifices of
the imperial city came within the circle of vision.
Home had ceased to be the mistress of the world,
but it was not yet in ruins, and man}' of its noble
edifices still stood almost in perfection. But paganism
had vanished. The cross of Christ was the dominant
symbol. The march of the warriors of the legions
was replaced by long processions of cowled and
HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN. 9
Bolemn monka. The temporal imperialism of Eome
had ceased, the spiritual had begun; instead of
armies to bring the world under the dominion of the
Bword, that ancient city now sent out its legions of
monks to bring it under the dominion of the cross.
Gregory resolved to be one of the latter, A fair
new field for missionary labor lay in that distant
island, peopled by pagans whose aspect promised lo
make them noble subjects of Christ's kingdom upon
earth. The enthusiastic youth left Eome to seek
Saxon England, moved thereto not by desire of
earthly glory, but of heavenly reward. But this
was not to be. His friends deemed that he was
going to death, and begged the pope to order his
return. Gregory was brought back and England
remained pagan.
Years went by. The humble deacon rose to be
bishop of Eome and head of the Christian world.
Gregory the Great, men named him, though he styled
himself " Servant of the Lord's servants," and lived
in like humility and simplicity of style as when he
was a poor monk.
The time at length came to which Gregory had
looked forward. Ethelbert, king of Kentish Eng-
land, married Bertha, daughter of the Fi'ench king
Charibert, a fervent Christian woman. A few priests
came with her to England, and the king gave them
a ruined Christian edifice, the Chui'ch of St. Martin,
outside the walls of Canterbury, for their worship.
But it was overshadowed by a pagan temple, and
the worship of Odin and Thoi still dominated Saxon
England
10 HISTORICAL TALES.
Gregory took quick advantage of this opportunity.
The fair faces of the English slaves still appealed to
his pitying soul, and he now sent Augustine, prior
of St. Andrew's at Eome, with a band of forty
monks as missionaries to England. It was the year
of our Lord 597. The missionaries landed at the
very spot where Hengist the Saxon conqueror had
landed more than a century before. The one had
brought the sword to England, the others brought
the cross. King Ethelbert knew of their coming
and had agreed to receive them ; but, by the advice
of his priests, who feared conjuration and spells of
magic, he gave them audience in the open air, where
such spells have less power. The place was on the
chalk-down above Minster, whence, miles away across
the intervening marshes, one may to-day behold the
distant tower of Canterbury cathedral.
The scene, as pictured to us in the monkish chron-
icles, was a picturesque and inspiring one. The hill
selected for the meeting overlooked the ocean. King
Ethelbert, with Queen Bertha by his side, awaited in
state his visitors. Around were grouped the warriors
of Kent and the priests of Odin. Silence reigned, and
in the distance the monks could be seen advancing
in solemn procession, singing as they came. He who
came first bore a large silver crucifix. Another car-
ried a banner with the painted image of Christ.
The deep and solemn music, the venerable and peace-
ful aspect of the strangers, the solemnity of the oc-
casion, touched the heart of Ethelbert, already ftivor-
ably inclined, as we may believe, to the faith of bis
loved wife.
HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN. 11
Augustine had brought interpreters from GauL
Hy their aid he conveyed to the king the message ho
had been sent to bring. Ethelbert listened in silence,
the queen in rapt attention, the warriors and priests
doubtless with varied sentiments. The appeal of
Augustine at an end, Ethelbert spoke.
" Your words are fair," he said, " but they are new,
and of doubtful meaning. For myself, I propose to
worship still the gods of my fathers. But you bring
peace and good words; you are welcome to my
kingdom ; while you stay here you shall have shelter
and protection."
His land was a land of plenty, he told them ; food,
drink, and lodging should be theirs, and none should
do them wi'ong ; England should be their home while
they chose to stay.
With these words the audience ended. Augustine
and his monks fell again into procession, and, with
singing of psalms and display of holy emblems,
moved solemnly towards the city of Canterbury,
where Bertha's church awaited them. As they en-
tered the city they sang :
" Turn from this city, O Lord, thine anger and
wrath, and turn it from Thy holy house, for we have
sinned." Then Gregory's joyful cry of " Alleluia !
Alleluia !" burst from their devout lips, as they moved
into the first English church.
The work of the " strangers from Rome" proceeded
but slowly. Some converts were made, but Ethel
bert held aloof Fortunately for Augustine, he had
an advocate in the palace, one with near and dear
speech in the king's eai. Wo cannot doubt that the
12 HISTORICAL TALES.
gentle influence of Queen Bertha was a leading power
in Etbelbert's conversion, A year passed. At its
end the king gave way. On the day of Pentecost ho
was baptized. Christ had succeeded Odin and Thor
on the throne of the English heart, for the story of
the king's conversion carried his kingdom with it. The
men of Kent, hearing that their king had adopted the
new faith, crowded the banks of the Swale, eager for
baptism. The under-kings of Essex and East- Anglia
became Christians. On the succeeding Christmas-
day ten thousand of the people followed the example
of their king. The new faith spread with wonder-
ful rapidity throughout the kingdom of Kent.
"When word of this great event reached Pope
Gregory at Eome his heart was filled with joy. He
exultinglj'" wrote to a friend that his missionaries
had spread the religion of Christ " in the most re-
mote parts of the world," and at once appointed Au-
gustine archbishop of Canterbury and primate of all
England, that he might complete the work he had
80 promisingly begun. Such is the story of the
Christianizing of England as told in the ancient
chronicle of the venerable Bede, the earliest of Eng-
lish writers.
As yet only Kent had been converted. North of
it lay the kingdom of Northumbria, still a pagan
realm. The story of its conversion, as told by Bede,
is of no less interest than that just related. Edwin
was its king, a man of great ability for that early
day. His prowess is shown in a proverb : " A
woman with her babe might walk scathless from
eea to sea in Edwin's day." The highways, long
HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN. 13
made dangerous by outlaw and ruthless warrior, were
now safe avenues of travel ; the springs by the road-
side were marked by stakes, while brass cups beside
them awaited the traveller's hand. Edwin ruled over
all northern England, as Ethelbert did over the
south. Edinburgh was within his dominions, and
from him it had its name^ — Edwin's burgh, the city
of Edwin.
Christianity came to this monarch's heart in some
such manner as it had reached that of Ethelbert,
through the appealing influence of his wife. A
daughter of King Ethelbert had come to share his
throne. She, like Bertha her mother, was a Chris-
tian. With her came the monk Paulinus, from the
church at Canterbury. He was a man of striking
aspect, — of tall and stooping form, slender, aquiline
nose, and thin, worn face, round which fell long black
hair. The ardent missionary, aided doubtless by the
secret appeals of the queen, soon produced an influ-
ence upon the intelligent mind of Edwin. The mon-
arch called a council of his wise men, to talk with
them about the new doctrine which had been taught
in his realm. Of what passed at that council we
have but one short speech, but it is one that illumi-
nates it as no other words could have done, a lesson
in prose which is full of the finest spirit of poetry,
perhaps the most picturesque image of human life
that has ever been put into words.
" So seems to me the life of man, O king," said
an aged noble, "as a sparrow's flight through the
hall when you are sitting at meat in winter-tide,
with the warm fire lighted on the hearth, while out-
2
14 HISTORICAL TALES.
Bide all is storm of rain and snow. The sparrow
flies in at one door, and tarries for a moment in the
light and heat of the fire within, and then, flying
forth from the other, vanishes into the wintry dark-
ness whence it came. So the life of man tarries for
a moment in our sight ; but of what went before it,
or what is to follow it, we know nothing. If this
new teaching tells us something more certain of
these things, let us follow it."
Such an appeal could not but have a powerful
efiect upon his hearers. Those were days when men
were more easily moved by sentiment than by argu-
ment. Edwin and his councillors heard with favoring
ears. Not last among them was Coifi, chief priest
of the idol-worship, whose ardent soul was stirred
by the words of the old thane.
"None of your people, King Edwin, have wor-
shipped the gods more busily than I," he said, " yet
there are many who have been more favored and are
more fortunate. Were these gods good for anything
they would help their worshippers."
Grasping his spear, the irate priest leaped on hia
horse, and riding at full speed towards the temple
sacred to the heathen gods, he hurled the warlike
weapon furiously into its precincts.
The lookers-on, nobles and commons alike, beheld
his act with awe, in doubt if the deities of their old
worship would not avenge with death this insult to
their fane. Yet all remained silent ; no thunders
rent the skies ; the desecrating priest sat his horse
unharmed. When, then, he bade them follow him
to the neighboring stream, to be baptized in its
now ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN. 15
waters into the new faith, an eager multitude crowded
upon his steps.
The spot where Edwin and his followers were bap-
tized is thus described by Camden, in his " Descrip
tion of Great Britain," etc. : '' In the Eoman times,
not far from its bank upon the little river Foulness
(wliere Wighton, a small town, but well-stocked
with husbandmen, now stands), there seems to have
formerly stood Delgovitia; as it is probable both
from the likeness and the signification of the name.
For the British word Delgwe (or rather Ddehd)
signifies the statues or images of the heathen gods ;
and in a little village not far off there stood an
idol-tcmple, which was in very great honor in the
Saxon times, and, from the heathen gods in it, was
then called Godmundingham, and now, in the same
F€nse, Godmanhani." It was into this temple that
Coifi flung his desecrating spear, and in this stream
that Edwin the king received Christian baptism.
But Christianity did not win England without a
struggle. After the deatli of Ethelbert and Edwin,
paganism revived and fought hard for the mastery.
The Roman monks lost their enei'gy, and were con-
fined to the vicinity of Canterbury. Conversion
came again, but from the west instead of the east,
from Ireland instead of Rome.
Christianity had been received with enthusiasm in
Erin's isle. Less than half a century after the death
of St. Patrick, the first missionary, flourishing Chris-
tian schools existed at Darrow and Armagh, lettera
and the arts were cultivated, and missionaries were
leaving the shores of Ireland to carry the faith clue-
16 HISTORICAL TALES
wtere. From the famous monastery which they
founded at lona, on the west coast of Scotland,
came the new impulse which gave Christianity its
fixed footing in England, and finally drove paganism
from Britain's shores. Oswald, of North umbria, be-
came the bulwark of the new faith ; Penda, of Mercia,
the sword of heathendom ; and a long struggle for
religion and dominion ensued between these warlike
chiefs. Oswald was slain in battle; Penda led hia
conquering host far into the Christian realm ; but a
new king, Oswi by name, overthrew Penda and his
army in a great defeat, and the worship of the older
gods in England was at an end. But a half-century
of struggle and bloodshed passed before the victory
of Christ over Odin was fully won.
THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA,
Of all the many fair maidens of the Saxon realm
none bore such fame for beauty as the charming
Elfrida, daughter of the earl of Devonshire, and
the rose of southern England. She had been edu-
cated in the country and had never been seen in
London, but the report of her charms of face and
person spread so widely that all the land became
filled with the tale.
It soon reached the court and came to the ears of
Edgar, the king, a youthful monarch who had an
open ear for all tales of maidenly beauty. He was
yet but little more than a boy, was unmarried, and
a born lover. The praises of this country charmer,
therefore, stiried his susceptible heart. She was
nobly born, the heiress to an earldom, the very rose
of English maidens, — what better consort for the
thr<5ne could be found ? If report spoke true, this
was the maiden he should choose for wife, this fair-
est flower of the Saxon realm. But rumor grows
apace, and common report is not to be trusted. Edgar
thought it the part of discretion to make sure of the
beauty of the much-lauded Elfrida before making
a formal demand for her hand in marriage.
Devonshire was far away, roads few and poor in
II — h 1* 17
\8 HISTORICAL TALES.
Si xon England, travel slow and wearisome, and tho
kii. % had no taste for the journey to the castle of
Olgur of Devon. Nor did he deem it wise to declare
his intention till he made sure that the maiden was to
his liking. He, therefore spoke of his purpose to
Earl Athelwold, his favorite, whom he bade to pay
a visit, on some pretence, to Earl Olgar of Devon-
shire, to see his renowned daughter, and to bring to
the court a certain account concerning her beauty.
Athelwold went to Devonshire, saw the lady, and
proved faithless to his trust. Love made him a
traitor, as it has made many before and since his
day. So marvellousl}'- beautiful he found Elfrida
that his heart fell prisoner to the most vehement
Jove, a passion so ardent that it drove all thoughts
of honor and fidelity from his soul, and he deter-
mined to have this charming lass of Devonshire for
his own, despite king or commons.
Athelwold's high station had secured him a warm
welcome from his brother earl. He acquitted him-
self of his pretended mission to Olgar, basked as
long as prudence permitted in the sunlight of his
lady's eyes, and, almost despite himself, made mani-
fest to Elfrida the sudden passion that had filled his
soul. The maiden took it not amiss, Athelwold
was young, handsome, rich, and high in station,
Elfrida susceptible and ambitious, and he returned
to London not without hope that he had favorably
impressed the lady's heart, and filled with the faith-
less purpose of deceiving the king.
" You have seen and noted her, Athelwold," said
Edgar, on giving him audience; "what have you
THE WOOING OP ELFRIDA. 19
to say ? Has report spoken truly ? Is she indeed
the marvellous beauty that rumor tells, or has fame,
the liar, played us one of his old tricks?"
" Not altogether ; the woman is not bad-looking,"
Baid Athehvold, with studied lack of enthusiasm;
" but I fear that high station and a pretty face have
combined to bewitch the people. Certainly, if she
had been of low birth, her channs would never have
been heard of outside her native village."
" I' faith, Athelwold, you are not warm in your
praise of this queen of beauty," said Edgar, with
some disappointment. " Eumor, then, has lied, and
she is but an every-day woman, after all ?"
"Beauty has a double origin," answered Athel-
wold ; " it lies partly in the face seen, partly in the
eyes seeing. vSome might go mad over this Elfrida,
but to my taste Loudon affords fairer faces. I speak
but for myself. Should you see her you might think
differently."
Athelwold had managed his story shrewdly ; the
king's ardor grew cold.
" If the matter stands thus, he that wants her
may have her," said Edgar. "The diamond that
fails to show its lustre in all candles is not the gem
for my wearing. Confess, Athelwold, you are trying
to overpaint this woman; you found only an ordi-
nary face."
"I saw nothing in it extraordinary," answered
the faithless envoy. "Some might, perhaps. lean
only speak for myself. As I take it, Elfr Ida's noble
birth and her fathers wealth, which will come to
her as sole heiress, have had their share in painting
20 HISTORICAL TALES.
this rose. The woman may have beauty enough
for a countess ; hardly enough for a queen."
" Then you should have wooed and won her your-
self," said Edgar, laughing " Such a faintly-praised
charmer is not for me. I leave her for a lower-born
iDver."
Several days passed. Athelwold had succeeded in
his purpose ; the king had evidently been cured of
his fancy for Elfrida. The way was open for the
next step in his deftly-laid scheme. He took it by
turning the conversation, in a later interview, upon
the Devon maiden.
" I have been thinking over your remark, that I
should woo and win Elfrida myself," he said. " It
seems to me not a bad idea. I must confess that the
birth and fortune of the lady added no beauty to her
in my eyes, as it seems to have done in those of
others; yet I cannot but think that the woman
would make a suitable match for me. She is an earl's
daughter, and she will inherit great wealth ; these are
advantages which fairly compensate some lack of
beauty. I have decided, therefore, sire, if I can gain
your approbation, to ask Olgar for his daughter's
hand. I fancy I can gain her consent if I have his."
" I shall certainly not stand in your way," said the
king, pleased with the opportunity to advance his
favorite's fortunes. " By all means do as you propose.
I will give you letters to the earl and his lady, re-
commending the match. You must trust to yourself
to make your way with the maiden."
"I think she is not quite displeased with me,"
answered Athelwold.
THE WOOING OF ELFRIBA. 21
What followed few words may tell. The passion
of love in Athelwold's heart had driven out all con-
siderations of honor and duty, of the good faith he
owed the king, and of the danger of his false and
treacherous course. Warm with hope, he returned
with a lover's haste to Devonshire, where he gained
the approval of the earl and countess, won the hand
and seemingly the heart of their beautiful daughter,
and was speedily united to the lady of his love, and
became for the time being the happiest man in Eng-
land.
But before the honey-moon was well over, the faith-
less friend and subject realized that he had a difficult
and dangerous part to play. He did not dare let
Edgar see his wife, for fear of the instant detection
of his artifice, and he employed every pretence to keep
her in the country. Ilis duties at the court brought
him frequently to London, but with the skill at ex-
cuses he had formerly shown he contrived to satisfy
for the time the queries of the king and the impor-
tunities of his wife, who had a natural desire to visit
the capital and to shine at the king's court.
Athelwold was sailing between Scyllaand Charj-b-
dis. lie could scarcely escape being wrecked on the
rocks of his own falsehood. The enemies who always
surround a royal favorite were not long in sui-mising
the truth, and lost no time in acquainting Edgar
with their suspicions. Confirmation was not wanting.
There were those in London who had seen Elfrida.
The king's eyes were opened to the treacherous arti-
fice of which he had been made the victim.
Edgar was deeply incensed, but artfully concealed
22 HISTORICAL TALES.
his anger. Eeflection, too, told him that these men
were Athelwold's enemies, and that the man he had
loved and trusted ought not to be condemned on the
insinuations of his foes. He would satisfy himself if
his favorite had played the traitor, and if so would
visit him with the punishment he deserved.
"Athelwold," said Edgar, in easy tones, "I am
surprised you do not bring your wife to court. Surely
the woman, if she is true woman, must crave to
come."
" Not she," answered Athelwold. " She loves the
country well and is a pattern of the rural virtues.
The woman is homely and home-loving, and I should
be sorry to put new ideas in her rustic pate. More-
over, I fear my little candle would shine too poorly
among your courtly stars to offer her in contrast."
" Fie on you, man ! the wife of Athelwold cannot
be quite a milkmaid. If you will not bring her here,
then I must pay you a visit in your castle ; I like
you too well not to know and like your wife."
This proposition of the king filled Athelwold with
terror and dismay. He grew pale, and hesitatingly
sought to dissuade Edgar from his project, but in
vain. The king had made up his mind, and laugh-
ingly told him that he could not rest till he had seen
the homely housewife whom Athelwold was afraid
to trust in court.
" I feel the honor you would do me," at length
remarked the dismayed favorite. " I only ask, sire,
that you let me go before you a few hours, that my
castle may be properly prepared for a visit from my
kins."
THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA. 23
"As you will, gossip," laughed the king. "Away
with you, then ; I will soon follow."
In all haste the traitor sought his castle, quaking
with fear, and revolving in his mind schemes for
avoiding the threatened disclosure. He could think
of but one that promised success, and that depended
on the love and compliance of Elfrida. He had de-
ceived her. Ho must tell her the truth. With her
aid his faithless action might still be concealed.
Entering his castle, he sought Elfrida and revealed
to her the whole measure of his deceit, how he had
won her from the king, led by his overpowering love,
how he had kept her from the king's eyes, and how
Edgar now, filled, he feared, with suspicion, was on
his way to the castle to see her for himself.
In moving accents the wretched man appealed to
her, if she had any regard for his honor and his life,
to conceal from the king that fatal beauty which
had lured him from his duty to his friend and mon-
arch, and led him into endless falsehoods. He had
but his love to offer as a warrant for his double faith-
lessness, and implored Elfrida, as she returned his
affection, to lend her aid to his exculpation. If she
loved him as she seemed, she would put on her home-
liest attire, employ the devices of the toilette to hide
her fatal beauty, and assume an awkward and rustic
tone and manner, that the king might be deceived.
Elfrida heard him in silence, her face scarcely con-
coaling the indignation which burned in her soul on
learning the artifice by which she had been robbed
of a crown. In the end, however, she seemed moved
by his entreaties and softened by his love, and prom-
24 HISTORICAL TALES.
ised to comply with his wishes and do her utmost
to conceal her charms.
Gratified with this compliance, and full of hope
that all would yet be safe, Athelwold completed his
preparations for the reception of the king, and met
him on his appearance with every show of honor
and respect. Edgar seemed pleased by his reception,
entered the castle, but was not long there before he
asked to see its lady, saying merrily that she had
been the loadstone that had drawn him thither, and
that he was eager to behold her charming ftice.
" I fear I have little of boauty and grace to show
you," answered Athelwold ; " but she is a good wife
withal, and I love her for virtues which few would
call courtly."
He tm'ned to a servant and bade him ask his mis-
tress to come to the castle hall, where the king
expected her.
Athelwold waited with hopeful eyes; the king
with curious expectation. The husband knew how
unattractive a toilet his wife could make if she
would; Edgar was impatient to test for himself the
various reports he had received concerning this wild
rose of Devonshire.
The lady entered. The hope died from Ath el-
wold's eyes ; the pallor of death overspread his face.
A sudden light flashed into the face of the king, a
glow made up of passion and anger. For instead
of the ill-dressed and awkward country housewife
for whom Athelwold looked, there beamed upon all
present a woman of regal beauty, clad in her richest
attu'e, her charms of face and person set off with all
THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA. 25
the adornment that jewels and laces could bcf<tow,
her face blooming into its most engaging smile as
ehe greeted the king.
She had deceived her trusting husband. His story
of treachery had driven from her heart all the love
for him that ever dwelt there. He had robbed her
of a throne ; she vowed revenge in her soul ; it might
be hers yet ; with the burning instinct of ambition
she had adorned herself to the utmost, hoping to
punish her foithless lord an-d win the king.
She succeeded. While Athelwold stood by, biting
his lips, striving to bring back the truant blood to his
face, making hesitating remarks to his guest, and
turning eyes of deadly anger on his wife, the scheming
woman was using her most engaging arts of conver-
sation and manner to win the king, and with a suc-
cess greater than she knew. Edgar beheld her
beauty with surprise and joy, his heart throbbing
with ardent passion. She was all and more than ho
had been told. Athelwold had basely deceived him,
and his new-born love for the wife was mingled with
a fierce desire for revenge upon the husband. But
the artful monarch dissembled both these passions,
lie was, to a certain extent, in Athclwold's power.
His train was not large, and those were days in which
an angry or jealous thane would not hesitate to lift
his hand against a king. He, therefore, affected not to
be struck with Elfrida's beauty, was gracious as usual
to his host, and seemed the most agreeable of guests.
But passion was burning in his heart, the double
passion of love and revenge. A day or two of this
play of kingly clemency passed, then Athelwold and
B 3
26 HISTORICAL TALES.
his guests went to hunt in the neighboring forest, and
in the heat of the chase Edgar gained the opportunity
he desired. He stabbed his unsuspecting host in the
back, left him dead on the field, and rode back to the
castle to declare his love to the suddenly-widowed
wife.
Elfrida had won the game for which she had so
heartlessly played. Ambition in her soul outweighed
such love as she bore for Athelwold, and she received
with gracious welcome the king whose hands were
still red from the murder of her late spouse. No
long time passed before Edgar and Elfrida were pub-
licly married, and the love romance which had dis-
tinguished the life of the famed beauty of Devonshire
reached its consummation.
This romantic story has a sequel which tells still
less favorably for the Devonshire beauty. She had
compassed the murder of her husband. It was not
her last crime. Edgar died when her son Ethelred
was but seven years of age. The king had left
another son, Edward, by his first wife, now fifteen
years old. The ambitious woman plotted for the
elevation of her son to the throne, hoping, doubtless,
herself to reign as regent. The people favored
Edward, as the rightful heir, and the nobility and
clergy, who feared the imperious temper of Elfrida,
determined to thwart her schemes. To put an end
to the matter, Dunstan the monk, the all-powerful
king-maker of that epoch, had the young prince
anointed and crowned. The whole kingdom sup-
ported his act, and the hopes of Elfrida were Heem-
ingly at an end.
THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA. 27
But she was a woman not to be easilj- defeated.
She bided her time, and affected warm regard for the
youthful king, who loved her as if he had been her
own son, and displayed the most tender affection for
his brother. Edward, indeed, was a character out
of tone with those rude tenth-century days, when
might was right, and murder was often the first step
to a throne. He was of the utmost innocence of
heart and amiability of manners, so pure in his own
thoughts that susjjicion of others found no place in
his soul.
One day, four years after his accession, he waj)
hunting in a forest in Dorsetshire, not far from
Corfe-castle, where Elfrida and Etheli-ed lived. The
chances of the chase led him to the vicinity of the
castle, and, taking advantage of the opportunity to
see its loved inmates, he rode away from his attend-
ants, and in the evening twilight sounded his hunting-
horn at the castle gates.
This was the opportunity which the ambitious
woman had desired. The rival of her son had put
himself unattended within her reach. Hastily pre-
paring for the reception she designed to give him,
she came from the castle, smiling a greeting.
" You are heartily welcome, dear king and son,"
she said. " Pray dismount and enter."
" Not so, dear madam," he replied. " My company
will miss me, and fear I have met with some harm.
I pray you give me a cup of wine, that I may drink
in the saddle to you and my httle brother. I would
stay longer, but may not linger."
Elfrida returned for the wine, and as she did so
28 HISTORICAL TALES.
whispered a few words to an armed man in the castle
hall, one of her attendants whom she could trust.
As she went on, this man slipped out in the gathering
gloom and placed himself close behind the king's
horse.
In a minute more Elfrida reappeared, wine-cup in
hand. The king took the cup and raised it to his lips,
looking down with smiling face on his step-mother
and her son, who smiled their love-greeting back to
him. At this instant the lurking villain in the rear
sprang up and buried his fatal knife in the king's
back.
Filled M'ith pain and horror, Edward involuntarily-
dropped the cup and spurred his horse. The startled
animal sprang forward, Edward clinging to his saddle
for a few minutes, but soon, faint with loss of blood,
falling to the earth, while one of his feet remained
ftist in the stirrup.
The frightened horse rushed onward, dragging him
over the rough ground until death put an end to his
misery. The hunters, seeking the king, found the
track of his blood, and traced him till his body was
discovered, sadly torn and disfigured.
Meanwhile, the child Ethelred cried out so pitifully
at the frightful tragedy which had taken place before
his eyes, that his heartless mother turned her rage
ajrainst him. She snatched a torch from one of the
attendants and beat him unmercifully for his uncon-
trollable emotion.
The woman a second time had won her game, —
first, by compassing the murder of her husband ;
second, by ordering the murder of her step-son. It
THE WOOING OF ELFRIIU 29
is pleasant to say that she profited little by the latter
base deed. The people were incensed by the murder
of the king, and Dunstan resolved that Ethelred
should not have the throne. He offered it to Edgitha,
the daughter of Edgar. But that lady wisely pre-
ferred to remain in the convent where she lived in
peace ; so, in default of any other heir, Ethelred was
put upon the throne, — Ethelred the Unready, as ho
came afterwards to be known.
Elfrida at first possessed great influence over her
son ; but her power declined as he grew older, and iu
the end she retired from the court, built monasteries
and performed penances, in hopes of providing a
refuge for her pious soul in heaven, since all men hated
her upon the earth.
As regards Edward, his tragical death so aroused
the sympathy of the people that they named him
the Martyr, and believed that miracles were wrought
at his tomb. It cannot be said that his murder was
in any sense a martyrdom, but the men of that day
did not draw fine lines of distinction, and Edward
the Martyr he remains.
KING ALFRED AND THE DANES,
In his royal villa at Chippenham, on the left bank
of the gently-flowing Avon, sat King Alfred, buried
in his books. It was the evening of the 6th of Jan-
uary, in the year 878, a thousand years and more
backward in time. The first of English kings to
whom a book had a meaning, — and the last for cen-
turies afterwards, — Alfred, the young monarch, had
an insatiable thirst for knowledge, a thirst then diffi-
cult to quell, for books were almost as rare as gold-
mines in that day. When a mere child, his mother
had brought to him and his brothers a handsomely
illuminated book, saying, —
" I will give this to that one of you four princes
who first learns to read."
Alfred won the book ; so far as we know, he alone
sought to win it, for the art of reading in those early
times was confined to monks, and disdained by
princes. Ignorance lay like a dismal cloud over
England, ignorance as dense as the heart of the
Dark Ages knew. In the whole land the young
prince was almost alone in his thirst for knowledge ;
and when he made an effort to study Latin, in which
language all worthy literature was then written,
there could not be found throughout the length and
30
KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 31
breadth of the land a man competent to teach him
that Bcaled tongue.
When little more than a boy Alfred became king.
There was left him then little time for study, for the
Danes, whose ships had long been descending in
annual raids on England's shores, gave the youthful
monarch an abundance of more active service. For
years he fought them, yet in his despite Guthrum,
one of their ablest chiefs, sailed up the Severn,
seized upon a wide region of the realm of "Wessex,
made Gloucester his capital, and defied the feebly-
supported English king.
It was midwinter now, a season which the Danes
usually spent in rest and revelry, and in which Eng-
land gained some relief from their devastating raids.
Alfred, dreaming of aught but war, was at home
with his slender store of much-beloved books in his
villa at Chippenham. With him were a few of his
thanes and a small body of anned attendants, their
enjoyment the pleasures of the chase and the rude
sports of that early period. Doubtless, what they
deemed the womanish or monkish tastes of their
young monarch were objects of scorn and ridicule to
those hardy thanes, upon whom ignorance lay like a
thick garment. Yet Alfred could fight as well as
read. They might disdain his pursuits ; they must
respect his prowess.
While the king lay thus in ease at Chippenham, his
enemies at Gloucester seemed lost in enjoyment of
their spoils. Guthrum had divided the surrounding
lands among his victorious followers, the Saxons had
been di'iven out, slain, or enslaved, and the brutal
32 HISTORICAL TALES.
and barbarous victors dwelt in peace and revelry on
their new lands, spending the winter in riot and
wassail, and waiting for the spring-time budding of
the trees to renew the war with their Saxon foes.
Not so with Guthrum. He had sw-orn revenge on
the Saxons. Years before, his father, a mighty chief-
tain, Eagnar by name, had fallen in a raid on Eng-
land. His sons had vowed to Odin to wash out the
memory of his death in English blood, and Guthrum
now determined to take advantage of the midwinter
season for a sudden and victorious march upon his
unsuspecting enemy. If he could seize Alfred in his
palace, the war might be brought to an end, and Eng-
land won, at a single blow.
If we can take ourselves back in fancy to New-
Year's day of 878, and to an open plain in the vicin-
ity of Gloucester, we shall see there the planted
standard of Guthrum floating in the wind, while from
every side armed horsemen are riding into the sur-
rounding space. They know not why they come. A
hasty summons has been sent them to meet their
chieftain here on this day, armed and mounted, and,
loyal to their leader, and ever ready for war, they
ride hastily in, until the Danish champion finds him-
self surrounded by a strong force of hardy warriors,
eager to learn the cause of this midwinter summons.
" It is war," said Guthrum to his chiefs. " I have
sworn to have England, and England shall be mine.
The Saxons are scattered and at rest, not dreaming
of battle and blood. Now is our time. A hard and
sudden blow will end the war, and the fair isle of
England will bo the Raven's spoil."
KINO ALFRED AND THE DANES. 33
We may still hear in fancy the wild shouts of
approval with which this stirring declaration was
heard. Visions of slaughter, plunder, and rich do-
mains filled the souls of chiefs and men alike, and
their eagerness to take to the field was such that
they could barely wait to hear their leader's plans.
" Alfred, the Saxon king, must be ours," said Guth-
rum. " lie is the one man I dread in all the Saxon
hosts. They have manj^ hands, but only one head.
Let us seize the head, and the hands are useless.
Alfred is at Chippenham. Thither let us ride at
Bpecd."
Their bands were mustered, their arms examined,
and food for the expedition prepared, and then to
horse and away I Headlong over the narrow and
forest-bordered roads of that day rode the host of
Danes, iu triumphant expectation of victory and
spoil.
In his study sat Alfred, on the night of January
6, poring over an illuminated page ; or mayhap he
was deep in learned consultation with some monkish
scholar, mayhap presiding at a feast of his thanes:
we may fancy what we will, for history or legend
fails to tell us how he was engaged on that critical
evening of his life.
But we may imagine a wide-eyed Saxon sontinel,
Beared and hasty, breaking upon the mouarchV
leisure with the wild alarm-crj', —
" Up and away, my king! The Danes are coming!
hosts of them, armed and horsed ! Up and away !"
Hardly had he sfoken before the hoof-beats of
the advancing foe wore heard. On they came, ex-
II. — a
34 HISTORICAL TALES.
tending their lines as they rode at headlong speed,
hoping to surround the villa and seize the king be-
fore the alarm could be given.
They were too late. Alfred was quick to hear, to
heed, and to act. Forest bordered the villa; hito
the forest he dashed, his followers following in tu«
multuous haste. The Danes made what haste the
obstructions in their way permitted. In a few min-
utes they had swept round the villa, with ringing
shouts of triumph. In a few minutes more they
were treading its deserted halls, Guthrum at their
head, furious to find that his hoped-for prey had
vanished and left him but the empty shell of his
late home.
"After him!" cried the furious Dane. "He can-
not be far. This place is full of signs of life. He
has fled into the forest. After him ! A king's prize
for the man who seizes him."
In vain their search, the flying king knew his own
woods too well to be overtaken by the Danes. Yet
their far cries filled his ears, and roused him to
thoughts of desperate resistance. He looked around
on his handful of valiant followers.
" Let us face them !" he cried, in hot anger. " We
are few, but we fight for our homes. Let us meet
these baying hounds !"
*' No, no," answBred the wisest of his thanes. " It
would be worse than rash, it would be madness.
They are twenty — a hundred, mayhap — to our one.
Let us fly now, that we may fight hereafter. All ia
not lost while our king is free, and we to aid him."
Alfred was quick to see the wisdom of this advice.
KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 35
IIo must bido his time. To strike now might be to
lose all. To wait might be to gain uU. lio turned
■with a meaning look to his faithful thanes.
" In sooth, you speak well," he said. " The wisdom
of the fox is now better than the courage of the
lion. Wo must part here. The land for the time is
the Danes'. We cannot hinder them. They will
search homestead and woodland for me. Before a
fortnight's end they will have swarmed over all
Wessex, and Guthrum will be lord of the land. I
admire that man ; he is more than a barbarian, he
knows the art of war. He shall learn yet that
Alfred is his match. We must part."
"Part?" said the thanes, looking at him in doubt.
" Wherefore ?"
"I must seek safety alone and in disguise. There
are not enough of you to help me ; there are enough
to betray me to suspicion. Go your ways, good
friends. Save yourselves. We will meet again be-
fore many weeks to strike a blow for our countrj'-.
But the time is not yet."
History speaks not from the depths of that wood-
land whither Alfred had fled with his thanes. Wo
cannot say if just these words were spoken, but such
was the purport of their discourse. They separated,
the thanes and their followers to seek their homos ;
Alfred, disguised as a peasant, to thread field and
forest on foot towards a place of retreat which he
had fixed upon in his mind. Not even to the fi\ith-
fullest of his thanes did he tell the secret of his
abode. For the present it must be known to nouo
but himself.
36 HISTORICAL TALES.
Meanwhile, the cavalry of Guthrum were raidiug
the country far and wide. Alfred had escaped, but
England lay helpless in their grasp. News travelled
slowly in those days. Everywhere the Saxons first
learned of the war by hearing the battle-cry of the
Danes. The land was overrun. England seemed
losi. Its only hope of safety lay in a man who
would not acknowledge defeat, a monarch who could
bide his time.
The lonely journey of the king led him to the
centre of Somersetshire. Here, at the confluence
of the Tone and the Parret, was a small island,
afterwards known as Ethelingay, or Prince's Island.
Around it spread a wide morass, little likely to be
crossed by his pursuers. Here, still disguised, the
fugitive king sought a refuge from his foes.
For several months Alfred remained in this re-
treat, his place of refuge during part of the time
being in the hut of a swineherd ; and thereupon
hangs a tale. Whether or not the worthy herdsman
knew his king, certainly the weighty secret was not
known to his wife. One day, while Alfred sat by
the fire, his hands busy with his bow and arrows,
his head mayhap busy with plans against the Danes,
the good woman of the house was engaged in baking
cakes on the hearth.
Having to leave the hut for a few minutes, she
turned to her guest, and curtly bade him watch the
l&i^ces, to see that they did not get overdone.
" Trust me for that," he said.
She left the room. The cakes smoked on the
hearth, yet he saw them not. The goodw'fe ro»
KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 37
turned in a brief space, to find her guest buried in
a deep study, and her cakes burned to a cinder.
" What !" she cried, with an outburst of termagant
Bpleen, " I warrant you will be ready enough to eat
them by-and-by, you idle dog! and yet you cannot
Avatch them burning under your very eyes."
What the king said in reply the tradition which has
preserved this pleasant tale fails to relate. Doubtless
it needed some of the swineherd's eloquence to induce
his irate wife to bake a fresh supply for their careless
guest.
It had been Guthrura's main purpose, as we may
be assured, in his rapid ride to Chippenham, to seize
the king. In this he had failed ; but the remainder
of his project went successfully forward. Through
Dorset, Berkshire, Wilts, and Hampshire rode his
men, forcing the people everywhere to submit. The
country was thinly settled, none knew the fate of
the king, resistance would have been destruction
they bent before the storm, hoping by yielding to
save their lives and some portion of their property
from the barbarian foe. Those near the coast crossed
with their families and movable effects to Gaul.
Elsewhere submission was general, except in Somer-
setshire, where alone a body of faithful warriors,
lurking in the woods, kept in arms against the in-
vaders.
Alfred's secret could not yet be safely revealed.
Guthrum had not given over his search for him.
Yet some of the more trusty of his subjects were
told where he might be found, and a small band joined
him in his morass-guarded isle. Gradually tho news
4
38 HISTORICAL TALES.
spread, and others sought the isle of Ethelingay,
until a well-armed and sturdy band of followers
surrounded the royal fugitive. This party must be
fed. The island yielded Httle subsistence. The king
was obliged to make foraging raids from his hiding-
place. Now and then he rabt and defeated straggling
parties of Danes, taking from them their spoils. At
other times, when hard need pressed, he was forced
to forage on his own subjects.
Day by day the news went wider through Saxon
homes, and more warriors sought their king. As the
strength of his band increased, Alfred made more
frequent and successful forays. The Danes began
to find that resistance was not at an end. By Easter
the king felt strong enough to take a more decided
action. He had a wooden bridge thrown from tho
island to the shore, to facilitate the movements of
his followers, while at its entrance was built a fort,
to protect the island party against a Danish incursion.
Such was the state of Alfred's fortunes and of
England's hopes in the spring of 878. Three months
before, all southern England, with the exception of
Gloucester and its surrounding lands, had been his.
Now his kingdom was a small island in the heart of
a morass, his subjects a lurking band of faithful
warriors, his subsistence what could be wrested from
the strong hands of the foe.
While matters went thus in Somerset, a storm of
war gathered in Wales. Another of Eagnar's sons,
Ubbo by name, had landed on the Welsh coast, and,
carrying everything before him, was marching inland
to join his victorious brother.
KING ALFRED AND TUB DANES. 39
He was too strong for the Saxons of that quarter
to make head against him in the open field. Odun,
the valiant ealderman who led them, fled, with his
thanes and their followers, to the castle of Kwineth,
a stronghold defended only by a loose wall of stones,
in the Saxon fashion. But the fortress occupied the
summit of a lofty rock, ana bade defiance to assault.
Ubbo saw this. He saw, also, that water must be
wanting on that steep rock. He pitched his tenta
at its foot, and waited till thirst should compel a
sui'render of the garrison.
He was to find that it is not always wise to cut
off the supplies of a beleaguered foe. Despair aids
courage. A day came in the seige in which Odun,
grown desperate, left his defences before dawn, glided
silently down the hill with his men, and fell so im-
petuously upon the Danish host that the chief and
twelve hundred of his followers were slain, and tho
rest driven in panic to their ships. The camp, rich
with the spoil of Wales, fell into the victors' hands,
while their trophies included the great Eaven stand-
ard of the Danes, said to have been woven in one
noontide by Eagnai-'s three daughters. This was a
loss that presaged defeat to the Danes, for they were
superstitious concerning this standard. If the raven
appeared to flap its wings when going into battle,
victory seemed to them assured. If it hung motion-
less, defeat was feared. Its loss must have been
deemed fatal.
Tidings of this Saxon victory flew as if upon
wings throughout England, and everywhere infused
new spirit into the hearts of tho people, new hope
40 HISTORICAL TALES.
of recovering their country from the invading foo.
To Alfred the news brought a heart-tide of joy.
The time for action was at hand. Recruits came to
him daily ; fresh life was in his people ; trusty mes
sengers from Ethelingay sought the thanes through-
out the land, and bade them, with their followers, to
join the king at Egbert, on the eastern border of
Selwood forest, in the seventh week after Easter.
Guihrum, meanwhile, was not idle. The frequent
raids in mid-Somersetshire had taught him where
his royal enemy might be found. Action, immediate
and decisive, was necessary, or Alfred would be again
in the field with a Saxon army, and the fruits of the
Buccessful midwinter raid be lost. Messengers were
sent in haste to call in the scattered Danish bands,
and a fortified camp was formed in a strong place
in the vicinity of Ethelingay, whence a concerted
movement might be made upon the lurking foe.
The time fixed for the gathering of the Saxon host
was at hand. It was of high importance that the num-
bers and disposition of the Danes should be learned.
The king, if we may trust tradition, now undertook
an adventure that has ever since been classed among
the choicest treasures of romance. The duty de-
manded was too important to trust to any doubtful
hands. Alfred determined himself to venture within
the camp of the Danes, observe how they were forti-
fied and how arranged, and use this vital information
when the time for battle came.
The enterprise was less desperate than might
seem. Alfred's form and face Avere little known to
his enemies. lie was a skilful harper. The gle^
KINO ALFRED AND THE DANES. 4l
man in those days was a privileged person, allied to
no party, free to wander where ho would, ajid to
twang his harp-strings in any camp, llo might look
for welcome from friend and foe.
Dressed in Danish garb, and bearing the minstrel's
harp, the daring king boldly sought and entered the
camp of the invaders, his coming greeted with joy by
the Danish warriors, who loved martial music as they
loved war.
Songs of Danish prowess fell from the disguised
minstrel's lips, to the delight of his audience. In the
end Guthrum and his chiefs heard report of the
coming of this skilled glee-man, and ordered that ho
should be brought to the great tent, where they sat
carousing, in hopeful anticipation of coming victory.
Alfred, nothing loath, sought Guthrum's tent,
where, with stirring songs of the old heroes of their
land, he flattered the ears of the chiefs, M'ho ap-
plauded him to the echo, and at times broke into wild
refrains to his warlike odes. All that passed we can-
not say. The story is told by tradition only, and
tradition is not to be trusted for details. Doubtless,
when the roj'al spy slipped from the camp of his
foes he bore with him an accurate mind-picture of
the numbers, the discipline, and the arrangement of
the Danish force, which would be of the highest
value in the coming fray.
Meanwhile, the Saxon hosts were gathering. When
the day fixed by the king arrived they were there:
men from Hampshire, Wiltshire, Devonshire, and
Somerset; men in smaller numbers from other coun-
ties; all glad to learn that England was on its feet
4*
42 HISTORICAL TALES.
again, all filled with joy to see their king in the field.
Theh' shouts filled the leafy alleys of the forest, they
hailed the king as the land's avenger, every heart
beat high with assurance of victory. Before night
of the day of meeting the woodland camp was over-
crowded with armed men, and at dawn of the next
day Alfred led them to a place named Icglea, where,
on the forest's edge, a broad plain spread with a mo-
rass on its front. All day long volunteers came to
the camp ; by night Alfred had an army in open
field, in place of the guerilla band with which, two
days before, he had lurked in the green aisles of Sel-
wood forest, Hke a Eobin Hood of an earlier day,
making the verdant depths of the greenwood dales
his home.
At dawn of the next day the king marshalled his
men in battle ari-ay, and occujjied the summit of
Ethandune, a lofty eminence in the vicinity of his
camp. The Danes, fiery with barbaric valor, boldly
advanced, and the two armies met in fierce affray,
shouting their war-cries, discharging arrows and
hurling javelins, and rushing like wolves of war to
the closer and more deadly hand-to-hand combat of
Bword and axe, of the shock of the contending forces,
the hoj^es and fears of victory and defeat, the deeds
of desperate valor, the mighty achievements of noted
chiefs, on that hard-fought field no Homer has sung,
and they must remain untold. All we know is that
the Danes fought with desperate valor, the English
with a courage inspired by revenge, fear of slavery,
thirst for liberty, and the undaunted resolution of men
whose every blow was struck for home and fireside.
KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 43
In the end patriotism prevailed over the baser
instinct of piracy; the Danes were defeated, and
driven in tumultuous hosts to their intrenched camp,
falling in multitudes as they fled, for the incensed
English laid aside all thought of mercy in the hot
fury of pursuit.
Only Avhcn within the shelter of his works was
Guthrum able to make head against his victorious
foe. The camp seemed too strong to be taken by
assault, nor did Alfred care to immolate his men
while a safer and surer expedient remained. He had
made himself fully familiar with its formation, knew
well its weak and strong points and its sparseness of
supplies, and wilhout loss of time spread his Ibrces
round it, besieging it so closely that not a Dane could
escape. For fourteen days the siege went on, Al-
fred's army, no doubt, daily increasing, that of his
foe wasting away before the ceaseless flight of arrows
and javelins.
Guthrum was in despair. Famine threatened him.
Escape was impossible. Hardly a bird could have
fled unseen through the English lines. At the end
of the fortnight he yielded, and asked for terms of
surrender. The war was at an end. England was
saved.
Ir. his moment of victory Alfred proved generous.
He gave the Danes an abiding-])lace upon English
soil, on condition that they should dwell there as his
vassals. To this they were to bind themselves by
oath and the giving of hostages. Another condition
was that Guthrum and his leading chiefs should give
up their pagan faith and embrace Christianity.
4i HISTORICAL TALES.
To these terms the Danish leader acceded. A few
weeks after the fight Aubre, near Athehiey, A?vas the
scene of the baptizal of Guthrum and thirty of his
chiefs. His heathen title had added to it the Saxon
name of Athelstan, Alfred standing sponsor to the
new convert to the Christian faith. Eight days
afterwards Guthrum laid off the white robe and chrys-
mal fillet of his new faith, and in twelve days bade
adieu to his victorious foe, now, to all seeming, his
dearest friend. What sum of Christian faith the
baptized heathen took with him to the new lands
assigned him it would be rash to say.
The treaty of Wedmore freed southern England
from the Danes. The shores of Wessex were teased
now and then by after-descents, but these incursions
were swept away like those of stinging hornets. In
894 a fleet of three hundred ships invaded the realm,
but they met a crushing defeat. The king was given
some leisure to pursue those studies to which his
mind so strongly inclined, and to carry forward
measures for the education of his people by the es-
tablishment of schools which, like those of Charle-
mao-ne in France, vanished before he was fairly in
the gi-ave. This noble knight died in 901, nearly
a thousand years ago, after having proved himself
one of the ablest warriors and most advanced minda
that ever occupied the English throne.
THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND,
"We have two pictures to draw, preliminary scenes
to the fatal battle of Hastings Hill. The first belongs
to the morning of September 25, 1066. At Stamford
Bridge, on the Derwent River, lay encamped a stal-
wart host, that of Harold Hardrada, king of Norway.
With him was Tostig, rebel brother of King Hai'old
of England, w'ho had brought this army of strangers
into the land. On the river near by lay their ships.
Here Harold found them, a formidable force, drawn
up in a circle, the line marked out by shining spears.
The English king had marched hither in all haste
from the coast, where he had been awaiting the
coming of William of Normandy. Tostig, the rebel
son of Godwin, had brought ruin upon the land.
Before the battle commenced, twenty horsemen
rode out from Harold's vanguard and moved towards
the foe, Harold, the king, rode at their head. As
they drew near they saw a leader of the opposing
host, chid in a blue mantle and wearing a shining
helmet, fall to the earth through the stumbling of
his horse.
" Who is the man that fell?" asked Harold.
" The king of Norway," answered one of his
companions.
46
46 HISTORICAL TALES.
'•He is a tall and stately warrior," answered Har-
old, " but his end is near."
Then, under command of the king, one of his
noble followers rode up to the ojiposing line and
called out, —
" Is Tostig, the son of Godwin, here ?"
" It would be wrong to say he is not," answered
the rebel Englishman, stepping into view.
The herald then begged him to make peace with
his brother, saying that it was dreadful that two
men, sons of the same mother, should be in arms
against each other.
" What will Harold give me if I make peace with
him ?" asked Tostig.
" He will give you a brother's love and make you
carl of JSTorthumberland."
" And what will he give to my friend, the king of
ISTorway ?"
" Seven feet of earth for a grave," was the grim
answer of the envoy ; " or, as he seems a very tall
man, perhaps a foot or two more."
" Eide back, then," said Tostig, " and bid Harold
make ready for battle. Whatever happens, it shall
never be said of Tostig that he basely gave up the
friend who had helped him in time of need."
The fight began, — and quickly ended. Hardrada
fought like a giant, but an arrow in his throat brought
him dead to the ground. Tostig fell also, and many
other chiefs. The Northmen, disheartened, yielded.
Harold gave them easy terms, bidding them take
their ships and sail again to the land whence they
had come.
THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 47
This "warlike picture on the land may be matched
by one upon the sea. Over the waves of the English
Channel moved a single ship, such a one as has rarely
been seen upon those waters. Its sails were of dif-
ferent bright colors; the vanes at the mast-heada
were gilded ; the three lions of Normandy wei-e
painted here and there; the figure-head was a child
with a bent bow, its arrow pointed towards the land
of England. At the mainmast-head floated a conse-
crated banner, which had been sent from Rome.
It was the ship of William of Normandy, alone
upon the waves. Three thousand vessels in all had
left with it the shores of France, six or seven hundred
of them large in size. Now, day was breaking, and
the king's ship was alone. The others had vanished
in the night.
William ordered a sailor to the mast-head to report
on what he could see.
" I see nothing but the water and the sky," came
the lookout's cry from above.
" We have outsailed them ; we must lay to," said
the duke.
Breakfast was served, with warm spiced wine, to
keep the crew in good heart. After it was over the
Bailor was again sent aloft.
"I can see four ships, low down in the offing," ho
proclaimed.
A tliird time he was sent to the mast-head. ITis
voice now came to those on deck filled with merry
cheer.
" Now I see a forest of masts and sails," he cried.
Within a few hours afterwards the Normans were
48 HISTORICAL TALES.
landing in Pevensey Bay, on the Sussex coast.
Harold had been drawn off by the invasion in the
north, and the new invaders were free to land.
Duke William was among the first. As he set foot
on shoi-e he stumbled and fell. The hearts of his
knights fell with him, for they deemed this an un-
lucky sign. But William had that ready wit which
turns ill into good fortune. Grasping two handfuls
of the soil, he hastily rose, saying, cheerily, " Thus
do I seize upon the land of England."
Meanwhile, Harold was feasting, after his victory,
at York. As he sat there with his captains, a stir
was heard at the doors, and in rushed a messenger,
booted and spurred, and covered with dust from
riding fast and far.
" The Normans have come !" was his cry. " They
have landed at Pevensey Bay. They are out already,
harrying the land. Smoke and fire are the beacons
of their march."
That feast came to a sudden end. Soon Harold
and his men were in full march for London. Here
recruits were gathered in all haste. Within a week
the English king was marching towaias wuei-w the
Normans lay encamped. He was counselled to
remain and gather more men, leaving some one else
to lead his army.
"Not so," he replied; "an English king must
never turn his back to the enemy."
We have now a third picture to draw, and a great
one, — that of the mighty and momentous conflict
which ended in the death of the last of the Saxon
kings, and the Norman conquest of England.
THE END OP SAXON ENGLAND. 49
Tho force of William greatly outnumbered that of
Harold. It comprised about sixty thousand men,
while Harold had but twenty or thirty thousand.
And the Xormans were more powerfully armed, the
English having few archers, while many of them
were hasty recruits who bore only pitchforks and
other tools of their daily toil. Tho English king,
therefore, did not dare to meet the heavily-armed
and mail-clad Normans in the open field. Wisely ho
led his men to tho hill of Senlac, near Hastings, a
Bpot now occupied by the small town of Battle, so
named in memory of the great fight. Here he built
intrenchments of earth, stones, and tree-trunks, be-
hind which he waited the Norman assault. Marshy
ground covered the English right. In front, at tho
most exposed position, stood the " huscarls," or body-
guard, of Harold, men clad in mail and armed with
great battle-axes, their habit being to interlock their
shields like a wall. In their midst stood the standard
of Harold, — with the figure of a warrior worked in
gold and gems,-^and beside it the Golden Dragon of
Wessex, a banner of ancient fame. Back of them
wore crowded tho half-armed rustics who made up
tho remainder of the army.
Duke William had sought, by ravaging the land,
to bring Harold to an engagement. He had until
now subsisted by plunder. He was now obliged to
concentrate his forces. A concentrated army cannot
feed by pillage. There was but one thing for the
Norman leader to do. He must attack the foe in
his strong position, with victory or ruin as his only
alternatives.
II. — c d 6
50 HISTORICAL TALES.
The uight before the battle was diflferently passed
by the two armies. The Normans spent the hours
in prayer and confession to their priests. 13ishop
Odo celebrated mass on the field as day dawned, his
white episcopal vestment covering a coat of mail,
while war-horse and battle-axe awaited him when
the benediction should be spoken. The English, ou
their side, sat round their watch-fires, drinking great
horns of ale, and singing warlike lays, as their custom
for centuries had been. In which camp was the
most real piety none less than a saint could have
told.
Day had not dawned on that memorable 14th of
October, of the year 10G6, when both sides were in
arms and busily preparing for battle. William and
Harold alike harangued their men and bade them do
their utmost for victory. Euin awaited the one side,
slavery the other, if defeat fell upon their banners.
Wilham rode a fine Spanish horse, which a Nor-
man had brought from Galicia, whither he had gone
on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. lago. The con-
secrated standard was borne by his side by one Ton-
stain, " the White," two barons having declined tho
dangerous honor. Behind him rode the pride of the
Norman nobility.
On the hill-side before them stood Harold and his
stout body-guard, trenches and earthworks in their
front, their shields locked into a wall of iron. In
the first line stood the men of Kent, this being their
ancient privilege. Behind them were ranged the
burgesses of London, the royal standard in their
midst. Beside the standard stood Harold himself,
THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 51
his brothers Gurth and Lcofwin by his side, and
around them a group of England's noblest thanes
and warriors.
On came the Norman column. Stcadil}'- awaited
them the English phalanx. "Dieu aide!" or "God
is our help !" shouted the assailing knights. " Christ's
rood ! the holy rood !" roared back the English war-
riors. Nearer they came, till they looked in each
other's eyes, and the battle was ready to begin.
And now, from the van of the Norman host, rode
a man of renown, the minstrel Taillcfer. A gigantic
man he was, singer, juggler, and champion combined.
As he rode fearlessly forward he chanted in a loud
voice the ancient "Song of Eoland," flinging his
sword in the air with one hand as he sang, and catch-
ing it as it fell with the other. As he sang, the Nor-
mans took up the refrain of his song, or shouted
their battle cry of " Dieu aide."
Onward he rode, thrusting his blade through the
body of the first Englishman he met. The second
he encountered was flung wounded to the ground.
With the third the "Song of Eoland" ended; the
giant minstrel was hurled from his horse pierced with
a mortal wound. He had sung his last song. lie
crossed himself and was at rest.
On came the Normans, the band of knights led
by William assailing Harold's centre, the mercenary
host of French and Bretons attacking his flanks.
The Norman foot led the van, seeking to force a
passage across the English stockade. " Out, out !"
fiercely shouted the men of Kent, as they plied axe
and javelin with busy hands. The footmen wero
52 HISTORICAL TALES.
driven back. The ISTorman horse in turn were r8«
pulsed. Again and again the duke rallied and let'
his knights to the fatal stockade; again and agaii
he and his men were driven back. The blood of tht
J^orseman in his veins burned with all the old Yikine
battle-thirst. The headlong valor which he hac
often shown on ISTorman plains now impelled him re
Icntlessly forward. Yet his coolness and readinesp
never forsook him. The course of the battle evei
lay before his eyes, its reins in his grasp. At one
time during the combat the choicest of the Normar
cavalry were driven upon a deep trench which the
English had dug and artfully concealed. In thex
went in numbers, men and horses falling and per
ishing. Disaster threatened Duke William's army
The Bretons, checked by the marshes on the right
broke in disorder. Panic threatened to spreac
through the whole array, and a wild cry arose that
the duke was slain. Men in numbers turned theij
backs upon the foe ; a headlong flight was begun.
At this almost fatal moment Duke William's powei
as a leader revealed itself. His horse had been
killed, but no harm had come to him. Springing tc
the back of a fresh steed, he spurred before the
fugitives, bade them halt, threatened them, struck
them with his spear. When the cry was repeated
that the duke M'as dead, he tore off his helmet and
showed his face to the flying host. '' Here I am !"
he cried, in a stentorian voice. " Look at me ! I live,
and by God's help will conquer yet !"
Their leader's voice gave new courage to the Her-
man host ; the flight ceased ; they rallied, and, fol-
THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 53
lowing tho headlong charge of the duke, attacked
the English with renewed fierceness and vigor. Wil-
liam fought like an aroused lion. Horse after horso
was killed under him, but ho still appeared at the
head of his men, shouting his terrible war-cry,
striking down a foeman with every swing of his
mighty iron club
He broke through the stockade ; ho spurred fu-
riously on those who guarded the king's standard ;
down went Gyrth, the king's brother, before a blow
of that terrible mace ; down went Leofwin, a second
brother of the king ; William's horse fell dead under
him, a rider refused to lend him his horse, but a blow
from that strong mailed hand emptied the saddle,
and William was again horsed and using his mighty
weapon with deadly effect.
Yet despite all his efforts the English line of do-
fence remained unbroken. That linked wall of
shields stood intact. From behind it tho terrible
battle-axes of Harold's men swung like flails, making
crimson gaps in the crowded ranks before them.
Hours had passed in this conflict. It began with
day-dawn; the day was waning, yet still the English
held their own ; the fate of England hung in tho
scale; it began to look as if Harold would wm.
But Duke William was a man of resources. That
wall of shields must be rent asunder, or the battle
was lost. If it could not bo broken by assault, it
might by retreat. He bade the men around him to
feign a disorderly flight. The trick succeeded ; many
of the English leaped the stockade and pursued their
flying foes. The craft}- duke waited until the eager
6*
54 HISTORICAL TALES.
pursuers wero scattered confusedly down the hilL
Then, heading a body of horse which ho had kept
in reacrve, he rushed upon the disordered mass, cut-
ting them down in multitudes, strewing the hill-sido
with English slain.
Through the abandoned works the duke led his
knights, and gained the central plateau. On the
flanks the French and Bretons poured over the stock-
ade and drove back its poorly-armed defenders. It
was mid-afternoon, and the field already seemed
won. Yet when the sunset hour came on that red
October day the battle still raged. Harold had lost
his works of defence, yet his huscarlg stood stub-
bornly around him, and with unyielding obstinacy
fought for their standard and their king. The spot
on which they made their last fight was that marked
afterwards by the high altar of Battle Abbey.
The sun was sinking. The battle was not yet de-
cided. For nine hours it had raged. Dead bodies
by thousands clogged the field. The living fought
from a platform of the dead. At length, as the sun
was nearing the horizon, Duke William brought up
his archers and bade them pour their arrows upon
the dense masses crowded around the standard of
the English king. He ordered them to shoot into
the air, that the descending shafts might fall upon
the faces of the foe.
Victory followed the flight of those plumed shafts.
As the sun went down one of them pierced Harold's
right eye. When they saw him fall the Normans
rushed like a torrent forward, and a desperate con-
flict ensued over the fallen king. The Saxon stand-
THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 55
ard Etill waved over the serried English ranks.
Kobert Fitz ErncHt, a Norman knight, fought his
way to the staff. His outstretched hand had nearly-
grasped it when an English battle-axe laid him low.
Twenty knights, grouped in mass, followed him
through the English phalanx. Down they went
till ten of them lay stretched in death. The other
ten reached the spot, tore down the English flag,
and in a few minutes more the consecrated banner
of Normandy was flying in its stead.
The conflict was at an end. As darkness came
tiie surviving English fled into the woods in their
rear. The Normans remained masters of the field.
Harold, the king, was dead, and all his brothers had
fallen ; Duke William was England's lord. On the
very spot where Harold had fallen the conqueror
pitched his tent, and as darkness settled over van-
quished England he "sate down to eat and drink
among the dead."
No braver fight had ever been made than that
which Harold made for England. The loss of the
Normans had been enormous. On the day after the
battle the survivors of William's army were drawn
up in lino, and the muster-roll called. To a fourth
of the names no answer was returned. Among the
dead were many of the noblest lords and bravest
knights of Normandy. Yet there were hungry
nobles enough left to absorb all the fairest domains
of Saxon England, and they crowded eagerly around
the duke, pressing on him their claims. A new roll
was prepared, containing the names of the noblemen
and gentlemen who had survived the bloody fight.
56 HISTORICAL TALES.
This was afterwards deposited in Battle Abbey,
which William had built upon the hill where Harold
made his gallant stand.
The body of the slain king was not easily to be
found. Harold's aged mother, who had lost threo
brave sons in the battle, offered Duke William its
weight in gold for the body of the king. Two
monks sought for it, but in vain. The Norman sol-
diers had despoiled the dead, and the body of a king
could not be told among that heap of naked corpses.
In the end the monks sent for Editha, a beautiful
maiden to whom Harold had been warmly attached,
and begged her to search for her slain lover.
Editha, the *' swan-necked," as some chroniclers
term her, groped, with eyes half-blinded with tears,
through that heap of mutilated dead, her soul filled
with horror, yet seeking on and on until at length
her love-true eyes saw and knew the face of the
king. Harold's body was taken to Waltham Abbey,
on the river Lea, a place he had loved when alive.
Here he was interred, his tomb bearing the simple
inscription, placed there by the monks of Waltham,
" Here lies the unfortunate Harold I"
HEREWARD THE WAKE.
Through the mist of the far past of English his-
tory there looms up before our vision a notable figure,
that of Hereward the "VYake, the " last of the Saxons,"
as ho has been appropriately called, a hero of romance
perhaps more than of history, but in some respects
the noblest warrior who fought for Saxon England
against the Normans. His story is a fabric in which
threads of fact and fancy seem equally interwoven ;
of much of his life, indeed, we are ignorant, and tra-
dition has surrounded this part of his biography
with tales of largely imaginary deeds ; but he is a
character of history as well as of folk lore, and his
true story is full of the richest elements of romance.
It is this noteworthy hero of old England with whom
wo have now to deal.
JSTo ono can be sure where ITereward was born,
though most probably the county of Lincolnshire
may claim the honor. We are told that he was heir
to the lordship of Eourne, in that county. Tradition
— for we have not yet reached the borders of fact —
Bays that he was a wild and unruly youth, disre-
spectful to the clergy, disobedient to his parents,
and so generally unmanageable that in the end his
father banished him from his home, — if it were not
67
58 HISTORICAL TALES.
the clergy or the king that had to do with his ban-
ishment.
Little was the truculent lad troubled by this. Ho
had in him the spirit of a wanderer and outlaw, but
was one fitted to make his mark wherever his feet
should fall. In Scotland, while still a boy, he killed,
single-handed, a great bear, — a feat highly consid-
ered in those days when all battles with man and
beast were hand to hand. Next we hear of him
in Cornwall, one of whose race of giants Hereward
found reserved for his prowess. This was a fellow
of mighty limb and boastful tongue, vast in strength
and terrible in war, as his own tale ran. Hereward
fought him. and the giant ceased to boast. Corn-
wall had a giant the less. Next he sought Ireland,
and did yeoman service in the wars of that unquiet
island. Taking ship thence, he made his way to
Flanders, where legend credits him with wonderful
deeds. Battle and bread were the nutriment of his
existence, the one as necessary to him as the other,
and a journey of a few hundreds of miles, with the
hope of a hard fight at the end, was to him but &
holiday.
Such is the Hereward to whom tradition introduces
us, an idol of popular song and story, and doubtless
a warrior of unwonted courage and skill, agile and
strong, ready for every toil and danger, and so keenly
alert and watchful that men called him the "Wake.
This vigorous and valiant man w^as born to be the hero
and champion of the English, in their final struggle"
for freedom against their Norman foes.
A new passion eut'^red Here ward's soul in Flanders,
HEREWARD TUE WAKE. 59
that of love. He met and wooed there a fair lady, Tor-
frida by name, who became his wife. A faithful
helpmeet she proved, his good comrade in his wan-
derings, his wise counsellor in warfare, and ever
a softening influence in the fierce warrior's life.
llitherlo the sword had been his mistress, his temper
the turbulent and hasty one of the dweller in camp.
Henceforth he owed a divided allegiance to love and
the sword, and grew softer in mood, gentler and
more merciful in disposition, as life went on.
To this wandering Englishman beyond the seas
came tidings of sad disasters in his native land.
Harold and his army had been overthrown at Hast^
ings, and Norman William was on the throne ; Nor-
man earls had everywhere seized on English manors ;
Norman churls, ennobled on the field of battle, were
robbing and enslaving the old owners of the land.
The English had risen in the north, and ^yilliara had
harried whole counties, leaving a desert where he
had found a fertile and flom-ishing land. The suffer-
ings of the English at home touched the heart of
this genuine Englishman abroad. Hcreward the
Wake gathered a band of stout warriors, took ship,
and set sail for his native land.
And now, to a largo extent, we leavo the realm of
legend, and enter the domain of fact. Hereward
henceforth is a historical character, but a history
his with shreds of romance still clinging to its skirts.
Eirst of all, story credit.s him with descending on his
ancestral hall of Bourne, then in the possession of
Normans, his father driven from his domain, and
now in his grave. Hereward dealt with the Nor-
60 HISTORICAL TALES.
mans as Ulysses had done with the suitors, and when
the hall was his there were few of them left to tell
the tale. Thence, not caring to be cooped up by the
enemy within stone walls, he marched merrily away,
and sought a safer refuge elsewhere.
This descent upon Bourne we should like to accept
as fact. It has in it the elements of risjhtcous retri-
bution. But we must admit that it is one of tho
shreds of romance of which we have spoken, one
of those interesting stories which men behevo to be
true because they would like them to be true, — pos-
sibly with a sohd foundation, certainly with much
embellishment.
"Where we first surely find Hereward is in the
heart of the fen country of eastern England. Here,
at Ely in Cambridgeshire, a band of Englishmen
had formed what they called a " Camp of Eefiige,"
whence they issued at intervals in excursions against
tho Normans. England had no safer haven of re-
treat for her patriot sons. Ely was practically an
island, being surrounded by watery marshes on all
sides. Lurking behind the reeds and rushes of these
fens, and hidden by their misty exhalations, that
faithful band had long defied its foes.
Hither came Hereward with his warlike followers,
and quickly found himself at the head of the bard
of patriot refugees. History was repeating itself.
Centuries before King Alfred had sought just such
a ehelter against the Danes, and had troubled his
enemies as Hereward now began to trouble his.
Tho exiles of the Camp of Eefuge found new
blood in their organization when Hereward became
HERE-WAllD THE WAKE. 61
their leader. Their feeble forays •were quickly ro
pbced by bold and daring ones. Issuing like hornets
from their nests, Hcreward and his valiant followers
sharply stung the Norman invadei'S, hesitating not
to attack them wherever found, cutting off armed
bands, wresting from them the spoil of which they
had robbed the Saxons, and flying back to their reedy
shelter before their foes could gather in force.
Of the exploits of this band of active warriors
but one is told in full, and that one is worth re-
peating. The Abbey of Peterborough, not far re-
moved from El}^, had submitted to Norman rule and
gained a Norman abbot, Turold by name. This
angered the English at Elv, and they made a descent
upon the monkish settlement. No great harm was
intended. Food and some minor spoil would have
satisfied the raiders. But the frightened monks,
instead of throwing themselves on the clemency
of their fellow-countrymen, sent word in haste to
Turold. This incensed the raiding band, composed
in part of English, in part of Danes who had little
regard for church privileges. Provoked to fury,
they set fire to the monks' house and the town, and
only one house escaped the flames. Then they
assailed the monastery, the numks flying for their
lives. The whole band of outlaws burst hke wolves
into the minster, which they rapidly cleared of its
treasures. Here some climbed to the great rood,
and carried off its golden ornaments. There others
made their way to the steeple, where had been
hidden the gold and silver pastoral staff. Shrines,
roods, books, vestments, money, treasures of all sorts
6
62 HISTORICAL TALES.
viinished, and when Abbot Turold appeared with a
party of armed Normans, he found but the bare
walls of the church and the ashes of the town, with
only a sick monk to represent the lately prosperous
monastery. Whether or not Hereward took part iu
this affair, history does not say.
King William had hitherto disregarded this patriot
refuge, and the bold deeds of the valiant Hereward.
1 England besides had submitted to his authority,
"S^d he was too busy in the work of making a feudal
''kingdom of free England to trouble himself about
one' small centre of insurrection. But an event
occurred that caused him to look upon Hereward
with more hostile eyes.
Among those who had early sworn fealty to him,
after the defeat of Harold at Hastings, were Edwin
and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumber-
land. They were confirmed in the possession of
their estates and dignities, and remained faithful to
William during the general insurrection of northern
England. As time went on, however, their position
became unbearable. The king failed to give them
his confidence, the courtiers envied them their wealth
and titles, and maligned them to the king. Their
dignity of position was lost at the court ; their safety
even was endangered ; they resolved, when too late, to
emulate their braver countryman, and strike a blow
for home and liberty. Edwin sought his domain in
the north, bent on insurrection. Morcar made hia
way to the Isle of Ely, where he took service with
his followers, and with other noble Englishmen,
under the brave Hereward, glad to find one spot on
HEREWARD THE WAKE. 63
which a man of true English blood could still set
foot in freedom.
His adhesion brought ruin instead of strength to
Hereward. If William could aftbrd to neglect a
band of outlaws in the fens, he could not rest with
those two great earls in arms against him. There
were forces in the north to attend to Edwin ; Morcar
and Ilereward must be looked after.
Gathering an army, William marched to the fen
country and prepared to attack the last of the Eng-
lish in their almost inaccessible Camp of Eefugo. lie
had already built himself a castle at Cambridge, and
here he dwelt while directing his attack against the
outlaws of the fens.
The task before him was not a light one, in the
face of an opponent so skilful and vigilant as Here-
ward the Wake. The Normans of that region had
found him so ubiquitous and so constantly victorious
that they ascribed his success to enchantment ; and
even William, who was not free from the supersti-
tions of his day, seemed to imagine that he had an
enchanter for a foe. Enchanter or not, however, ho
must be dealt with as a soldier, and there was but
one way in which he could be reached. The heavily-
armed Norman soldiers could not cross the marsh.
From one side the Isle of Ely could bo approached
by vessels, but it was here so strongly defended that
the king's ships failed to make progress against
Hereward's works. Finding his attaclc by water a
failure, William began the building of a causeway,
two miles long, across the morasses from the dry
land to the island.
64 HISTORICAL TALES.
This was no trifling labor. There was a consider-
able depth of mud and water to fill, and stones and
trunks of trees were brought for the purpose from
all the surrounding country, the trees being covered
with hides as a protection against fire. The work
did not proceed in peace. Hereward and his men
contested its progress at every point, attacked the
workmen with darts and arrows from the light boats
in which they navigated the waters of the fens, and,
despite the hides, succeeded in setting fire to the
wood-vork of the causeway. More than once it had
to be rebuilt ; more than once it bx'oke down under
the weight of the Norman knights and men-at-arms,
who crowded upon it in their efforts to reach the
island, and many of these eager warriors, weighed
down by the burden of their armor, met a dismal
death in the mud and water of the marshes.
Hereward fought with his accustomed courage,
warlike skill, and incessant vigilance, and gave King
"William no easy task, despite the strength of his
army and the abundance of his resources. But such
a contest, against so skilled an enemy as William the
Conqueror, and with such disparity of numbers,
could have but one termination. Hereward struck
BO valiant a last blow for England that he won the
admiration of his great opponent ; but William was
not the man to rest content with aught short of
victory, and every successful act of defence on the
part of the English was met by a new movement of
assault. Despite all Hereward's efforts, the cause-
way slowly but surely moved forward across the
fens.
ELY CATHEDRAL.
HEREWARD THE WAKE. 65
But Hercward's chief danger lay behind rather
than before ; in the island rather than on the main-
land. His accessions of nobles and commons had
placed a strong body of men under his command,
with whom he might have been able to meet "Wil-
liam's approaches by ship and causeway, had not
treason lain intrenched in the island itself. With
war in his front and treachery in his rear the gallant
"Wake had a double danger to contend with.
This brings us to a picturesque scene, deftly painted
by the old chroniclers. Ely had its abbey, a counter-
part of that of Peterborough. Thurston, the abbot,
was English-born, as were the monks under his pas-
toral charge ; and long the cowled inmates of the
abbey and the armed patriots of the Camp of Eefugo
dwelt in sweet accord. In the refectory of the abbey
monks and warriors sat side by side at table, their
converse at meals being doubtless divided between
affairs spiritual and affairs temporal, while from walls
and roof hung the arms of the warriors, harmoniously
mingled with the emblems of the church. It was a
picture of the marriage of church and state well
woi'thy of reproduction on canvas.
Yet King William knew how to deal with monks.
Ho had had ample experience of their desire to lay
up treasures upon earth. Lands belonging to tho
monastery lay beyond the fens, and on these the king
laid the rough hand of royal right, as an earnest of
what would happen when tlio monaster}' itself should
fall into his hands. A flutter of terror shook the
hearts of Abbot Thurston and his monkish family.
To them it seemed that tho skies were about to fall,
II.— « 6*
66 HISTORICAL TALES.
and that they would be wise to stand from under,
i'^rom that moment they became traitors in soul to
the cause of Hereward, the danger to their precious
possessions outweighing the peril of their country
While the monks of Ely were revolving this threat
of disaster in their souls, the tide of assault and de-
fence rolled on. "William's causeway pushed its slow
length forward through the fens. Hereward assailed
it with fire and sword, and harried the king's lands
outside by sudden raids. It is said that, like King
Alfred before him, he more than once visited the
camp of the Normans in disguise, and spied out their
ways and means of warfare.
There is a story connected with this warlike enter-
prise so significant of the times that it must be told.
AVhether or not William believed Hereward to be
an enchanter, he took steps to defeat enchantment,
if any existed. An old woman, who had the reputa-
tion of being a sorceress, was brought to the royal
camp, and her services engaged in the king's cause.
A wooden tower was built, and pushed along the
causeway in front of the troops, the old woman
within it actively dispensing her incantations and
calling down the powers of witchcraft upon Here-
ward's head. Unfortunately for her, Hereward tried
against her sorcery of the broomstick the enchant-
ment of the brand, setting fire to the tower and
burning it and the sorceress within it. We could
scarcely go back to a later date than the eleventh
century to find such an absurdity as this possible,
but in those days of superstition even such a man aa
William the Conqueror was capable of it.
HEREWARD THE WAKE. 67
How tho contest would hare ended had treason
been absent it is not easy to say. As it was, tho false
hearts of Abbot Thurston and his monks broui^ht
tho siege to a sudden and disastrous end. They
showed the king a secret way of approach to the
island, and William's warriors took the camp of Here-
ward by surprise. What followed scarcely needs the
telling. A fierce and sharp struggle, men falling and
dying in scores, William's heavy-armed warriors
pressing heavily upon the ranks of the more lightly
clad Englishmen, and final defeat and surrender, com-
plete the story of the assault upon Ely.
William had won, but Hcreward still defied him.
Striking his last blow in defence, the gallant leader,
with a small band of chosen followers, cut a lane of
blood through the Norman ranks and made his way
to a small fleet of ships which he had kept armed
and guarded for such an emergency. Sail was set,
and down the stream they sped to the open sea, still
setting at defiance the power of Norman William.
We have two further lines of story to follow, one
of history, the other of romance ; one that of the
reward of the monks for their treachery, the other
that of the later story of Hereward the Wake. Ab-
bot Thurston hastened to make his submission to tho
king. He and his monkish companions sought tho
court, then at Warwick, and humbly begged the royal
favor and protection. The story goes that William
repaid their visit by a journey to Ely, where he en-
tered the minster while the monks, all unconscious
of the royal visit, were at their meal in the refectory.
The king stood humbly at a distance from tho shrine,
68 HISTORICAL TALES.
as not worthy to approach it, but sent a mark of
gold to be oflered as his tribute upon the altar.
Meanwhile, one Gilbert of Clare entered the refec-
tory, and asked the feasting monks whether they
could not dine at some other time, and if it were not
wise to repress their hunger while King William was
in the church. Like a flock of startled pigeons the
monks rose, their appetites quite gone, and flocked
tumultuousl}'- towards the church. They were too
late. William was gone. But in his short visit he
had left them a most unwelcome legacy by marking
out the site of a castle within the precincts of the
monasteiy, and giving orders for its immediate build-
ing by forced labor.
Abbot Thurston finally purchased peace from the
king at a high rate, paying him three hundred marks
of silver for his one mark of gold. 'Nor was this the
end. The silver marks proved to be light in weight.
To appease the king's anger at this, another three
hundred silver marks were offered, and King William
graciously suffered them to say their prayers thence-
forward in peace. Their treachery to Hereward had
not proved profitable to the traitors.
If now we return to the story of Hereward the
Wake, we must once more leave the realm of history
for that of legend, for what fui'ther is told of him,
though doubtless based on fact, is strictly legendary
in structure. Lauding on the coast of Lincolnshire,
the fugitives abandoned their light ships for the wide-
spreading forests of that region, and long lived the
life of outlaws in the dense woodland adjoining
Hereward's ancestral home of Bourne. Like an
HEREWARD THE WAKE. 69
earlier Eobin Hood, the valiant "Wake made the green-
wood his home and the Normans his prey, covering
nine shires in his bold excursions, which extended as
far as the distant town of Warwick. The Abbey of
Peterborough, with its Norman abbot, was an object
of his special detestation, and more than once Turold
and his monks were put to flight, while the abbey
yielded up a share of its treasures to the bold assail-
ants.
How long Hcreward and his men dwelt in the
greenwood we are not able to say. They defied there
tbe utmost efforts of their foes, and King "William,
whose admiration for his defiant enemy had not de-
creased, despairing of reducing bim by force, made
him overtures of peace. Hereward was ready for
them. He saw clearly by this time that the Norman
yoke was fastened too firmly on England's neck to be
thrown off. He had fought as long as fighting was
of use. Surrender only remained. A day came at
length in which he rode from the forest with forty
stout warriors at his back, made his way to the royal
Beat of Winchester, and knocked at the city gates,
bidding the guards to carry the news to the con-
queror that Hcreward the "Wake had come.
"William gladly received him. He knew the value
of a valiant soul, and was thereafter a warm friend
of Hereward, who, on his part, remained as loyal and
true to the king as he had been strong and earnest
against him. And so years passed on, Hereward in
favor at court, and he and Torfrida, his Flemish wife,
living happily in the castle which William's bounty
had provided them.
70 HISTORICAL TALES.
There is more than one story of Hereward's final
fate. One account says that he ended his days in
peace. The other, more in accordance with the spirit
of the times and the hatred and jealousy felt by
many of the Norman nobles against this English
protege of the king, is so stirring in its details that
it serves as a fitting termination to the Hereward
romance.
The story goes that he kept close watch and ward
in his house against his many enemies. But on one
occasion his chaplain, Ethelward, then on lookout
duty, fell asleep on his post. A band of Normans
was approaching, who broke into the house without
warning being given, and attacked Hereward alone
in his hall.
He had barely time to throw on his armor when
his enemies burst in upon him and assailed him with
sword and spear. The fight that ensued was one
that would have gladdened the soul of a Viking of
old. Hereward laid about him with such savage
energy that the floor was soon strewn with the dead
bodies of his foes, and crimsoned with their blood.
Finally the spear broke in the hero's hand. Next
he grasped his sword and did with it mighty deeds
of valor. This, too, was broken in the stress of fight.
His shield was the only weapon left him, and this
he used with such vigor and skill that before he had
done fifteen Normans lay dead upon the floor.
Four of his enemies now got behind him and smote
him in the back. The great warrior was brought to
his knees. A Breton knight, Ealph of Dol, rushed
upon him, but found the wounded lion dangerous
HEREWARD THE WAKE. 71
still "With a last desperate effort Hereward struck
him a deadly blow with his buckler, and Breton and
Saxon fell dead together to the floor. Another of the
assailants, Asselin by name, now cut off the head of
this last defender of Saxon England, and holding it
in the air, swore by God and his might that he had
never before seen a man of such valor and strength,
and that if there had been three more like him in
the land the French would have been driven out of
England, or been slain on its soil.
And so ends the stirring story of Hereward tho
Wake, that mighty man of old.
THE DEATH OF THE RED
KING.
"William op Normandy, by the grace of God and
his iron mace, had made himself king of England.
An iron king he proved, savage, ruthless, the descend-
ant at a few genei-ations of pirate Norsemen, and him-
self a pirate in blood and temper. England strained
uneasily under the harsh rein which he placed upon
it, and he harried the country mercilessly, turning a
great area of fertile land into a desert. That he
might have a hunting-park near the royal palace, he
laid waste all the land that lay between Winchester
and the sea, planting there, in place of the homes
destroyed and families driven out, what became
known as the " New Forest." Nothing angered the
English more than this ruthless act. A law had been
passed that any one caught killing a deer in William's
new hunting-grounds should have his eyes put out.
Men prayed for retribution. It came. The New
Forest proved fatal to the race of the conqueror.
In 1081 his oldest son Eichard mortally wounded
himself within its precincts. In May of the year
1100 his grandson Eichard, son of Duke Eobert, was
killed there by a stray arrow. And, as if to empha-
size more strongly this work of retribution, two
months afterwards William Eufus, the Eed King,
72
THE DEATH OF THE RED KING. 73
the son of the Conqueror, was slain in the same
manner within its leafy shades.
William Eufus — William II. of England — was, like
all his Norman ancestors, fond of the chase. When
there were no men to be killed, these fierce old dukes
and kings solaced themselves with the slaughter of
beasts. In early summer of the year 1100 the Eed
Iving was at AVinchester Castle, on the skirts of the
New Forest. Thence he rode to Malwood-Keep, a
favorite hunting-lodge in the forest. Boon compan-
ions wci-e with him, numbers of them, one of them a
French knight named Sir Walter Tyrrell, the king's
favorite. Here the days were spent in the delights
of the chase, the nights in feasting and carousing,
and all went merrily.
Around them spread far and wide the umbrageous
lanes and alleys of the New Forest, trees of every
variety, oaks in greatest number, crowding the soil.
As yet there were no trees of mighty gii'th. The
forest was young. Few of its trees had more than a
quarter-century of growth, except where more an-
cient woodland had been included. The place was
solitary, tenanted only by the deer which had re-
placed man upon its soil, and by smaller creatures of
wing and fur. Rarely a human foot trod there, save
when the king's hunting retinue swept through its
verdant aisles and woke its solitary depths with the
cheerful notes of the hunting-horn. The savage laws
of the Conqueror kept all others but the most daring
poachers from its aisles.
Such was the stage set for the tragedy which we
have to relate, The story goes that rough JQsttt
D 7
74 HISTORICAL TALES.
passed at Malwood-Keep between Tyrrell and tbe
king, ending in anger, as jests are apt to. William
boasted that he would carry an array through Franco
to the Alps. Tyrrell, heated with wine, answered
that he might find France a net easier to enter than
to escape from. The hearers remembered these bitter
words afterwards.
On the night before the fatal day it is said that
cries of terror came from the king's bedchamber.
The attendants rushed thither, only to find that the
monarch had been the victim of nightmare. When
morning came he laughed the incident to scorn, say-
ing that dreams were fit to scare only old women and
children. SHis companions were not so easily satisfied.
Those were days when all men's souls were open to
omens good and bad. They earnestly advised him
not to hunt that day. William jested at their fears,
vowed that no dream should scare him from the
chase, yet, uneasy at heart, perhaps, let the hours
pass without calling for his horse. Midday came.
Dinner was served. William ate and drank with un-
usual freedom. Wine warmed his blood and drove
off his clinging doubts. He rose fiom the table and
ordered his horse to be brought. The day was young
enough still to strike a deer, he said.
The king was in high spirits. Ho joked freely
with his guests as he mounted his horse and pre-
pared for the chase. As he sat in his saddle a wood-
man presented him six new arrows. He examined
them, declared that they were well made and proper
Bhafts, and put four of them in his quiver, handing
the other two to Walter Tyrrell.
THE DEATH OP THE RED KINO. 75
" Thcso aro for you," he said. " Good marksmen
should have good arras."
Tyrrell took them, thanked William for the gift,
and the hunting-party was about to start, when
there appeared a monk who asked to speak with the
king.
" I come from the convent of St. Peter, at Glouces-
ter," he said. " The abbot bids me give a message
to your majesty."
" Abbot Serlon ; a good Norman he," said the king.
" What would he say ?"
" Your majesty," said the monk, with great humil-
ity, " he bids me state that one of his monks haa
dreamed a dream of evil omen. He deems the king
should know it."
" A dream !" declared the king. " Has he sent you
hither to carry shadows ? Well, tell me your dream.
Time presses."
" The dream was this. The monk, in his sleep,
Baw Jesus Christ sitting on a throne, and at his feet
kneeled a woman, who supplicated him in these
■words : ' Saviour of the human race, look down with
pity on thy people groaning under the yoke of Wil-
liam.' "
The king greeted this message with a loud laugh.
" Do they take me for an Englishman, with their
dreams ?" he asked. " Do they fancy that I am fool
enough to give up my plans because a monk dreams
or an old woman sneezes? Go, tell your abbot I
have heard his story. Come, Walter de Poix, to
horse I"
The train swept away, leaving the monkish men-
76 HISTORICAL TALES.
Benger alone, the king's disdainful laugh still in hig
ears. With William were his brother Henry, long
at odds with him, now reconciled, William de Bret-
euil, and several other nobles. Quickly thej' van-
ished among the thickly clustering trees, and soon
broke up into small groups, each of which took its
own route through the forest. Walter Tyrrell alone
remained with the king, their dogs hunting together.
That was the last that was seen of William, the
Eed King, alive. When the hunters returned he
was not with them. Tyrrell, too, was missing.
What had become of them ? Search was made, but
neither could be found, and doubt and trouble of
Boul pervaded Malwood-Keep.
The shades of night were fast gathering when a
poor charcoal-burner, passing with his cart through
the forest, came upon a dead body stretched bleed-
ing upon the grass. An arrow had pierced its breast.
Lifting it into his cart, wrapped in old linen, he
jogged slowly onward, the blood still dripping and
staining the ground as he passed. Not till he
reached the hunting-lodge did he discover that it
was the corpse of a king he had found in the forest
depths. The dead body was that of Wilham II. of
England.
Tyrrell had disappeared. In vain they sought
him. He was nowhere to be found. Suspicion
rested on him. He had murdered the king, men
said, and fled the land.
Mystery has ever since shrouded the death of the
Eed King. Tyrrell lived to tell his tale. It was
probably a true one, though many doubted it. The
THE DEATH OP THE RED KINO. 77
Frenchman had quarrelled with the kin::^, men said,
and had murdered him from revenge. Just why ho
Bhould have murdered so powerful a friend and
patron, for a taunt passed in jest, was far from evi-
dent.
Tyrrell's story is as follows : He and the king had
taken their stations, opposite one another, waiting
the work of the woodsmen who were beating up the
game. Each had an arrow in his cross-bow, his
finger on the trigger, eagerly listening for the dis-
tant sounds which would indicate the coming of
game. As they stood thus intent, a large stag sud-
denly broke from the bushes and sprang inio the
space between them.
William drew, but the bow-string broke in his
hand. The stag, startled at the sound, stood confused,
looking suspiciously around. The king signed to Tyr-
rell to shoot, but the latter, for some reason, did not
obey. William grew impatient, and called out, —
" Shoot, Walter, shoot, in the devil's name !"
Shoot he did. An instant afterwards the king fell
without word or moan. Tyrrell's arrow had struck
a tree, and, glancing, pierced the king's breast; or it
may be that an arrow from a more distant bow had
struck him. When Tyrrell reached his side he was
dead.
The French knight knew what would follow if he
fell into the hands of the king's companions. Ho
could not hope to make people credit his tale. Mount-
ing hh horse, ho rode with all speed through the
forest, not drawing rein till tlio coast was reached.
Ho had far outridden the news of the tragedy.
78 HISTORICAL TAIiES.
Taking ship here, he crossed over in haste to Nor.
mandy, and thence made his way to France, not
drawing a breath free from care till he felt the soil
of his native land beneath his feet. Here he lived to
a good age and died in peace, his life diversified by a
crusading visit to the Holy Land.
The end of the Eed King resembled that of his
father. The Conqueror had been deserted before he
had fairly ceased breathing, his body left half clad
on the bare boards of his chamber, while some of his
attendants rifled the palace, others hastened to offer
their services to his son. The same scenes followed
the Eed King's death. His body was left in the
charcoal-burner's cart, clotted with blood, to be con-
veyed to Winchester, while his brother Henry rode
post-haste thither to seize the royal treasure, and
the train of courtiers rode as rapid a course, to look
after their several interests.
Eeaching the royal palace, Henry imperiously de-
manded the keys of the kig-g's treasure-chamber.
Before he received then^^filffm de Breteuil entered,
breathless with haste^i|iid bade the keepers not to
deliver them. <-
"Thou and I," he said to Henry, " ought loyally
to keep the faith which we promised to thy brother,
Duke Eobert ; he has received our oath of homage,
and, absent or present, he has the right."
But what was faith, what an oath, when a crown
was the prize? A quarrel followed; Henry drew his
sword; the people around supported him; soon he
had thiggtreasure and the royal regalia ; Eobert might
have the right, he had the kingdom.
THE DEATH OF THE RED KINO. 79
There is tradition connected -vvith the Red King's
death. A stirrup hangs in Lyndhurst llall, said to
be that which he used on that fatal day. The char-
coal-burner was named Purkess. There are Pur-
kosses still in the village of Minstead, near where
William Rufus died. And the story runs that the
earthly possessions of the Purkess family have ever
since been a single horse and cart. A stone marks
the spot where the king fell, on it the inscription, —
" Here stood the oak-tree on which the arrow, shot
by "Walter Tyrrell at a stag, glanced and struck
King "William II., surnaraed Rufus, on the breast;
of which stroke he instantly died on the second of
August, 1100.
" That the spot where an event so memorable had
happened might not hereafter be unknown, this stone
was set up by John, Lord Delaware, who had seen
the tree growing in this place, anno 1745."
We may end by saying that England was revenged ;
the retribution for which her children had prayed
had overtaken the race of the pirate king. That
broad domain of Saxon England, which William the
Conqueror had wrested from its owners to make
himself a hunting-forest, was reddened with the
blood of two of his sons and a grandson. The hand
of Heaven had fallen on that cruel race. The New
Forest was consecrated in the blood of one of the
Norman kings.
HOW THE WHITE SHIP SAILED,
Henry I., king of England, had made peace with
Fi'ance. Then to Normandy went the king with a
great retinue, that he might have Prince William,
his only and dearly-loved eon, acknowledged as his
BuccesBor by the Norman nobles and married to tho
daughter of the count of Anjou. Both these things
were done ; regal was the display, great the rejoicing,
and on the 25th of JSTovember, 1120, the king and
his followers, with the prince and his fair young
bride, prepared to embark at Barfleur on their tri-
umphant journey home.
So far all had gone well. Now disaster lowered.
Fate had prepared a tragedy that was to load the
king's soul with life-long grief and yield to English
history one of its most pathetic tales.
Of the vessels of the fleet, one of the best was a
fifty-oared galley called *' The White Ship," com-
manded by a certain Thomas Fitzstephens, whose
father had sailed the ship on which William the
Conqueror first came to England's shores. This
service Fitzstephens represented to the king, and
begged that he might be equally honored.
" My Hege," he said, " my father steered the ship
with the golden boy upon the prow in which your
80
HOW TIIE WHITE SHIP SAILED. 81
father sailed to conquer England. I beseech you to
grant me the same honor, that of carrying you in
the White Ship to England."
" I am sorry, friend," said the king, " that my
vessel is already chosen, and that I cannot sail with
the son of the man who served my father. But the
prince and all his company shall go along with you
in the White Ship, which you may esteem an honor
equal to that of carrying me."
By evening of that day the king with his retinue
had set sail, with a fair wind, for England's shores,
leaving the prince with his attendants to follow in
Fitzstephcns's ship. With the prince were his natural
brother Eichard, his sister the countess of Perch,
Richard, carl of Chester, with his wife, the king's
xiiece, together with one hundred and forty of the
flower of the young nobility of England and ISIor-
mandy, accompanying whom were many ladies of
high descent. The whole number of persons taking
passage on the White Ship, including the crew, were
three hundred.
Pi-inco William was but a boy, and one who did
little honor to his father's love. He was a dissolute
youth of eighteen, who had so little feeling for the
English as to have declared that when he came to the
throne ho would foko them to the plough like oxen.
Destiny had decided that the boastful boy should
not have the opportunity to carry out this threat.
" Give three casks of wine, Filzstcphens," he said,
" to your crew. My father, the king, has sailed.
What time have we to make merry here and still
reach England Avith the rest?"
11.-/
82 HISTORICAL TALES.
" If we sail at midnight," answered Fitzstephens,
•' my fifty rowers and the White Ship shall overtake
the swiftest vessel in the king's fleet before day-
break."
"Then let us be merry," said the prince; "tho
night is fine, the time young, let us enjoy it while
wc may."
Merry enough they were ; the prince and his com
panioDS danced in the moonlight on the ship's deck,
the sailors emptied their wiue-casks, and when at
last they left the harbor there was not a sober sailor
on board, and the captain himself was the worse for
wine.
As the ship swept from the port, the young nobles,
heated with wine, hung over the sides and drove
away with taunts the priests who had come to give
the usual benediction. Wild youths were they,— the
most of them,— gay, ardent, in the heyday of life,
caring mainly for pleasure, and with little heed of
uught beyond the moment's whim. There seemed
naught to give them care, in sooth. The sea lay
smooth beneath them, the air was mild, the moon
poured its soft lustre upon the deck, and propitious
fortune appeared to smile upon the ship as it rushed
onward, under the impulse of its long banks of oars,
in haste to overtake the distant fleet of the king.
All went merrily. Fitzstephens grasped the helm,
his soul proud with the thought that, as his father
had borne the Conqueror to England's strand, he was
bearing the pride of younger England, the heir to
the throne. On the deck before him his passengers
were gathered in merry groups, singing, laiighing,
now THE WHITE SHIP SAILED, bJ
chatting, tho ladies in their rich-lined mantles, the
gentlemen in their bravest attire ; while to tho sound
of song and merry talk tho well timed fall of tho
oars and swash of driven waters made refrain.
They had reached the harbor's mouth. The open
ocean lay before them. In a few minutes more they
770uld be sweeping over the Atlantic's broad expanse.
Suddenly there came a fi ightful crash ; a shock ihat
threw numbers of the passengers headlong to the
deck, and tore tho oars from the rowers' hands ; a
cry of terror that went up from three hundred
throats. It is said that some of the people in tho
far-of ships heard that cry, faint, far, despairing,
borne to them over miles of sea, and asked them-
selves in wonder what it could portend.
It portended too much wine and too little heed.
The vessel, carelessly steered, had struck upon a
rock, the Catee-raze, at tho harbor's mouth, with such
violence that a gaping wound was torn in her prow,
and tho waters instantly began to rush in.
Tho White Ship was injured, was filling, would
quickly sink. Wild consternation prevailed. There
was but one boat, and that small. Fitzstcphens,
sobered by the concussion, hastily lowered it, crowded
into it tho prince and a few nobles, and bade them
hastily to i:»ush off and row to the land.
" It is not far," ho said, " and the sea is smooth.
Tho rest of us must die."
They obeyed. The boat was pushed off, the oars
dropped into the w\ater, it began to move from the
ship. At that moment, amid th'^ cries of horror and
despair on tho sinking vessel, came one that met the
84 HISTOllICAL TALES
prince's ear in piteous appeal. It was the voice of
bis sister, Marie, the countess of Perch, crying to
him for help.
In that moment of frightful peril Prince William's
heart beat true.
*' Eow back at any risk !" he cried. " My sister
must be saved. I cannot bear to leave her."
They rowed back. But the hope that from that
panic-stricken multitude one woman could be selected
was wild. No sooner had the boat reached the ship's
side than dozens madly sprung into it, in such num-
bers that it was overturned. At almost the same
moment the White Ship went down, dragging all
within reach into her eddj^ing vortex. Death spread
its sombre wings over the spot where, a few brief
minutes before, life and joy had ruled.
When the tossing eddies subsided, the pale moon-
light looked down on but two souls of all that gay
and youthful company. These clung to a spar which
had broken loose from the mast and floated on the
waves, or to the top of the mast itself, which stood
above the surface.
"Only two of us, out of all that gallant com-
pany I" said one of these in despairing tones. " Who
are you, friend and comrade?"
" I am a nobleman, Godfrey, the s m of Gilbert de
L'Aigle. And you ?" he asked.
" I am Berold, a poor butcher of Eouen," was the
answer.
"God be merciful to us both I" they then cried
together.
Immediately afterwards they saw a third, who had
HOW THE WHITE SHIP SAILED. 85
risen and was swimming towards thcra. As lio drew
near he pushed the wet, clinging hair from his face,
and they saw the white, agonized countenance of
Fitzstephens. He gazed at them with eager eyes;
then cast a long, despairing look on the waters
around him.
"Where is the prince?" he asiced, in tones that
seemed lo shudder with terror.
"Gone! gone!" they cried. "Not one of all on
board, except we three, has risen above the water."
"Woe! woe, to me!" moaned Fitzstephens. lie
ceased swimming, turned to them a face ghastlj'' with
horror, and then sank beneath the waves, to join tho
goodly company whom his negligence had sent to a
watery death. He dared not live to meet the father
of his charge.
The two continued to cling to their support. But
tiie water had in it the November chill, the night
was long, tho tenderlj- -reared nobleman lacked tho
endurance of his humbler companion. Before day
dawn he said, in faint accents, —
" I am exhausted and chilled with the cold. I can
hold on no longer. Farewell, good friend! God
preserve you !"
He loosed his hold and sank. The butch ei of Eouen
remained alone.
When day came some fisherman saw this clinging
form from the shore, rowed out, and brought him in,
the sole one living of all that goodly company. A
few hours before the pride and hope of Normandy
and England had crowded that noble ship. Now
only a base-born butcher survived to tell the story
8
86 HISTORICAL TALES.
of disaster, and the stately White Ship, with her
noble freightage, lay buried beneath the "waves.
For three days no one dared tell King Henry the
dreadful story. Such was his love for his son that
they feared his grief might turn to madness, and
their lives pay the forfeit of their venture. At length
a little lad was sent in to him with the tale. Weep-
ing bitterly, and kneeling at the king's feet, the child
told in broken accents the story which had been
taught him, how the White Ship had gone to the
bottom at the mouth of Barfleur harbor, and all on
board been lost save one poor commoner. Prince
William, his son, was dead.
The king heard him to the end, with slowly
whitening face and horror-stricken eyes. At the con-
clusion of the child's narrative the monarch fell pros-
trate to the floor, and lay there long like one stricken
with death. The chronicle of this sad tragedy ends
in one short phrase, which is weighty with its burden
of grief, — From that day on King Henry never
smiled again 1
THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD
CCEUR DE LION.
In the month of October, in the year of our Lord
1192, a pirate vessel touched land on the coast of
Sclavonia, at the port of Yara, Those were daj's in
which it was not easy to distinguish between pirates
and true mariners, either in aspect or avocation,
neither being afflicted with much inconvenient hon-
esty, both being hungry for spoil. From this vessel
were landed a number of passengers, — knights, chap-
lains, and servants, — Crusaders on their way home
ft-om the Holy Land, and in need, for their overland
journey, of a safe-conduct from the lord of the
province.
He who seemed chief among the travellers sent a
messenger to the ruler of Yara, to ask for this safe-
conduct, and bearing a valuable ruby ring which he
was commissioned to offer him as a present. The
lord of Yara received this ring, which he gazed upon
with eyes of doubt and curiosity. It was too valu-
able an offer for a small service, and he had surely
heard of this particular ruby before.
"Who are they that have sent thee to ask a free
passage of me ?" he asked the messenger.
"Some pilgrims returning from Jerusalem," was
the answer.
87
88 HISTORICAL TALES.
" And by what names call you these pilgrims ?"
"One is called Baldwin do Bethune,"' rejoined the
messenger. " The other, he who sends you this ring,
is named Hugh the merchant."
Tho ruler fixed his eyes again upon the ring,
which he examined with close attention. He at
length replied, —
" You had better have told me the truth, for youi
ring reveals it. This man's name is not Hugh, but
Eichard, king of England. His gift is a royal one,
and, since he wished to honor me with it without
knowing me, I return it to him, and leave him free to
depart. Should I do as duty bids, I would hold him
prisoner."
It was indeed Eichard Coeur de Lion, on his way
home from the Crusade which he had headed, and in
which his arbitrary and imperious temper had made
enemies of the rulers of France and Austria, who
accompanied him. He had concluded with Saladin a
truce of three years, three months, three days, and
three hours, and then, disregarding his oath that ho
would not leave the Holy Land while he had a horse
left to feed on, he set sail in haste for home. Ho
had need to, for his brother John was intriguing to
seize the throne.
On his way home, finding that he must land and
proceed part of the way overland, he dismissed all
his suite but a few attendants, fearing to be recog-
nized and detained. The single vessel which he now
possessed was attacked by pirates, but the fight, sin-
gularly enough, ended in a truce, and was followed
by so close a friendship between Eichard and the
THE CAPTIYITY OP RICHARD C(EUR DE LION. 89
pirate captain that ho left his vossol for theirs, and
was borne by them to Yara.
The ruler of Yara was a relative of the marquia
of Montforrat, whose death in Palestine was irapuied
to Eichard's influence. The king had, therefore, un-
wittingly revealed himself to an enemy and was in
imminent danger of arrest. On receiving the mes-
Bage sent him ho set out at once, not caring to linger
in 80 doubtful a neighborhood. No attempt was made
to stop him. The lord of Yara was in so far faith-
ful to his word. But he had not promised to keep
the king's secret, and at once sent a message to his
brother, lord of a neighboring town, that King Rich-
ard of England was in the country, and would prob-
ably pass through his town.
There was a chance that he might pass undiscov-
ered ; pilgrims from Palestine were numerous ; Rich-
ard reached the town, where no one knew him, and
obtained lodging with one of its householders as
Hugh, a merchant from the East.
As it happened, the lord of the town had in his
service a Norman named Roger, formerly from Ar-
genton. To him he sent, and asked him if he knew
the king of England.
" No ; I never saw him," said Roger.
"But you know his language — the Norman French ;
there may bo some token by which you can recog-
nize him; go seek him in the inns where pilgrims
lodge, or elsewhere. He is a prize well worth taking.
If you put him in my hands I will give you the gov-
ernment of half my domain."
Roger set out upon his quest, and conimued it ftir
8*
90 HISTORICAL TALES.
Boveral days, first visiting the inns, and then going
from house to house of the town, keenly in8j)ecting
every stranger. The king was really there, and at
last was discovered by the eager searcher. Though
in disguise, Eoger suspected bim. That mighty bulk,
those muscular Umbs, that imperious face, could be-
long to none but him who had swept through the
Saracen hosts with a battle-axe which no other of
the Crusaders could wield. Eoger questioned him so
closely that the king, after seeking to conceal his iden-
tity, was at length forced to reveal who he really was.
" I am not your foe, but your friend," cried Eoger,
bursting into tears. " You are in imminent danger
here, my liege, and must fly at once. My best horse
is at your service. Make your escape, without delay,
out of German territory."
Waiting until he saw the king safely horsed, Eoger
returned to his master, and told him that the report
was a false one. The only Crusader he had found in
the town was Baldwin de Bethune, a Norman knight,
on his way home from Palestine. The lord, furious
at his disappointment, at once bad Baldwin arrested
and imprisoned. But Eichard had escaped.
The flying king hurried onward through the Ger-
man lands, his only companions now being William
de I'Etang, his intimate friend, and a valet who could
Bpcak the language of the country, and wh3 served
as their interpreter. For three days and three nights
the travellers pursued their course, without food or
shelter, not daring to stop or accost any of the in-
habitants. At length they arrived at Vienna, com-
pletely worn out with hunger and fatigue.
THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD C(EUR DE LION, 91
The fugitive king could have sought no more dan-
gcrouH place of shelter. Vienna was the capital of
Duke Leopold of Austria, whom Eichard had mortally
oftendcd in Palestine, b}' tearing down his banner
and planting the standard of England in its place.
Yet all might have gone well but for the servant,
who, while not a traitor, was as dangerous a thing, a
fool. He was sept out from the inn to exchange the
gold byzantines of the travellers for Austrian coin,
and took occasion to make such a display of his
money, and assume so dignified and courticr-like an
air, that the citizens grew suspicious of him and took
him before a magistrate to learn who he was. He
declared that he was the servant of a rich merchant
who was on his way to Vienna, and would be there
in three days. This reply quieted the suspicions of
the people, and the foolish fellow was released.
In great affright he hastened to the king, told him
what had happened, and begged him to leave the
town at once. The advice was good, but a three-
days' journey without food or shelter called for some
repose, and Eichard decided to remain some days
longer in the town, confident that, if they kept quiet,
no further suspicion would arise.
Meanwhile, the news of the incident at Yara had
spread through the country and reached Vienna.
Duke Leopold heard it with a double sentiment of
enmity and avarice. Eichard had insulted him ; here
was a chance for revenge ; and the ransom of such a
prisoner would enrich his treasury, then, presumably,
none too full. Spies and men-at-arms were sent out
in search of travellers who might answer to the
92 HISTORICAL TALES
description of the burly English monarch. For days
they traversed the country, but no trace of him
could be found. Leopold did not dream that his
mortal foe was in his own city, comfortably lodged
within a mile of his palace.
Eichard's servant, who had imperilled him before,
now succeeded in finishing his work of folly. One
day he appeared in the market to purchase provisions,
foolishly bearing in his girdle a pair of richly em-
broidered gloves, such as only great lords wore when
in court attire. The fellow was arrested again, and
this time, suspicion being increased, was put to the
torture. Very little of this sharp discipline sufficed
him. He confessed whom he served, and told the
magistrate at what inn King Eichard might be
found.
Within an hour afterwards the inn was surrounded
by soldiers of the duke, and Eichard, taken by sur-
prise, was forced to surrender. He was brought be-
fore the duke, who recognized him at a glance,
accosted him with great show of courtesy, and with
every display of respect ordered him to be taken to
prison, where picked soldiers with drawn swords
guarded him day and night.
The news that King Eichard was a prisoner in an
Austrian fortress spread through Europe, and every-
where gave joy to the rulers of the various realms.
Brave soldier as he was, he of the lion heart had suc-
ceeded in offending all his kingly comrades in the
Crusade, and they rejoiced over his captivity as one
might over the caging of a captured lion. The
emperor of Austria called upon his vassal, Buke
THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD CffiUR DE LION 93
Leopold, to deliver the prisoner to him, saying that
none but an emperor had the rif^ht to imprison a
king. The duke assented, and the emperor, filled
with glee, sent word of his good fortune to the king
of France, who returned answer that the news was
more agreeable to him than a present of gold or topaz.
As for John, the brother of the imprisoned king, he
made overtures for an alliance with Philip of France,
redoubled his intrigues in England and Normandy,
and secretly instigated the emperor to hold on firmly
to his roj'al prize. All Europe seemed to he leagued
against the unlucky king, who lay in bondage within
the stern walls of a German prison.
And now we feel tempted to leave awhile the do-
main of sober histor}-, and enter that of romance,
which tells one of its prettiest stories about King
Eichard's captivity. The story goes that the people
of England knew not what had become of their king.
That he was held in durance vile somewhere in Ger-
many they had been told, but Germany was a broad
land and bad many prisons, and none knew which
held the lion-hearted king. Before he could be res-
cued he must be found, and how should this be done ?
Those were the daj-s of the troubadours, who
sang their lively lays not only in Provence but in
other lands. Ilichurd himself composed la3's and
sang them to the harp, and Blondel, a troubadour
of renown, was his favorite minstrel, accompanying
him wherever he went. This faithful singer mourned
bitterly the captivity of his king, and at length, bent
on finding him, went wandering through foreign
lands, singing under the walls of fortresses and pris-
y4 HISTORICAL TALES.
ons a lay which Eichard well knew. Many weary
days he wandered without response, almost without
hope; yet still faithful Blondel roamed on, heedless
of the palaces of the land, seeking only its prisons
and strongholds.
At length arrived a day in which, from a fortress
window above his head, came an echo of the strain
he had just sung. He listened in ecstasy. Those
were Norman words ; that was a well-known voice ;
it could be but the captive king.
" O Eichard ! O my king I " sang the minstrel again,
in a song of his own devising.
From above came again the sound of familiar song.
Filled with joy, the faithful minstrel sought Eng-
land's shores, told the nobles where the king could bo
found, and made strenuous exertions to obtain his
ransom, efiorts which were at length crowned with
success.
Through the alluring avenues of romance the voice
of Blondel still comes to us, singing his signal lay of
" O Eichard ! O my king ! " but history has made no
record of the pretty tale, and back to history we
must turn.
The imprisoned king was placed on trial before the
German Diet at Worms, charged with — no one knows
what. Whatever the charge, the sentence was that
he fhould pay a ransom of one hundred thousand
pounds of silver, and acknowledge himself a vassal
of the emperor. The latter, a mere formality, was
gone through with as much pomp and ceremony as
though it was likely to have any binding forcie upon
English kir^s. The former, the raising of the monej>
THE CAPTIVITY OP RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 99
was move difficult. T\yo years passed, and still it was
not all paid. The royal prisoner, weary of his long
captivitj', complained bitterly of the neglect of his
people and friends, singing his woes in a song com-
posed in tbe polished dialect of Provence, the land
of the troubadours.
" There is no man, however base, whom for want
of money I would let Lie in £ prison cell," he sang.
" 1 do not say it as a reproach, but I am still a pris-
oner."
A part of the ransom at length reached Germany,
whose emperor sent a third of it to the duke of
Austria as his share of the prize, and consented to
the liberation of his captive in the third week after
Christmas if he would leave hostages to guarantee
the remaining payment.
Richard agreed to everything, glad to escape from
prison on any terms. But the news of this agree-
ment spread until it reached the ears of Philip of
France and his ally, John. Dread filled their hearts
at the tidings. Their plans for seizing on England
and Normandy were not yet complete. In great
haste Philip sent messengers to the emperor, offering
him seventy thousand marks of silver if he would
hold his prisoner for one year longer, or, if he pre-
ferred, a thousand pounds of silver for each month
of captivity. If he would givo the prisoner into the
custody of Philip and bis ally, they would pay a
hundred and fifty thousand marks for the prize.
The offer was a tempting one. It dazzled the mind
of the emperor, whose ideas of honor were not very
deeply planted. But the members of the Diet would
96 HISTORICAL TALES.
not suffer him to break his faith. Their power was
great, even over the emperor's will, and the royal
prisoner, after his many weary months of captivity,
was set free.
Word of the failure of his plans came quickly to
Philip's knavish cars, and he wrote in haste to his
confederate, " The devil is loose ; take care of your-
self," an admonition which John was quite likely to
obey. His hope of seizing the crown vanished.
There remained to meet his placable brother with a
show of fraternal loyalty.
But Eicbard was delayed in his purpose of reach-
ing England, and danger again threatened him. He
had been set free near the end of January, 1194.
He dared not enter France, and Normandy, then
invaded by the French, was not safe for him. His
best course was to take ship at a German port and
sail for England. B-ut it was the season of storms ;
he lay a month at Anvers imprecating the weather;
meanwhile, avarice overcame both fear and honor in
the emperor's heart, the large sum oflFered him out-
weighed the opposition of the lords of the Diet, and
he resolved to seize the prisoner again and profit by
the French king's golden bribe.
Fortunately for Eichard, the perfidious emperor
allowed the secret of his design to get adrift; one
of the hostages left in his hands heard of it and
found means to warn the king. Eichard, at this
tidings, stayed not for storm, but at once took pass-
age in the galliot of a Norman trader named Alain
Franchemer, narrowly escaping the men-at-arms sent
to take him prisoner. Not many days afterwards he
STATUE OF RICHARD CCEUR D£ LION.
THE CArTIVITY OF RICHARD C(EUR PE LION 97
landed at the Entclish port of Sandwich, once more
a free man and a king.
"What followed in Richard's life we design not to
tell, other than the story of his life's ending with its
romantic incidents. The liberated king had not been
long on his native soil before he succeeded in securing
I^ormandy against the invading French, building on
its borders a powerful fortress, which he called his
*' Saucy Castle," and the ruins of whose sturdy walls
still remain. Philip was wrathful when he saw its
ramparts growing.
" I will take it were its walls of iron," he declared.
" I would hold it were the walls of butter," Eichard
defiantly replied.
It was church land, and the archbishop placed
Normandy under an interdict. Richard laughed at
his wrath, and persuaded the pope to withdraw the
curse. A "rain of blood" fell, which scared his
courtiers, but Richard laughed at it as he had at the
bishop's wrath.
" Had an angel from heaven bid him abandon his
work, he would have answered with a curse," says
one writer.
"How prettj' a child is mine, this child of but a
year old 1" said Eichard, gladly, as he saw the walls
proudly rise.
He needed money to finish it. His kingdom had
been drained to pay his ransom. But a rumor
reached him that a treasure had been found at Li-
mousin, — twelve knights of gold seated round a
golden table, said the story. Richard claimed it.
The lord of Limoges refused to surrender it. Rich-
II. — E g 9
98 HISTORICAL TALES.
ard assailed his castle. It was stubbornly defended.
In savage wrath he swore he would hang every soul
within its walls.
There was an old song which said that an arrow
would be made in Limoges by which King Kichard
would die. The song proved a true prediction. One
night, as the king surveyed the walls, a young sol-
dier, Bertrand do Gourdon by name, drew an arrow
to its head, and saying, " Now I pray God speed
thee well !" let fly.
The shaft struck the king in the left shoulder.
The wound might have been healed, but unskilful
treatment made it mortal. The castle was taken
while Richard lay dying, and every soul in it hanged,
as the king had sworn, except Bertrand de Gourdon.
He was brought into the king's tent, heavily chained.
" Knave !" cried Richard, " what have I done to
you that you should take my life ?"
" You have killed ray father and my two brothers,"
answered the youth. " You would have hanged me.
Let me die now, by any torture you will. My com-
fort is that no tortui-e to me can save you. You, too,
must die ; and through me the world is quit of you."
The king looked at him steadily, and with a gleam
of clemency in his eyes.
" Youth," he said, " I forgive you. Go unhurt."
Then turning to his chief captain, he said, —
" Take off his chains, give him a hundred shillings,
and let him depart."
He fell back on his couch, and in a few minutes
was dead, having signalized his last moments with
an act of clemency which had had few counterparts
THE CAPTIVITY OP RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 99
in his life. His clemency was not matched by his
piety. The priests who were present at his dying
bed exhorted him to repentance and restitution, but
he drove them away with bitter mockery, and died
as hardened a sinner as he had lived.
As for Bertrand, the chronicles say that he failed
to profit by the kindness of the king. A deaa mon-
arch's voice has no weight in the land. The par-
doned youth was put to death.
A CONTEST FOR A CROWN,
Terrible was the misery of England. Tom be-
tween contending factions, like a deer between
snarling wolves, the people suffered martyrdom, while
thieves and assassins, miscalled soldiers, and brigands,
miscalled nobles, ravaged the land and tortured its
inhabitants. Outrage was law, and death the only
refuge from barbarity, and at no time in the history
of England did its people endure such misery as in
those years of the loosening of the reins of justice
and mercy which began with 1139 a.d.
It was the autumn of the year named. At every
port of England bands of soldiers were landing, with
arms and baggage ; along every road leading from
the coast bands of soldiers were marching ; in every
town bands of soldiers were mustering ; here joining
in friendly union, there coming into hostile contact,
for they represented rival parties, and were speeding
to the gathering points of their respective leaders.
All England was in a ferment, men everywhere
arming and marching. All Normandy was in tur-
moil, soldiers of fortune crowding to every port, eager
to take part in the harrying of the island realm.
The Norman nobles of England were everywhere
fortifying their castles, which had been sternly pro-
100
A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 101
hibited by the recent king. Law and authority
were for the time being abrogated, and every man
was preparing to fight for his own hand and his own
land. A single day, almost, had divided the Nor-
mans of England into two factions, not yet come to
blows, but facing each other lilce wild beasts at bay.
And England and the English wei*e the prey craved
by both these herds of human wolves.
There were two Claimants to the throne: Matilda,
— or Maud, as she is usually named, — daughter of
Henry I., and Stephen of Blois, grandson of Wil-
liam the Conqueror. Henry had named his daughter
as his successor; Stephen seized the throne; the
issue was sharply drawn between them. Maud's
mother had been of ancient English descent, which
gave her popularity among the Saxon inhabitants
of the land. Stephen was personally popular, a
good-humored, generous prodigal, his very faults
tending to make him a favorite. Yet he was born
to be a swordsman, not a king, and his only idea of
royalty was to let the land rule — or misrule if it
preferred — itself, while he enjoyed the pleasures and
declined the toils of kingship.
A few words will suffice to bring the history of
those turbulent times up to the date of the opening
of our story. The death of Henry I. was followed
by anarchy in England. His daughter Maud, wife
of Geoffry the Handsome, Count of Anjou, was
absent from the land. Stephen, Count of Blois, and
son of Adela, the Conqueror's daughter, was the first
to reach it. Speeding across the Channel, he hurried
through England, then in the turmoil of lawlessness,
9*
102 HISTORICAL TALES.
no noble joining him, no town opening to him its
gates, until London was reached. There the coldness
of his route was replaced by the utmost warmth of
welcome. The city poured from its gates to meet
him, hastened to elect him king, swore to defend him
with blood and treasure, and only demanded in re-
turn that the new king should do his utmost to
pacify the realm.
Here Stephen failed. He was utterly unfit to
govern. While he thought only of profligate enjoy-
ment, the barons fortified their castles and became
petty kings in their several domains. The great
prelates followed their example. Then, for the first
time, did Stephen awake from his dream of pleasure
and attempt to play the king. He seized Eoger,
Bishop of Salisbury, and threw him into prison to
force him to surrender his fortresses. This precipi-
tated the trouble that brooded over England. The
king lost the support of the clergy by his violence to
their leader, alienated many of the nobles by his
hasty action, and gave Maud the opportunity for
which she had waited. She lost no time in offering
herself to the English as a claimant to the crown.
Her landing was made on the 22d of Septembei,
1139, on the coast of Sussex. Here she threw her-
self into Arundel Castle, and quickly afterwards made
her way to Bristol Castle, then held by her illegiti-
mate brother, Robert, Earl of Gloucester.
And now the state of affairs we had described
began. The nobles of the north and west of England
renounced their allegiance to Stephen and swore
allegiance to Maud. London and the east remained
A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 103
faithful to the king. A stream of men-at-arms, hired
by both factions, poured from the neighboring coast
of Normandy into the disputed realm. Each side
had promised them, for their pay, the lands and
wealth of the other. Like vultures to the feast they
came, with little heed to the rights of the rival claim-
ants and the wrongs of the people, with much heed
to their own private needs and ambitions.
In England such anarchy ruled as that land of
much intestine war has rarely witnessed. The Nor-
man nobles prepared in haste for the civil war, and
in doing so made the English their prey. To raise
the necessary funds, many of them sold their do-
mains, townships, and villages, with the inhabitants
thereof and all their goods. Others of them made
forays on the lands of those of the opposite faction,
and seized cattle, horses, sheep, and men alike, car-
rying off the English in chains, that they might
force them by tortiu-e to yield what wealth they
possessed.
Terror ruled supreme. The realm was in a panic
of dread. So great was the alarm, that the inhabi-
tants of city and town alike took to flight if they
saw a distant group of horsemen approaching. Three
or four armed men were enough to empty a town of
its inhabitants. It was in Bristol, where Maud and
her foreign troops lay, that the most extreme terror
prevailed. All day long men were being brought
into the city bound and gagged. The citizens had
no immunity. Soldiers mingled among them in dis-
guise, their arms concealed, their talk in the English
tongue, strolling through markets and streets, listeij
104 HISTORICAL TALES.
ing to the popular chat, and then suddenly seizing
any one who seemed to bo in easy circumstances.
These they would drag to their head-quarters and
hold to ransom.
The air was filled with tales of the frightful bar-
barities practised by the Norman nobles on the un-
happy English captives in the depths of their gloomy
castles. " They carried off," says the Saxoa chronicle,
" all who they thought possessed any property, men
and women, by day and by night ; and whilst they
kept them imprisoned, they inflicted on them tortures,
such as no martyr ever underwent, in order to obtain
srold and silver from them." We must be excused
from quoting the details of these tortures.
" They killed many thousands of people by hunger,"
continues the chronicle. " They imposed tribute after
tribute upon the towns and villages, calling this in
their tongue tenserie. When the citizens had nothing
more to give them, they plundered and burnt the
town. You might have travelled a whole day with-
out finding a single soul in the towns, or a cultivated
field. The poor died of hunger, and those who had
been formerly well-off begged their bread from door
to door. Whoever had it in his power to leave Eng-
land did so. Never was a country delivered up to
so many miseries and misfortunes ; even in the in-
vasions of the pagans it suffered less than now.
Neither the cemeteries nor the churches were spared ;
they seized all they could, and then set fire to the
church. To till the ground was useless. It was
openly reported that Christ and his saints wero
Bleeping."
A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 105
One cannot but think that this frightful picture
is Bomewhat overdrawn ; yet nothing could indicate
better the condition of a Middle-Age country under
a weak king, and torn by the adherents of rival
claimants to the throne.
Let us leave this tale of torture and horror and
turn to that of war. In the conflict between Steplien
and Maud the king took the first step. He led his
army against Bristol. It proved too strong for him,
and his soldiers, in revenge, burnt the environs, after
robbing them of all they could yield. Then, leaving
Bristol, he turned against the castles on the Welsh
borders, nearly aU of whose lords had declared for
Maud.
From the laborious task of reducing these castles
he was suddenly recalled by an insurrection in the
territory so far faithful to him. The fens of Ely, in
whose recesses Ilereward the Wake had defied the
Conquerer, now became the stronghold of a Xor-
man revolt. A baron and a bishop, Baldwin de
Eevier and Lenior, Bishop of Ely, built stone in-
trenchments on the island, and defied the king from
behind the watery shelter of the fens.
Hither flocked the partisans of Maud ; hither came
Stephen, filled with warlike furj". He lacked the
qualities that make a king, but he had those that go
to make a soldier. The methods of the Conqueror
in attacking Hereward were followed by Stephen in
assailing his foes. Bridges of boats were built across
the fens ; over these the king's cavalry made their
way to the firm soil of the island; a fierce conflict
ensued, ending in the rout of the soldiers of Baldwin
106 HISTORICAL TALES.
and Lenior. The bishop fled to Gloucester, whither
Maud had now proceeded.
Thus far the king had kept the field, while hia
rival lay intrenched in her strongholds. But her
party was earnestly at work. The barons of the
Welsh inarches, whose castles had been damaged by
the king, repaired them. Even the towers of the
great churches were filled with war-engines and con-
verted into fortresses, ditches being dug in the
church-yards around, with little regard to the fact
that the bones of the dead were unearthed and scat-
tered over the soil. The Norman bishops, completely
armed, and mounted on war-horses, took part in these
operations, and were no more scrupulous than the
barons in torturing the English to force from them
their hoarded gold and silver.
Those were certainly not the days of merry Eng-
land. Nor were they days of pious England, when
the heads of the church, armed with sword and spear,
led armies against their foes. In truth, a bishop
ended that first phase of the war. The Bishop of
Chester rallied the troops which had fled from Ely.
These grew by rapid accretions until a new army
was in the field. Stephen attacked it, but the enemy
held their own, and his troops were routed. The}'
fled on all sides, leaving the king alone in the midst
of his foes. He lacked not courage. Single-handed
he defended himself against a throng of assailants.
But his men were in flight ; he stood alone ; it was
death or surrender; he yielded himself prisoner.
He was taken to Gloucester, and thence to Bristol
castle, in whose dungeons he was imprisoned. For
A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 107
the time being the war was at an end. Maud was
queen.
The daughter of Henry might have reigned during
the remainder of her life but for pride and folly, two
faults fitted to wreck the best-built cause. All was
on her side except herself. Her own arrogance
drove her from the throne before it had grown warm
from her sitting.
For the time, indeed, Stephen's cause seemed lost.
He was in a dungeon strongly guarded by his adver-
saries. His partisans went over in crowds to the
opposite side, — his own brother, Henry, Bishop of
Winchester, with them. The English peasants, em-
bittered by their oppression, rose against the beaten
army, and took partial revenge for their wrongs by
plundering and maltreating the defeated and dispersed
soldiers in their flight.
Maud made hci- way to Winchester, her progress
being one of royal ostentation. Her entr}^ to the
town was like a Roman triumph. She was received
with all honor, was voted queen in a great convoca-
tion of nobles, prelates, and knights, and seized the
royal regalia and the treasures of her vanquished foe.
All would have gone well with her had not good for-
tune turned her brain. Pride and a haughty spirit
led to her hasty downfall.
She grew arrogant and disdainful. Those who had
made her queen found their requests met with re-
fusal, their advice rejected with scorn. Those of the
opposite party who had joined her were harshly
treated. Her most devoted friends and adherents
soon grew weak in their loyally, and many witLdrow
108 HISTORICAL TALES.
from tlie court, with the feeling that they had been
fools to support this haughty woman against the
Cjenerous-hearted soldier who lay in Bristol dungeon.
From Winchester Maud proceeded to London,
after having done her cause as much harm as she
well could in the brief time at her disposal. She
was looked for in the capital city with sentiments
of hope and pride. Her mother had been English,
and the English citizens felt a glow of enthusiasm
to feel that one whose blood was even half Saxon
was coming to rule over them. Their pride quickly
changed into anger and desire for revenge.
Maud signalized her entrance into London by lay-
ing on the citizens an enormous poll-tax. Stephen had
done his utmost to beggar them ; famine threatened
them ; in extreme distress they prayed the queen to
give them time to recover from their present miseries
before lajdng fresh taxes on them.
" The king has left us nothing," said their deputies,
humbly.
" I understand," answered Maud, with haughty
disdain. " that you have given all to my adversary
and have conspired with him against me ; now you
expect me to spare you. You shall pay the tax."
" Then," pleaded the deputies, " give us something
in return. Eestore to us the good laws of thy great
uncle, Edward, in place of those of thy father, King
Henry, which are bad and too harsh for us."
Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make
mad. The queen listened to the deputies in a rage,
treated them as if they had been guilty of untold
insolence in daring to make this request, and with
A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 109
harsh menaces drove them from her presence, bidding
them to see that the tax was paid, or London should
Buffer bitterly for its contumacy.
The deputies withdrew with a shovs^ of respect,
but with fury in their hearts, and repaired to their
council-chamber, whence the news of what had taken
place sped rapidly through the city. In her palace
Queen Maud waited in proud security, nothing doubt-
ing that she had humbled those insolent citizens, and
that the deputies would soon return ready to creep
on their knees to the foot of her throne and offer a
golden recompense for their daring demand for milder
laws.
Suddenly the bells of London began to ring. In
the streets adjoining the palace loud voices were
heard. People seemed gathering rapidly. What
did it mean ? Were these her humbled citizens of
London? Surely there were threats mingled with
those harsh cries I Threats against the queen who
had just entered London in triumph and been received
with such hearty enthusiasm 1 Were the Londoners
mad?
She would have thought so had she been in the
streets. From every house issued a man, armed with
the first weaj^on he could find, his face inflamed with
anger. They flocked out as tumultuously as bees
from a hive, says an old writer. The streets of
London, lately quiet, were now filled with a noisy
throng, all hastening towards the palace, all uttering
threats against this haughty foreign woman, who
must have lost every drop of her English blood, they
declared.
10
110 HISTORICAL TALES.
The palace was filled with alarm. It looked as if
the queen's Norman blood would be lost as well as
that from her English sires. She had men-at-arms
around her, but not enough to be of avail against
the clustering citizens in those narrow and crooked
streets. Flight, and that a speedy one, was all that
remained. White with terror, the queen took to
horse, and, surrounded by her knights and soldiers,
fled from London with a haste that illy accorded with
the stately and deliberate pride with which she had
recently entered that turbulent capital.
She was none too soon. The frightened cortege
had not left the palace far behind it before the
maddened citizens burst open its doors, searched
every nook and cranny of the building for the queen
and her body-guard, and, finding they had fled,
wreaked their wrath on all that was left, plundering
the apartments of all they contained.
Meanwhile, the queen, wild with fright, was gallop-
ing at full speed from the hostile beehive she had
disturbed. Her barons and knights, in a panic of
fear and deeming themselves hotly pursued, dropped
off from the party one by one, hoping for safety by
leaving the highway for the by-ways, and caring little
for the queen so that they saved their frightened
selves. The queen rode on in mad terror until Oxford
was reached, only her brother, the Earl of Gloucester,
and a few others keeping her company to that town.
They fled from a shadow. The citizens had not
pursued them. These turbulent tradesmen were
content with ridding London of this power-mad
woman, and they went back satisfied tu their homes,
A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. Ill
leaving the city open to occupation by the partisans
of Stephen, who entered it under pretense of an
alliance with the citizens. The Bishop of Winchester,
who seems to have been something of a weather-
cock in his political faith, turned again to his brother's
Bide, set Stephen's banner afloat on Windsor Castle,
and converted his bishop's residence into a fortress.
Eobert of Gloucester came with Maud's troops to
besiege it. The garrison set fire to the surrounding
houses to annoy the besiegers. While the town was
burning, an array from London appeared, fiercely
attacked the assailants, and forced them to take
refuse in the churches. These were set on fire to
drive out the fugitives. The affair ended in Eobert
of Gloucester being taken prisoner and his followers
dispersed.
Then once more the Saxon peasants swarmed from
their huts like hornets from their hives and assailed
the fugitives, as they had before assailed those from
Stephen's army. The proud Normans, whose lan-
guage betrayed tbem in spite of their attempts at
disguise, were robbed, stripped of their clothing,
and driven along the roads by whips in the hands of
Saxon serfs, who thus repaid themselves for many
an act of wrong. The Bishop of Canterbury and
other high prelates and numbers of great lords
were thus maltreated, and for once were thoroughly
humbled by those despised islanders whom their
fathers had enslaved.
Thus ended the second act in this drama of con-
quest and re-conquest. Maud, deprived of her brother,
was helpless. She exchanged him for King Stephen,
112 HISTORICAL TALES.
and the war broke out afresh. Stephen laid siege to
Oxford, and pressed it so closely that once more Maud
took to flight. It was midwinter. The ground was
covered with snow. Dressing herself from head to
foot in white, and accompanied by three kniglits
similarly attired, she slipped out of a postern in the
hope of being unseen against the whiteness of the
enow- clad surface.
Stephen's camp was asleep, its sentinels alone being
astir. The scared fugitives glided on foot through
the snow, passing close to the enemy's posts, the
voices of the sentinels sounding in their ears. On
foot they crossed the fi'ozen Thames, gained horses
on the opposite side, and galloped away in haBty
flight.
There is little more to say. Maud's cause was at
an end. Not long afterwards her brother died, and
she withdrew to Normandy, glad, doubtless, to be
well out of that pestiferous island, but, mayhap,
mourning that her arrogant folly had robbed her of
a throne.
A few years afterwards her son Henry took up
her cause, fought with Stephen, and at length ended
the war by a truce, which provided that Henry
should reign after Stephen's death. Stephen died a
year afterwards, England gained an able monarch,
and prosperity returned to the realm after fifteen
years of the most frightful misery and misrule.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT
OF THE RUEFUL COUNTE^
NANCE.
""Where will tho old duke live?" asks Oliver, in
Shakespeare's " As you like it."
" They say he is already in the forest of Arden,"
answers Charles, " and a many merry men with him ;
and there they live like the old Eobin Hood of
England, and fleet the time carelessly as they did in
the golden world."
Many a merry man, indeed, was there with Eobin
Hood in Sherwood forest, and, if we may believe the
stories that live in the heart of English song, there
they fleeted the time as carelessly as men did in the
golden age ; for Eobin was king of the merry green-
wood, as tho Norman kings were lords of the realm
beside, and though his state was not so great nor his
cofiers so full, his heart was merrier and his con-
science more void of offence against man and God.
If Eobin Uved by plunder, so did the king; the one
took toll from a few travellers, the other from a
kingdom ; the one dealt hard blows in self-defence,
the other killed thousands in war for self-aggrandize,
ment ; the one was a patriot, tho other an invader.
Verily Eobin was far the honester man of the two,
and most worthy the admiration of mankind.
II.— A 10* 118
114 HISTORICAL TALES.
Nor was the kingdom of Eobin Hood so much less
extensive than that of England's king as men may
deem, though its tenants were fewer and its revenues
less. For in those days forest land spread widely
over the English isle. The Norman kings had
driven out the old inhabitants far and wide, and
planted forests in place of towns, peopling them with
deer in place of men. In its way this was merciful,
perhaps. Those rude old kings were not content
unless they were hunting and killing, and it was
better they should kill deer than men. But their
cruel game-laws could not keep men from the forests,
and the woods they planted served as places of shelter
for the outlaws they made.
William the Conqueror, so we are told, had no less
than sixty-eight forests, peopled with deer, and
guarded against intrusion of common man by a cruel
interdict. His successors added new forests, until it
looked as if England might be made all woodland,
and the red deer its chief inhabitants. Sherwood
forest, the favorite lurking-place of the bold Eobin,
stretched for thirty miles in an unbroken line. But
this was only part of Eobin's "realm of plesaunce."
From Sherwood it was but a step to other forests,
stretching league after league, and peopled by ban is
of merry rovers, who laughed at the king's laws, killed
and ate his cherished deer at their own sweet wills,
and defied sheriff and man-at-arms, the dense forest
depths affording them innumerable lurking-places,
their skill with the bow enabUng them to defend
their domain from assault, and to exact tribute from
their foes.
EOBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT. 115
Such was the realm of Eobin Hood, a realm of
giant oaks and silvery birches, a realm prodigal of
trees, o'ercanopied with green leaves until the sun
had ado to send his rays downward, carpeted with
brown moss and emerald grasses, thicketed with a
rich undergrowth of bryony and clematis, prickly
holly and golden furze, and a host of minor shrubs,
while some parts of the forest were so dense that, as
Camden says, the entangled branches of the thickly-
set trees " were so twisted together, that they hardly
left room for a person to pass."
Here were innumerable hiding-places for the for-
est outlaws when hunted too closely by their foes.
They lacked not food ; the forest was filled with
grazing deer and antlered stags. There was also
abundance of smaller game, — the hare, the coney,
the roe ; and of birds, — the partridge, pheasanc,
woodcock, mallard, and heron. Fuel could be had
in profusion when fire was needed. For winter shel-
ter there were many caverns, for Sherwood forest
is remarkable for its number of such places of
refuge, some made by nature, others excavated by
man.
Happy must have been the life in this greenwood
realm, jolly the outlaws who danced and sang
beneath its shades, merry as the day was long their
hearts while summer ruled the year, while even in
drear winter they had their caverns of refuge, their
roaring wood-fires, and the spoils of the year's forays
to carry them through the season of cold and storm.
A follower of bold Eobin might truly sing, with
Shakespiare, —
116 HISTORICAL TALES.
*' Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither :
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather."
But the life of the forest-dwellers was not spent
Bolely in enjoyment of the pleasures of the raerry
greenwood. They were hunted by men, and became
hunters of men. True English hearts theirs, all
Englishmen their friends, all Normans their foes, they
were in no sense brigands, but defenders of their
soil against the foreign foe who had overrun it, the
successors of Hereward the Wake, the last of the
English to bear arms against the invader, and to
keep a shelter in which the English heart might
still beat in freedom.
No wonder the oppressed peasants and serfs of the
fields sang in gleeful strains the deeds of the forest-
dwellers ; no wonder that Eobin Hood became the
hero of the people, and that the homely song of the
land was full of stories of his deeds. We can scarcely
call these historic tales : they are legendary, tradi-
tional; yet it may well be that a stratum of fact
underlies the aftergrowth of romance; certainly
they were history to the people, and as such, with a
mental reservation, they shall be history to us. We
propose, therefore, here to convert into prose "a
lytell geste of Eobyn Hode."
It was a day in merry spring-tide. Under the
ROBIN HOOD AND TUE KNIOnT. 117
Bun-sprinklcd shadows of the " woody and famous
forest of Barnsdale" (adjoining vSherwood) stood
gathered a group of men attired in Lincoln green,
bearing long bows in their hands and quivers of
sharp-pointed arrows upon their shoulders, hardy
men all, strong of limb and bold of face.
Leaning against an oak of centuried growth stood
Eobin Hood, the famous outlaw chief, a strong man
and sturdy, with handsome face and merry blue
eyes, one fitted to dance cheerily in days of festival,
and to strike valiantly in hours of conflict. Beside
him stood the tall and stalwart form of Little John,
whose name was given him in jest, for he was the
stoutest of the band. There also were valiant Much,
the miller's son, gallant Scathelock, George a Green,
the pindar of AVakeficld, the fat and jolly Friar Tuck,
and many another woodsman of renown, a band of
lusty archers such as all England could not elsewhere
match.
" Faith o' my body, the hours pass apace," quoth
Little John, looking upward through the trees. " Is
it not time we should dine ?"
" I am not in the mood to dine without company,"
said Eobin. " Our table is a dull one without guests.
If we had now some bold baron or fat abbot, or even
a knight or squire, to help us carve our haunch of
venison, and to pay his scot for the feast, I wot mo
all our appetites would bo better."
He laughed meaningly as he looked round tho
circle of faces.
" Marry, if such be your whim," answered Littlo
John, " tell us whither we shall go to find a guest fit
118 HISTORICAL TALES.
to grace our greenwood table, and of what rank he
Bhall be."
" At least let him not be farmer or yeoman," said
Eobin. " We war on hawks, not on doves. If you
can bring me a bishop now, or, i' faith, the high-
sheriff of Nottingham, we shall dine merrily. Take
Much and Scathelock with you, and away. Bring
me earl or baron, abbot or simple knight, or squire,
if no better can be had ; the fatter their purses the
better shall be their welcome."
Taking their bows, the three yeomen strode at a
brisk pace through the forest, bent upon other game
than deer or antler ed stag. On reaching the forest
edge near Barnsdale, they lurked in the bushy
shadows and kept close watch and ward upon the
highway that there skirted the wood, in hope of
finding a rich relish to Eobin's meal.
Propitious fortune seemed to aid their quest.
Not long had they bided in ambush when, afar on
the road, they spied a knight riding towards them.
He came alone, without squire or follower, and
promised to be an easy prey to the trio of stout
woodsmen. But as he came near they saw that
something was amiss with him. He rode with one
foot in the stirrup, the other hanging loose ; a sim-
ple hood covered his head, and hung negligently
down over his eyes ; grief or despair filled his vis-
age, "a soryer man than he rode never in somer's
day."
Little John stepped into the road, courteously bent
his knee to the stranger, and bade him welcome to
the greenwood.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT. 119
" "Welcome be you, gentle kniglit," he said ; " my
master has awaited j-ou fasting, these three hours."
" Your master — who is he ?" asked the knight,
lifting his sad eyes.
"Eobin Hood, the forest chief," answered Little
John.
" And a lusty yeoman he," said the knight. " Men
eay much good of him. I thought to dine to-day at
Blythe or Dankaster, but if jolly Eobin wants me I
am his man. It matters little, save that I have no
heart to do justice to any man's good cheer. Lead
on, my courteous friend. The greenwood, then, shall
be my dining-hall."
Our scene now changes to the lodge of the wood-
land chief. An hour had passed. A merry scene
met the eye. The long table was well covered with
game of the choicest, swan, pheasants, and river
fowl, and with roasts and steaks of venison, which
had been on hoof not many hours before. Around
it sat a jolly company of foresters, gi*een-clad like
the trees about them. At its head sat Eobin Hood,
his handsome face lending encouragement to the
laughter and gleeful chat of his men. Beside him
eat the knight, sober of attire, gloomy of face, yet
brightening under the courteous treatment of his
host and the gay sallies of the outlaw band.
" Gramercy, Sir Woodman," said the knight, when
the feast was at an end, '• such a dinner as you have
set me I have not tasted for weeks. When I come
again to this country I hope to repay you with as
good a one."
" A truce to your dinner," said Eobin, curtly. " All
120 HISTORICAL TALES.
that dine in our woodland inn pay on the spot, Sir
Knight. It is a good rule, I wot."
" To full hands, mayhap," said the knight ; " but
I dare not, for very shame, proffer you what is in my
coffers."
" Is it 80 little, then ?"
"Ten shillings is noL wealth," said the knight.
" I can offer you no more."
" Faith, if that be all, keep it, in God's name; and
I'll lend you more, if you be in need. Go look. Little
John ; we take no stranger's word in the greenwood."
John examined the knight's effects, and reported
that he had told the truth. Eobin gazed curiously
at his guest.
" I held you for a knight of high estate," he said.
"A heedless husbandman you must have been, a
gambler or wassailer, to have brought yourself to
this sorry pass. An empty pocket and threadbare
attire ill befit a kniglit of your parts."
" You wrong me, Eobin," said the knight, sadly.
"Misfortune, not sin, has beggared me. I have
nothing left but my children and my wife ; but it is
through no deed of my own. My son — my heir he
should have been — slew a knight of Lancashire and
his squire. To save him from the law I have made
myself a beggar. Even my lands and house must
go, for I have pledged them to the abbot of St. Mary
as surety for four hundred pounds loaned me. I
cannot pay him, and the time is near its end. I
have lost hope, good sir, and am on my way to the
sea, to take ship for the Holy Land. Pardon my
tears, I leave a wife and children."
ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT 121
" "WTiero are your friends ?" asked Robin.
" Where are the last year's leaves of your trees ?"
asked the knight. " They were fair enough while
the summer sun shone ; they dropped from me when
the winter of trouble came."
" Can you not borrow the sum?" asked Robin.
" Not a groat," answered the knight. " I have no
more credit than a beggar."
" Mayhap not with the usurers," said Robin. " But
the greenwood is not quite bare, and your face, Sir
Knight, is your pledge of faith. Go to my treasury,
Little John, and see if it will not yield four hundred
pounds."
" I can promise you that, and more if need be,"
answered the woodman. " But our worthy knight
is poorly clad, and we have rich cloths to spare, I
wot. Shall we not add a livery to his purse ?"
"As you will, good fellow, and forget not a horse,
for our guest's mount is of the sorriest."
The knight's sorrow gave way to hope as he saw
the eagerness of the generous woodmen. Little
John's "count of the money added ample interest;
the cloths were measured with a bow-stick for a
yard, and a palfrey was added to the courser, to
bear their welcome gifts. In the end Robin lent
him Little John for a squire, and gave him twelve
months in which to repay his loan. Away he went,
no longer a knight of rueful countenance.
«' Nowe as the knight went on his way,
This game he thought full gooJ,
"When ho looked on Bernysdale
He blyssed Robin Hodc ;
11
122 HISTORICAL TALES.
" And when lie thought on Bernysdale,
On Scatheleck, Much, and John,
He blyssed them for the best company
That ever he in come."
The next day was that fixed for the payment; of
the loan to the abbot of St. Mary's. Abbot and
prior waited in hope and excitement. If the cash
was not paid by night a rich estate would fall into
their hands. Mercy was out of their thoughts
The knight must pay to the last farthing, or be beg-
gared. A " fat-headed monk," the cellarer, burst in
upon them, full of exultation.
" He is dead or hanged !" he cried. " We shall
have our four hundred pounds many times over."
With these worthies was the liigh-justice of Eng-
land and the sheriff of the shire, brought there to
give a show of law to the abbot's greed. Time was
passing, an hour or two more would end the knight's
grace, only a narrow space of time lay between him
and beggary. The justice had just turned with
congratulations to the abbot, when, to the alarm of
these lucre-loving churchmen, the debtor, Sir Eich-
ard of the Lee, appeared at the gate of the abbey,
and made his way into the hall.
Yet he was shabbily clad ; his face was sombre ;
there seemed little occasion for alarm. There seemed
none when ho began to speak.
" Sir Abbot," he said, " I come to hold my day."
" Hast thou brought my pay ?" asked the abbot.
" Not one penny," answered the knight.
" Thou art a shrewd debtor," declared the abbot,
with a bok of delight. "Sir Justice, drink to me.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT. 123
Wbai brings you here then, sirrah, if you fetch no
money ?"
" To pray your grace for a longer day," said Sir
Eichard, humbly.
" Your day is ended ; not an hour more do you
get," cried the abbot.
Sir Eichard now appealed to the justice for relief,
and after him to the sheriff, but to both in vain.
Then, turning to the abbot again, he offered to bo
his servant, and work for him till the four hundred
pounds were earned, if he would take pity on him.
This appeal was lost on the greedy churchman.
In the end hot words passed, and the abbot angrily
exclaimed, —
*' Out of my hall, thou false knight 1 Speed thee
out, sirrah !"
" Abbot, thou liest, I was never false to my word,"
said Sir Eichard, proudlj^ " You lack courtesy, to
Buffer a knight to kneel and beg so long. I am a
true knight and a true man, as all who have seen me
in tournament or battle will say."
" What more will you give the knight for a full
release?" asked the justice. " If you give nothing,
you will never hold his lands in peace."
"A hundred pounds," said the abbot.
" Give him two," said the justice.
" Not so," cried the knight. " If you make it a
thousand more, not a foot of my land shall you ever
hold. You have outwitted yourself, master abbot,
by your greed."
Sir Eichard's humility was gone ; his voice was
clear and proud ; the churchmen trembled, here was
124 HISTORICAL TALES.
a new tone. Turning to a table, the knight took a
bag from under his cloak, and shook out of it on to
the board a ringing heap of gold.
"Here is the gold you lent me, Sir Abbot," he cried.
•* Count it. You will find it four hundred pounds to
the penny. Had you been courteous, I would have
been generous. As it is, I pay not a penny over my
due."
'* The abbot sat styll, and ete no more
For all his ryall chere ;
He cast his head on his sholder,
And fast began to stare."
So ended this affair, the abbot in despair, the
knight in triumph, the justice laughing at his late
friends and curtly refusing to return the bribe they
had paid to bring him there. His money counted,
his release signed, the knight was a glad man again.
" The knight stert out of the dore,
Awaye was all his care,
And on he put his good clothynge,
The other he lefte there.
*' He wente hym fortbe full mery syngynge,
As men have tolde in tale.
His ladj' met hym at the gate,
At home in Wierysdale.
"'Welcome, my lorde,' sayd his lady;
* Syr, lost is all your good ?'
* Be mery, dame,' said the knight,
* And pray for Eobyn Hode,
* ♦ That ever his soule be in blysse,
He holpe me out of my tene ;
Ne had not be his kyndenesse,
Beggers had we ben.' "
ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT. 125
The story wanders on, through pages of verse
like the above, but we may fitly end it with a page
of prose. The old singers are somewhat proUx ; it
behooves us to be brief.
A twelvemonth passed. The day fixed by the
knight to repay his friend of the merry greenwood
came. On that day the highway skirting the forest
was made brilliant by a grand array of ecclesiastics
and their retainers, at their head no less a personage
than the fat-headed cellarer of St. Mary's.
Unluckily for them, the outlaws were out that day,
on the lookout for game of this fat breed, and the
whole pious procession was swept up and taken to
Kobin Hood's greenwood court. The merry fellow
looked at his new guests with a smile. The knight
had given the Virgin as his security, — surely the
Virgin had taken him at his word, and sent these
holy men to repay her debt.
In vain the high cellarer denied that he repre-
sented any such exalted personage. He even lied as
to the state of his coffers. It was a lie wasted, for
Little John served him as he had the knight, and
found a good eight hundred pounds in the monk's
baggage.
"Fill him with wine of the best!" cried Eobin.
*' Our Lady is a generous debtor. She pays double.
Fill him with wine and let him go. He has paid
well for his dinner."
Hardly had the monk and his train gone, in dole
and grief, before another and merrier train was seen
winding under the great oaks of the forest. It was
the knight on his way to pay his debt. After him
11*
126 HISTORICAL TALES.
rode a hundred men clad in white and red, and bear
ing as a present to the delighted foresters a hun-
dred bows of the finest quality, each with its sheaf
of arrows, with burnished points, peacock feathers,
and notched with silver. Each shaft was an ell long.
The knight begged pardon. He had been delayed.
On his way he had met a poor yeoman who was
being ill-treated. He had stayed to rescue him.
The sun was down ; the hour passed ; but he bore
his full due to the generous lords of the greenwood.
"You come too late," said Robin. "The Virgin,
your surety, has been before you and paid your
debt. The holy monks of St. Mary, her almoners,
have brought it. They paid well, indeed ; they paid
double. Four hundred is my due, the other four
hundred is yours. Take it, my good friend, our
Lady sends it, and dwell henceforth in a state be-
fitting your knightly station."
Once more the good knight. Sir Hichard of the
Lee, dined with Eobin Hood, and merry went the
feast that day under the greenwood tree. The leaves
of Sherwood still laugh with the mirth that then
shook their bowery arches. Eobin Hood dwells
there no more, but the memory of the mighty archer
and his merry men still haunts the woodland glades,
and will while a lover of romance dwells in Eng-
land's island realm.
WALLACE, THE HERO OF
SCOTLAND.
On a summer's day, many centuries ago, a young
gentleman of Scotland was fishing in the river Ir-
vine, near Ayr, attended by a boy who carried his
fishing-basket. The young man was handsome of
face, tall of figure, and strongly built, while his skill
as an angler was attested by the number of trout
which lay in the boy's basket. While he was tbus
engaged several English soldiers, from the garrison
of Ayr, came up to the angler, and with the inso-
lence with which these invaders were then in the
habit of treating the Scotch, insisted on taking the
basket and its contents from the boy.
" You ask too much," said Wallace, quietly. " You
are welcome to a part of the fish, but j'ou cannot
have them all."
" That we will," answered the soldiers.
" That you will not," retorted the youth. " I have
other business than to play fisherman for your bene-
fit."
The soldiers insisted, and attempted to take the
basket. The angler came to the aid of his attend-
ant. Words were followed by blows. The soldiers
laid hands on their weapons. The youth had no
127
128 HISTORICAL TALES.
weapon but his fishing-rod. Eut with the butt end
of this ho struck the foremost Englishman so hard
a blow under his ear that he stretched him dead
upon the ground. Seizing the man's sword, which
had fallen from his hand, he attacked the others
with such skill and fury that they were put to fligbt,
and the bold angler was enabled to take his fish
safely home.
The name of the courageous youth was William
"Wallace. He was the son of a private gentleman,
called Wallace of Ellerslie, who had brought up his
boy to the handling of warlike weapons, until he had
grown an adept in their use ; and also to a hatred of
the English, which was redoubled by the insolence
of the soldiers with whom Edward I. of England
had garrisoned the country. Like all high-spirited
Scotchmen, the young man viewed with indignation
the conduct of the conquerors of his country, and
expressed the intensity of his feeling in the tragical
manner above described.
Wallace's life was in imminent danger from his
exploit. The affair was reported to the English
governor of Ayr, who sought him diligently, and
would have put him to death had he been captured.
But he took to the hills and woods, and lay concealed
in their recesses until the deed was forgotten, being
supplied by his friends with the necessaries of life.
As it was not safe to return to Ayr after his period
of seclusion, he made his way to another part of the
country, where his bitter hostility to the English
soon led him into other encounters with them, in
which his strength, skill, and courage usually brought
■WALLACE, THE UERO OP SCOTLAND. 129
him off victorious. So many were the affairs in
which ho was engaged, and so great his daring and
success, that the people began to talk of him as the
champion of Scotland, while the English grew to
fear this indomitable young swordsman.
At length came an adventure which brought mat-
ters to a crisis. Young Wallace had married a lady
of Lanark, and had taken up his residence in that
town with his wife. The place had an English gar
risen, and one day, as Wallace walked in the market-
place in a rich green dress, with a handsome dagger
by his side, an Englishman accosted him insultingly,
saj'ing that no Scotchman had the right to wear
such finery or to carry so showy a weapon.
He had tried his insolence on the wrong man. A
quarrel quickly followed, and, as on similar occasions
before, Wallace killed the Englishman. It was an
unwise act, inspired bj'' his hasty temper and fiery
indignation. His peril was great. He hastened to
his house, which was quickly attacked by soldiers of
the garrison. While they were seeking to break in
at the front, Wallace escaped at the rear, and made
his way to a rocky glen, called the Cortland-crags,
near the town, where he found a secure hiding-place
among its thick-growing trees and bushes.
jyieanwhile, the governor of Lanark, Hazelrigg by
name, finding that the culprit had escaped, set fire
to his house, and with uncalled-for cruelty put his
wife and servants to death. He also proclaimed
Wallace an outlaw, and ofi'ered a reward for any one
who should bring him in, dead or alive. He and
many of his countrymen were destined to pay the
II — i
130 HISTORICAL TALES.
penalty of this cruel deed before Wallace should fall
into English hands.
The murder of his wife set fire to the intense pa-
triotism in Wallace's soul. He determined to devote
his life to acts of reprisal against the enemy, and if
possible to rescue his country from English hands.
He soon had under his command a body of daring
partisans, some of them outlaws like himself, others
quite willing to become such for the good of Scotland.
The hills and forests of the country afforded them
numerous secure hiding-places, whence they could
issue in raids upon the insolent foe.
From that time forward Wallace gave the Eng-
lish no end of trouble. One of his first expeditions
was against Hazelrigg, to whom he owed so bitter
a debt of vengeance. The cruel governor was killed,
and the murdered woman avenged. Other expedi-
tions were attempted, and collisions with the soldiers
sent against him became so ft'equent and the par-
tisan band so successful, that Wallace quickly grew
famous, and the number of his followers rapidly
increased. In time, from being a band of outlaws,
his party grew to the dimensions of a small army,
and in place of contenting himself with local repri-
sals on the English, he cherished the design of
striking for the independence of his country.
The most notable adventure which followed this
increase of Wallace's band is one the story of which
may be in part legendary, but which is significant of
the cruelty of warfare in those thirteenth-century
days. It is remembered among the Scottish people
under the name of the " Barns of Ayr."
WALLACE, THE HERO OP SCOTLAND. 131
Tho English governor of Ayr is said to have sent a
general invitation to the nobility and gentry of that
eection of Scotland to meet him in friendly confer-
ence on national affairs. The place fixed for the meet-
ing was in certain largo buildings called the barns of
Ayr. The true purpose of the governor was a mur-
derous one. lie proposed to rid himself of many of
those who were giving him trouble by the effective
method of the rope. Halters with running nooses
had been prepared, and hung upon the beams which
supported the roof. The Scotch visitors were ad-
mitted two at a time, and as they entered the nooses
were thrown over their heads, and they drawn up
and hanged. Among those thus slain was Sir Eegi-
nald Crawford, sheriff of the county of Ayr, and
uncle to William Wallace.
This story it is not easy to believe, in tho exact
shape in which it is given, since it is unlikely that the
Scottish nobles were such fools as it presupposes ; but
that it is founded on some tragical fact is highly prob-
able. The same is the case with the story of AVal-
lace's retribution for this crime. When the news of
it came to his ears he is said to have been greatly
incensed, and to have determined on an adequate
revenge. He collected his men in a wood near Ayr,
and sent out spies to learn the state of affairs. The
English had followed their crime with a period of
carousing, and, having eaten and drunk all they
wished, had lain down to sleep in the barns in which
the Scotch gentry had been murdered. Not dream-
ing that a foe was so near, they had set no guards,
and thus left themselves open to the work of revenge
132 HISTORICAL TALES.
This news being brought to Wallace, he du-ected a
woman, who was familiar with the locality, to matK
with chalk the doors of the buildings where the Eng-
lishmen lay. Then, slipping up to ihe borders of Ayr,
he sent a party with ropes, bidding them to fasten
securely all the marked doors. This done, others
heaped straw on the outside of the buildings and set
it on fire. The buildings, being constructed of wood,
were quickly in a flame, the EngHsh waking from
their drunken slumbers to find themselves environed
with fire.
Their fate was decided. Every entrance to the
buildings had been secured. Such as did succeed in
getting out were driven back into the flames, or
killed on the spot. The whole party perished miser-
ably, not one escaping. In addition to the English
thus disposed of, there were a number lodged in a
convent. These were attacked by the prior and
the monks, who had armed themselves with swords,
and fiercely assailed their guests, few of whom es-
caped. The latter event is known as " The Friar of
Ayi-'s Blessing."
Such is the story of a crime and its retribution.
To say that it is legendary is equivalent to saying
that it is not true in all its particulars ; but that it
is founded on fact its common acceptance by the
people of that country seems evidence.
So far the acts of Wallace and his men had been
of minor importance. But now his party of followers
grew into an army, many of the Scottish nobles
joining him. Prominent among these was Sir
William Douglas, the head of the most famous family
THE WALLACE MONUMENT, STIRLING.
"WALLACE, THE HERO OF SCOTLAND. 133
in Scottish history. Another was Sir John Grahame,
who became the chief friend and confidant of the
champion of the rights of Scotland.
This rebellious activity on the part of the Scotch
had not been viewed with indifference by the English.
The raids of Wallace and his band of outlaws they
had left the local garrisons to deal with. But hero
was an army, suddenly sprung into existence, and
needing to be handled in a different manner. An
English army, under the command of John de TVar-
enne, the Earl of Surrey, marched towards Wallace's
camp, with the purpose of putting a summary end
to this incipient effort at independence.
The approach of Warenne weakened Wallace's
army, since many of the nobles deserted his ranks,
under the fear that he could not withstand the
greatly superior English force. Yet, in spite of
these defections, he held his ground. He still had a
considerable force under his command, and took posi-
tion near the town of Stirling, on the north side of
the river Force, whei'e he awaited the approaching
English army. The river was at this jDoiut crossed
by a long wooden bridge.
The English host reached the southern bank of
the river. Its commander, thinking that he might
end the matter in a peaceful way, sent two clergy-
men to Wallace, offering a pardon to him and his
followers if they would lay down their arms.
" Go back to Warenne," was the reply of Wallace,
" and tell him we value not the pardon of the king
of England. We are not here for the purpose of
treating of peace, but of abiding battle, and re-
12
134 HISTORICAL TALES.
storing freedom to our country. Let the English
come on ; we defy them to their very beards 1"
Despite the disparity in numbers, Wallace had
some warrant for his tone of confidence. The Eng-
lish could not reach him except over the long and
narrow bridge, and stood the chance of having their
vanguard destroyed before the remainder could come
to their aid.
Such proved to be the case. The English, after
some hesitation, attempted the passage of the bridge.
Wallace held off until about half the army had crossed
and the bridge was thickly crowded with others.
Then he charged upon them with his whole force,
and with such impetuosity that they were thrown
into confusion, and soon put to rout, a large number
being slain and the remainder driven into the Forth,
where the greater part of them were drowned. The
portion of the English army which had not crossed
became infected with the panic of their fellows, and
£ed in all haste, first setting fire to the bridge to
prevent pursuit.
This signal victory had the most encouraging in-
fluence on the people of Scotland. The defeated
army fled in all haste from the country, and those of
the Scotch who had hitherto remained in doubt now
took arms, and assailed the castles still held by the
English. Many of these were taken, and numerous
gallant deeds done, of which Wallace is credited
with his full share. How much exaggeration there
may be in the stories told it is not easy to say, but
it seems certain that the English suffered several
defeats, Jost most of the towns and castles they had
WALLACE, THE HERO OP SCOTLAND. 135
held, and wore driven almost entirely fron* the coun-
try. AVallacc, indeed, led his army into England,
and laid waste Cumberland and Northumberland,
where many cruelties were committed, the Scottish
soldiers being irrepressible in their thirst for revenge
on those who had so long oppressed their country.
While these events were going on Edward I. was
in Flanders. He had deemed Scotland thoroughly
subjugated, and learned with surprise and fury that
the Scotch had risen against him, defeated his armies,
set free their country, and even invaded England.
He hurried back from Flanders in a rage, determined
to bring this rebelHon to a short and decisive ter-
mination.
Collecting a large army, Edward invaded Scotland.
His opponent, meanwhile, had been made protector,
or governor, of Scotland, with the title of Sh* Wil-
liam Wallace. Yet he had risen so rapidly from a
private station to this great position that there was
much jealousy of him on the part of the great nobles,
and their lack of support of the best soldier and
bravest man of their nation was the main cause of
his downfall and the subsequent disasters to their
country.
Wallace, despite their dufeetion, had assembled a
considerable army. But it was not so strong as that
of Edward, who had, besides, a largo body of the
celebrated archers of England, each of whom car
ried, so it was claimed, twelve Scotchmen's lives in
his girdle, — in his twelve cloth-yard arrows.
The two armies mot at Falldrk. Wallace, before
the fighting began, addressed his men in a pithy
136 HISTORICAL TALES.
sentence : " I have brought you to the ring, let me
Bee how you can dance." The battle opened with a
charge of the English cavalry on the dense ranks of
the Scottish infantry, who were armed with long
spears which they held so closely together that their
liue seemed impregnable. The English horsemen
found it so. They attempted again and again to
break through that " wood of spears," as it has been
called, but were every time beaten oif with loss.
But the Scotch horse failed to support their brave
footmen. On the contrary, they fled from the field,
through ill-will or treachery of the nobles, as is
sujDposed.
Edward now ordered his archers to advance. They
did so, and poured their arrows upon the Scottish
ranks in such close and deadly volleys that flesh and
blood could not endure it. Wallace had also a body of
archers, from Ettr^ck forest, but they were attacked
in their advance and many of them slain. The Eng-
lish cavalry now again charged. They met with a
different reception from their previous one. The
storm of arrows had thrown "Wallace's infantry into
confusion, the line was broken at several points, and
the horsemen charged into their midst, cutting them
down in great numbers. Sir John Grahame and
others of their leaders were slain, and the Scotch,
their firm ranks broken and many of them slain, at
length took to flight.
It was on the 22d of July, 1298, that this decisive
battle took jDlace. Its event put an end, for the time,
to the hopes of Scottish independence. Opposition
to Edward's army continued, and some successes
WALLACE, THE HERO OP SCOTLAND. lo7
were gained, but the army of invasion was abun-
dantly reinforced, until in the end Wallace alone, at
the head of a small band of followers, remained in
arms.
After all others had yielded, he persistently re-
fused to submit to Edward and his armies. As he
had been the first to take arms, he was the last to
keep the field, and for some years he continued to
maintain himself among the woods and hills of the
Highlands, holding his own for more than a year
after all the other chiefs bad sui-rendered.
Edward was determined not to leave him at liberty.
He feared the influence of this one man more than of
i-M the nobles of Scotland, and pursued him unremit-
tingly, a great price being offered for his brad. At
length the gallant champion was captured, a Scotch-
man, Sir John Menteith, earning obloquy by the act.
The story goes that the capture was made at Rob-
royston, near Glasgow, the fugitive champion being
taken by treachery, the signal for rushing upon him
and taking him unawares being for one of the com-
pany to turn a loaf, which lay upon the table, with
its bottom side uppermost. In after-days it waa
considered very ill-breeding for any one to turn a
loaf in this manner, if a pei'son named Menteith
were at table,
However this be, it is certain that Wallace waa
taken and delivered to his great enemy, and no less
certain that he was treated with barbarous harsh-
ness. He was placed on trial at Westminster Hall,
on the charge of being a traitor to the English crown,
and Edward, to insult him, had him crowned with a
12*
138 HISTORICAL TALES.
green garland, as one who had been king of outlaws
and robbers in the Scottish woods.
" I could not be a traitor to Edward, for I was
never his subject," was the chieftain's answer to the
charge against him.
He was then accused of taking many towns and
castles, killing many men, and doing much violence.
" It is true I have killed many Englishmen," re
plied Wallace, " but it was because they came to
oppress my native country. Far from repenting of
this, I am only sorry not to have put to death many
more of them."
Wallace's defence was a sound one, but Edward
had prejudged him. He was condemned and exe-
cuted, his body being quartered, in the cruel fashion
of that time, and the parts exposed on spikes on
London bridge, as the limbs of a traitor. Thus died
a hero, at the command of a tvrant
BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN.
To Edward the Second, lying in luxurious idleness
in his palace of pleasure at London, came the start-
ling word that he must strike a blow or lose a kingdom.
Scotland was slipping from his weak grasp. Of that
great realm, won by the iron hand of his father, only-
one stronghold was left to England, — Stirling Castle,
and that was fiercely besieged by Eobert Bruce and
his patriot army.
The tidings tliat came to Edward were these. Sir
Philip Mowbray, governor of Stirling, hotly pressed
by the Bruce, and seeing no hope of succor, had
agreed to deliver the town and castle to the Scotch,
unless relief reached him before midsummer, Bruce
stopped not the messengers. He let them speed to
London with the tidings, willing, doubtless, in his
bold heart, to try it once for all with the English
king, and win all or lose all at a blow.
The news stirred feebly the weak heart of Edward,
— lapped in delights, and heedless of kingdoms. It
stirred strongly the vigorous hearts of the English
nobility, men who had marched to victory under the
banners of the iron Edward, and who burned with
impatience at the inglorious ease of his silken son.
The great deeds of Edward I. should not go for
139
140 HISTORICAL TALES.
naught, they declared. He had won Scotland; his
sou should not lose it. The rebel Bruce had been
left alone until he had gathered an ai-my and nearly
made Scotland his own. Only Stirling remained ; it
would be to the endless disgrace of England should
it be abandoned, and the gallant Mowbray left with-
out Buj)port. An army must be gathered, l^ruce
must be beaten, Scotland must be won.
Like the cry of a pack of sleuth-hounds in the car
of the timid deer came these stern demands to Ed-
ward the king. He dared not disregard them. It
might be as much as his crown were worth. England
meant business, and its king must take the lead or
he might be asked to yield the throne. Stirred alike
by pride and fear, he roused from his lethargy, gave
orders that an army should be gathered, and vowed
to drive the beleaguering Scots from before Stirling's
walls.
From every side they came, the marching troops.
England, hot with revengeful blood, mustered its
quota in haste. "Wales and Ireland, new appendages
of the English throne, supplied their share. From
the French provinces of the kingdom hosts of eager
men-at-arms flocked across the Channel. All the
great nobles and the barons of the realm led their
followers, equipped for war, to the mustering-place,
until a force of one hundred thousand men was ready
for the field, perhaps the largest array which had
ever marched under an English king. In this great
array were thirty thousand horsemen. It looked as
if Scotland were doomed. Surely that sterile land
could raise no force to face this great array I
BRTTCE AT BANiVOCKBURN. 141
King Robert the Bruce did his utmost to prepare
for the storm of war which thi'cateiied tobreaic upon
his realm. In all hasto he summoned his barons and
nobles from far and near. From the Hii^hlands and
the Lowlands they came, from island and mainland
flocked the kilted and tartaned Scotch, but, when all
were gathered, they numbered not a third the host
of their foes, and were much more poorly armed.
But at their head was the most expert military chief
of that day, since the death of Edward I. the great-
est warrior that Europe knew. Once again was it
to be proved that the general is the bouI of his army,
and that skill and courage are a full offset for lack of
numbers.
Towards Stirling marched the great English array,
confident in their numbers, proud of their gallant
show. Northward they streamed, filling all the
roads, the king at their head, deeming doubtless that
he was on a holiday excursion, and that behind him
came a wind of war that would blow the Scotch
forces into the sea. Around Stirling gathered the
army of the Bruce, marching in haste from hill and
dale, coming in to the stiiTing peal of the pipes and
the old martial airs of the land, until the plain around
the beleaguered town seemed a living sea of men, and
the sunlight burned on endless points of steel.
But Bruce had no thought of awaiting the onset
here. He well knew that he must supply by skill
what he lacked in numbers. The English army was
far superior to his, not only in men, but in its great
host of cavalry, which alone equalled his entire force,
and in its multitude of archers, the best bowmen
142 HISTORICAL TALES.
in the world. What he lacked in men and arms he
must make up in brains. With this in view, he led
his army from before the town into a neighboring
plain, called the Park, where nature had provided
means of defence of which he might avail himself.
The ground which his army here occupied was
hard and dry. That in front of it, through which
Edward's host must pass, was wet and boggy, cut up
with frequent watercourses, and ill-fitted for cavalry.
Should the heavy armed horsemen succeed in crossing
this marshy and broken ground and reach the firm
soil in the Scottish front, they would find themselves
in a worse strait still. For Eruce had his men dig
a great number of holes as deep as a man's knee.
These were covered with light brush, and the turf
spread evenly over them, so that the honeycombed
soil looked to the eye like an unbroken field. Else-
where on the plain he scattered calthrops — steel
spikes — to lame the English horses. Smooth and
promising looked the field, but the English cavalry
were likely to find it a plain of pitfalls and steel
points.
While thus defending his front, Bruce had given
as skilful heed to the defence of his flanks. On the
left his line reached to the walls of Stirling. On the
right it touched the banks of Bannockburn, a brook
that ran between borders so rocky as to prevent
attack from that quarter. Here, on the 23d of June,
1314, was posted the Scottish army, awaiting the
coming of the foe, the camp-followers, cart- drivers,
and other useless material of the army being sent
back behind a hill, — afterwards known as the gillies'
BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 143
or servants' bill,— that they miii;ht be out of the way.
They were to play a part in the coming fray of wliich
Bruco did not dream.
Thus prepared, Bruce reviewed his force, and ad-
dressed them in stirring words. The battle would
be victory or death to him, he said. He hoped it
would be to all. If any among them did not propose
to fight to the bitter end and take victory or death,
as God should decree, for his lot, now was the time
to withdraw ; all such might leave the field before
the battle began. Not a man left.
Fearing that the English might try to throw a
force into Stirling Castle, the king posted his nephew
Randolph with a body of men near St. Ninian's
church. Lord Dotiglas and Sir Eobert Keith were
sent to survey and report upon the English force,
which was marching from Falkirk. They returned
with tidings to make any but stout hearts quiver.
Such an army as was coming they had never seen
before ; it was a beautiful but a terrible sight, the
approach of that mighty host. The whole country,
as far as the eye could see, was crowded with men
on hoi'se or on foot. Never had they beheld such a
grand display of standards, banners, and pennons.
So gallant and fearful a show was it all, that the
bravest host in Christendom might well tremble
to see King Edward's army marching upon them.
Such was the story told by Douglas, though his was
not the heart to tremble in the telling.
Bruce was soon to see this great array of horse
and foot for himself. On they came, filling the coun-
try far and near with their numbers. But before
Ii4 HISTORICAL TALES.
they had come in view, another sight met the vigi
lant eyes of the Scottish king. To the eastward there
became visible a body of English horse, riding at
Bpeed, and seeking to reach Stirling from that quarter.
Bruce turned to his nephew, who stood beside him.
"See, Eandolph," he said, "there is a rose fallen
fi'om your chaplet."
The English had passed the post which Eandolph
had been set to guard. He heard the rebuke in
silence, rode hastily to the head of his men, and
rushed against the eight hundred English horse with
half that number of footmen. The English turned
to charge this daring force. Eandolph drew up his
men in close order to receive them. It looked as
if the Scotch would be overwhelmed, and trampled
under foot by the powerful foe.
" Eandolph is lost !" cried Douglas. " He must
have help. Let me go to his aid."
" Let Eandolph redeem his own fault," answered
the king, firmly. " I cannot break the order of battle
for his sake."
Douglas looked on, fuming with impatience. The
danger seemed more imminent. The small body of
Scotch foot almost vanished from sight in the cloud
of English horsemen. The glittering lances appeared
about to annihilate them.
" So please you," said Douglas, " my heart will not
suffer me to stand idle and see Eandolph perish. I
must go to his assistance."
The king made no answer. Douglas spurred to
the head of his troop, and rode off at speed. He
neared the scene of conflict. Suddenly a change
BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 145
came. The horsemen appeared confused. Panic
seemed to have etricken their ranks. In a moment
away they went, in full flight, many of the horses
■with empty saddles, while the gallant group of Scotch
stood unmoved.
" Halt !" cried Douglas. " Randolph has gained
the day. Since we are not soon enough to help him
in the battle, do not let us lessen his glory by ap-
proaching the field." And the noble knight pulled
rein and galloped back, unwilling to rob Eandolph
of any of the honor of his deed.
The English vanguard was now in sight. From it
rode out a number of knights, eager to see the Scotch
array more nearly. King Eobert did the same. He
was in armor, but was poorly mounted, riding only
a little pony, with which he moved up and down the
front of his army, putting his men in order. A
golden crown worn over his helmet was his sole
mark of distinction. The only weapon he carried
was a steel battle-axe. As the English knights came
nearer, he advanced a little to have a closer look at
them.
Here seemed an opportunity for a quick and de-
cisive blow. The Scottish king was at some distance
in front of his men, his rank indicated by his crown,
his horse a poor one, his hand empty of a spear. He
might be ridden down by a sudden onset, victory to
the English host be gained by a single blow, and
great glory come to tne bold knight that dealt it.
So thought one of the English knights. Sir Henry
■do Bohun by name. Putting spurs to his power-
ful war-horse, he galloped furiously upon the king,
II.— <j k 13
146 HISTORICAL TALES.
thinking to bear him easily to the ground. Bruce
Baw him coming, but made no movement of flight.
He sat his pony warily, waiting the onset, until Eohun
was nearly upon him with his spear. Then a quick
touch to the rein, a sudden movement of the horse,
and the lance-point sped past, missing its mark.
The Scotch army stood in breathless alarm ; the
English host in equally breathless expectation ; it
seemed for the moment as if Eobert the Bruce were
lost. But as De Bohun passed him, borne onward
by the career of his steed, King Eobert rose in hia
stirrups, swung his battle-axe in the air, and brought
it down on his adversary's head with so terrible a
blow that the iron helmet cracked as though it were
a nutshell, and the knight fell from his horse, dead
before he reached the ground.
King Eobert turned and rode back, where he was
met by a storm of reproaches from his nobles, who
declared that he had done grave wrong in exposing
himself to such danger, when the safety of the army
depended on him. The king heard their reproaches
in silence, his eyes fixed on the fractured edge of his
weapon.
" I have broken my good battle-axe," was his only
reply.
This incident ended the day. Night was at hand.
Both armies rested on the field. But at an early
hour of the next day, the 24th of June, the battle
began, one of the critical battles of history.
Through the Scottish ranks walked barefooted the
abbot of Inchalfray, exhorting the men to fight their
best for freedom. The soldiers kneeled as he passed.
BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 147
" They kneel down !" cried King Edward, who
saw this. " They are asking forgiveness !"
"Yes," said a baron beside him, "but they ask it
from God, not from us. These men will conquer, or
die upon the field."
The battle began with a flight of English arrows.
The archers, drawn up in close ranks, bent their bows,
and poured their steel shafts as thiclvly as snow-flakea
on the Scotch, many of whom were slain. Some-
thing must be done, and that speedily, or those
notable bowmen would end the battle of themselves.
Flesh and blood could not long bear that rain of
cloth-yard shafts, with their points of piercing steel.
But Bruce had prepared for this danger. A body
of well-mounted men-at-arms stood read}', and at the
word of command rushed at full gallop upon the
archers, cutting them down to right and left. Having
no weapons but their bows and arrows, the archers
broke and fled in utter confusion, hundreds of them
being slain.
This charge of the Scotch cavalry was followed
by an advance in force of the English horsemen,
who came forward in such close and serried ranks
and with so vast an array that it looked as if they
would overwhelm the narrow lines before them.
But suddenly trouble came upon this mighty mass
of knights and men-at-arms. The seemingl}' solid
earth gave way under their horses' feet, and down
they went into the hidden pits, the horses hurled
headlong, the riders flung helplessly upon the ground,
from which the Aveight of their armor prevented their
risinff.
148 HISTORICAL TALES.
In an instant the Scotch footmen were among them,
killing the defenceless knights, cutting and slashing
among the confused mass of horsemen, breaking
their fine display into irretrievable disorder. Bruce
brought up his men in crowding multitudes. Through
the English ranks they glided, stabbing horses, slay-
ing their iron-clad riders, doubly increasing the con-
fusion of that wild whirl of horsemen, whose trim
and gallant ranks had been thrown into utter dis-
array.
The English fought as they could, though at serioua
disadvantage. But their numbers were so great that
they might have crushed the Scotch under their
mere weight but for one of those strange chances on
which the fate of so many battles have depended.
As has been said, the Scottish camp-followers had
been sent back behind a hill. But on seeing that
their side seemed Hkely to win the day, this rabble
came suddenly crowding over the hill, eager for a
share in the spoil.
It was a disorderly mob, but to the sorely-pressed
English cavalry it seemed a new army which the
Bruce had held in reserve. Suddenly stricken with
panic, the horsemen turned and fled, each man for
himself, as fast as their horses could carry them, the
whole army breaking rank and rushing back in ter-
ror over the ground which they had lately traversed
in such splendor of appearance and confidence of soul.
After them came the Scotch, cutting, slashing,
killing, paving the earth with English slain. King
Edward put spurs to his horse and fled in all haste
from the fatal field. A gallant knight, Sir Giles de
BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 149
Argentine, who had won glory in Palestine, kept by
him till ho was out of the press. Then he drew
rein.
" It is not my custom to fly," he said.
Turning his horse and shouting his war-cry of
" Argentine ! Argentine !" he rushed into the densest
ranks of the Scotch, and was quickly killed.
Many others of high rank fell, valiantly fighting,
men who knew not the meaning of flight. But the
bulk of the army was in hopeless pan. c, flying for
life, red lines constantly falling before the crimsoned
claymores of the Scotch, until the very streams ran
red with blood.
King Edward found war less than ever to his royal
taste. He fled to Stirling Castle and begged admit-
tance.
" I cannot grant it, my liege," answered Mowbray.
"My compact with the Bruce obliges me to sur-
render the castle to-morrow. If you enter here it
will be to become prisoner to the Scotch."
Edward turned and continued his flight, his route
lying through the Torwood. After him came Lord
Douglas, with a body of cavalry, pressing forward
in hot haste. On his way he met a Scotch knight,
Sir Lawrence Abernethy, with twenty horsemen,
riding to join Edward's army.
" Edward's army 1 He has no army," cried Doug-
las. *' The army is a rout. Edward himself is in
flight. I am hot on his track."
" I am with you, then," cried Abernethy, changing
sides on the instant, and joining in pursuit of tna
king whom he had just before been eager to servo.
13*
150 HISTORICAL TALES.
A^ay went the frightened king. On came the
furious pursuers. Not a moment was given Edward
to draw rein or alight. The chase was continued as
far as Dunbar, whose governor, the earl of March,
opened his gates to the flying king, and shut them
against his foes. Giving the forlorn monarch a small
fishing-vessel, he set him on the seas for England,
a few distressed attendants alone remaining to him
of the splendid army with which he had marched to
the conquest of Scotland.
Thus ended the battle which wrested Scotland
from English hands, and made Eobert Bruce king
of the whole country. From the state of an exile,
hunted with hounds, he had made himself a monarch,
and one who soon gave the English no little trouble
to protect their own borders.
THE SIEGE OF CALAIS,
Terrible and long-enduring had been the siege
of Calais. For a whole year it had continued, and
still the sturdy citizens held the town. Outside was
Ed\^ aid III., with his English host, raging at the
obstinacy of the French and at his own losses during
the siege. Inside was John de Vieune, the unyield-
ing governor, and his brave garrison. Outside was
plenty; inside was famine; between were impreg-
nable walls, which all the engines of Edward failed
to reduce or surmount. No resource was left the
English king but time and famine; none was left
the garrison but the hope of wearying their foes or
of relief by their king. The chief foe they fought
against was starvation, an enemy against whom war-
like arms were of no avail, whom only stout hearts
and inflexible endurance could meet ; and bravely
they faced this frightful foe, those stout citizens of
Calais.
An excellent harbor had Calais. It had long been
the sheltering-place for the pirates that preyed on
English commerce. But now no ship could leave or
enter. The English fleet closed the passage by sea ;
the English army blocked all approach by land ; the
French king, whose great army had just been mer-
161
152 HISTORICAL TALES.
cilessly slaughtered at Crecy, held aloof; nothing
seemed to remain for Calais but death or surrender,
and yet the valiant governor held out againbt his
foes.
As the days went on and no relief came he made
a census of the town, selected seventeen hundred
poor and unsold! erly folks, " useless mouths," as he
called them, and drove them outside the walls.
Happily for them, King Edward was just then in a
good humor. He gave the starving outcasts a good
dinner and twopence in money each, and passed
them through his ranks to make their way whither
they would.
More days passed ; food grew scarcer ; there were
more " useless mouths" in the town ; John de Yienne
decided to try this experiment again. Five hundred
more were thrust from the gates. This time King
Edward was not in a good humor. He bade his sol-
diers drive them back at sword's-point. The gov-
ernor refused to admit them into the town. The
whole miserable multitude died of starvation in sight
of both camps. Such were the amenities of war in
the Middle Ages. Mercy was then the rarest of the
virtues.
A letter was now sent to the French king, Philip
de Yalois, imploring succor. They had eaten, said
the governor, their horses, their dogs, even the rata
and mice ; nothing remained but to eat each other.
Unluckily, the English, not the French, king re-
ceived this letter, and the English host grew more
watchful than ever. But Philip de Valois needed not
letters to tell him of the extremity of the garrison ;
THE SIEGE OP CALAIS. 153
he knew it well, and knew as well that haste alone
could save him one of his fairest towns.
But he had suffered a frightful defeat at Crecy
only five days before the siege of Calais began.
Twelve hundred of his knights and thirty thousand
of his foot-soldiers — a number equal to the whole
English force — bad been slain on the field; thou-
sands of others had been taken prisoner; a new
army was not easily to be raised. Months passed
before Philip was able to come to the relief of the
beleaguered stronghold. The Oriflamme, the sacred
banner of the realm, never displayed but in times
of dire extremity, was at length unfurled to the
winds, and from every side the great vassals of the
kingdom hastened to its support. France, ever pro-
lific of men, poured forth her sons until she had
another large army in the field. In July of 13-47,
eleven months after the siege began, the garrison,
weary with long waiting, saw afar from their look-
out towers the floating banners of France, and
beneath them the faintly-seen forms of a mighty
host.
The glad news spread through the town. The
king was coming with a great army at his back!
their sufferings had not been in vain ; they would
soon be relieved, and those obstinate English bo
driven into the sea! Had a fleet of bread-ships
broken through the blockade, and sailed with waving
pennons into the harbor, the souls of the garrison
could not have been more uplifted with joy.
Alas! it was a short-lived joy. Net many days
elapsed before that great h-ost faded before their
154 HISTORICAL TALES.
eyes like a mist under the sun-rays, its banners
lifting and falling as they slowly vanished into the
distance, the gleam of its many steel-headed weapons
dying out until not a point of light remained. Their
gladness turned into redoubled misery as they saw
themselves thus left to their fate ; their king, who
had marched up with such a gallant show of banners
and arms, marching away without striking a blow.
It was hard to believe it ; but there they went, and
there the English lay.
The soil of France had never seen anything quite
80 ludicrous — but for its tragic side — as this march
of Philip the king. Two roads led to the town, but
these King Edward, who was well advised of what
was coming, had taken care to intrench and guard
BO sti'ongly that it would prove no light nor safe
matter to force a way through. Philip sent out his
spies, learned what was before him, and, full of the
memory of Crecy, decided that it would be too
costly an experiment to attack those works. But
were not these the days of chivalry? was not
Edward famed for his chivalrous spirit ? Surely he,
as a noble and puissant knight, would not take an
unfair advantage of his adversary. As a knight of
renown he could not refuse to march into the open
field, and trust to God and St. George of England
for his defence, as against God and St. Denys of
France.
Philip, thereupon, sent four of his principal lords
to the English king, saying that he was there to do
battle, as knight against knight, but could find no
way to come to him. He requested, therefore, that a
THE SIEGE OP CALAIS. 155
council should meet to fix upon a place of battle,
where the difference between him and his cousin of
England might be fairly decided.
Surely such a request had never before been made
to an opposing general. Doubtless King Edward
laughed in his beard at the naive proposal, even if
courtesy kept him from laughing in the envoys'
faces. As regards his answer, we cannot quote its
words, but its nature may be gathered from the fact
that Philip soon after broke camp, and marched back
over the road by which he had come, saying to him-
self, no doubt, that the English king lacked knightly
honor, or he would not take so unfair an advantage
of a foe. And thus ended this strange episode in
war, Philip marching away with all the bravery of
his host, Edward grimly turning again to the town
which he held in his iron grasp.
The story of the siege of Calais concludes in a
highly dramatic fashion. It was a play presented
upon a great stage, but with true dramatic acces-
sories of scenery and incident. These have been
picturesquely preserved by the old chroniclers,
and are well worthy of being again presented.
Eroissart has told the tale in his own inimitable
fashion. We follow others in telling it in more
modern phrase.
When the people of Calais saw that they were de-
serted by their king, hope suddenly fled from their
hearts. Longer defence meant but deeper misery.
Nothing remained but surrender. Stout-hearted John
de Yienne, their commander, seeing that all was at
an end, mounted the walls with a flag of truce, and
156 HISTORICAL TALES.
made signs that lie wished to speak with some person
of the besieging host. Word of this was brought to
the English king, and he at once sent Sir Walter de
Manny and Sir Basset as his envoys to confer with
the bearer of the flag. The governor looked down
upon them from the walls with sadness in his eyes
and the lines of starvation on his face.
" Sirs," he said, " vahant knights you are, as I well
know. As for me, I have obeyed the command of
the king, my master, by doing all that lay in my
power to hold for him this town. Now succor haa
failed us, and food we have none. We must all die
of famine unless your noble and gentle king will
have mercy on us, and let us go free, in exchange for
the town and all the goods it contains, of which there
is great abundance."
"We know something of the intention of our
master," answered Sir Walter. "He will certainly
not let you go free, but will require you to surrender
without conditions, some of you to be held to ransom,
others to be put to death. Your people have put
him to such despite by their bitter obstinacy, and
caused him such loss of treasure and men, that he is
sorely grieved against them."
" You make it too hard for us," answered the gov-
ernor. "We are here a small company of knights
and squires, who have served our king to our own
pain and misery, as you would serve yours in like
case; but rather than let the least lad in the town
suffer more than the greatest of us, we will endure
the last extremity of pain. We beg of you to plead
for us with your king for pity, and trust that, by
THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 157
God's grace', his purpose m ill change, and his gentle*
ncss yield us pardon."
The envoys, much moved by the wasted face and
earnest appeal of the governor, returned with his
message to the king, whom they found in an unre-
lenting mood. He answered them that he would
make no other terms. The garrison must yield them-
selves to his pleasui'e. Sir AYalter answered with
words as wise as they were bold, —
" I beg you to consider this more fully," he said,
" for you may be in the wrong, and make a danger-
ous example from which some of us may yet suffer.
We shall certainly not very gladly go into any for-
tress of yours for defence, if you should put any of
the people of this town to death after they yield ;
for in like case the French will certainly deal with us
in the same fashion."
Others of the lords present sustained Sir "Walter in
this opinion, and presented the case so strongly that
the king yielded.
" I will not be alone against you all," he said, after
an interval of reflection. "This much will I yield.
Go, Sir Walter, and say to the governor that all the
grace I can give him is this. Let him send me six
of the chief burgesses of the town, who shall come
out bareheaded, barefooted, and barelegged, clad only
in their shirts, and with halters around their necks,
with the keys cf the tower and castle in their hands.
These must yield themselves fully to my will. The
others I will take to mercy."
Sir Walter returned with this message, saying that
no hope of better terms could be had of the king.
14
158 HISTORICAL TALES.
'= Then I beg you to wait here," said Sir John, " till
I can take your message to the townsmen, who sent
me here, and bring j-ou their reply."
Into the town went the governor, where he sought
the market-place, and soon the town-bell was ringing
its mustering peal. Quickly the people gathered,
eager, says Jehau le Bel, " to hear their good news,
for they were all mad with hunger." Sir John told
them his message, saying, —
"No other terms are to be had, and you must de-
cide quickly, for our foes ask a speedy answer."
His words were followed by weeping and much
lamentation among the people. Some of them must
die. Who should it be ? Sir John himself shed
tears for their extremity. It was not in his heart to
name the victims to the wrath of the English king.
At length the richest burgess of the town, Eustace
de St. Pierre, stepped forward and said, in tones of
devoted resolution, —
" My friends and fellows, it would be great grief
to let you all die by famine or otherwise, when there
is a means given to save you. Great grace would h^
win from our Lord who could keep this people from
dying. For myself, I have trust in God that if I
Bave this people by my death I shall have pardon for
my faults. Therefore, I offer myself as the first of
the six, and am willing to put myself at the mercy
of King Edward."
He was followed by another rich burgess, Jehau
D'Aire by name, who said, " I will keep company
with my gossip Eustace."
Jacques de W '»ant and his brother, Peter de Wi-
THE SIEGE OP CALAIS. 159
flant, both rich citizens, next offered themselves, and
two others quickly made up the tale. "Word was
taken to Sir Walter of what had been done, and the
victims apparelled themselves as the king had com-
manded.
It was a sad procession that made its way to the
gate of the town. Sir John led the way, the devoted
six followed, while the remainder of the towns-people
made their progress woful with tears and cries of
grief. Months of suffering had not caused them
deeper sorrow than to see these their brave hostages
marching to death.
The gate opened. Sir John and the six burgesses
passed through. It closed behind them. Sir Walter
stood waiting.
"I deliver to you, as captain of Calais," said Sir
John, " and by the consent of all the people of the
town, these six burgesses, who I swear to you are
the richest and most honorable burgesses of Calais.
Therefore, gentle knight, I beg you pray the king to
have mercy on them, and grant them their lives."
" What the king will do I cannot say," answered
Sir Walter, " but I shall do for them the best I can."
The coming of the hostages roused great feeling
in the English host. Their pale and wasted faces,
their miserable state, the fate which threatened them,
roused pity and sympathy in the minds of many,
and not the least in that of the queen, who was with
Edward in the camp, and came with him and his
tram of nobles as they approached the place to which
the hostages had been led.
When they were brought before the king the bur-
160 HISTORICAL TALES.
gesses kneeled and piteously begged his grace, Eustace
saying,—
" Gentle king, here be we six, who were burgesses
of Calais, and great merchants. "We bring you the
keys of the town and the castle, and submit our-
selves fully to your will, to save the remainder of our
people, who have already suffered great pain. We
beseech you to have mercy and pity on us through
your high nobleness."
His words brought tears from many persons there
present, for naught so piteous had ever come before
them. But the king looked on them with vindictive
eyes, and for some moments stood in lowering silence.
Then he e-ave the harsh command to take these men
and strike off their heads.
At this cruel sentence the lords of his council
crowded round the king, begging for compassion, but
he turned a deaf ear to their pleadings. Sir Walter
de Manny then said, his eyes fixed in sorrow on the
pale and trembling victims, —
" Noble sire, for God's sake restrain your wrath.
You have the renown of all gentleness and nobility ;
I pray you do not a thing that can lay a blemish on
your fair fame, or give men cause to speak of you
despitefully. Every man will say it is a great cruelty
to put to death such honest persons, who of their own
will have put themselves into your hands to save the
remainder of their people."
These words seemed rather to heighten than to
soften the king's wrath. He turned away fiercely,
saying,—
" Hold your peace, Master Walter; it shall be as I
THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 161
have said. — Call the headsman. They of Calais have
made so many of my men to die, that they must die
themselves."
The queen had listened sadly to these words, while
tears flowed freely from her gentle eyes. On hear-
ing the harsh decision of her lord and king, she could
restrain herself no longer. "With streaming eyes she
cast herself on her knees at his feet, and turned up
to him her sweet, imploring face.
"Gentle sir, "she said, "since that day in which I
passed over sea in great peril, as you know, I have
asked no fuvor from you. Now I pray and beseech
you with folded hands, in honor of the Son of the
Virgin Mary, and for the love which you bear me,
that you will have mercy on these poor men."
The king looked down upon her face, wet with
tears, and stood silent for a few minutes. At length
he spoke.
" Ah, dame, I would you had been in some other
place this day. You pray so tenderly that I cannot
refuse you. Though it is much against my will,
nevertheless take them, I give them to you to use as
you will."
The queen, filled with joy at these words of grace
and mercy, returned glad thanks to the king, and
bade those near her to take the halters fi-om the
iiocks of the burgesses and clothe them. Then she
saw that a good dinner was set before them, and
gave each of them six nobles, afterwards directing
that they should bo taken in safety through the
English army and set at liberty.
Thus ended that memoi-able siege of Calais, with
II.— I 14*
162 HISTORICAL TALES.
one of the most dramatic incidents ■which history
has to tell. For more than two centuries the cap-
tured city remained in English hands, being theirs
long after they had lost all other possessions on the
soil of France. At length, in 1558, in the reign of
Queen Mary, it was taken by the French, greatly to
the chagrin of the queen, who is reported to have
said, "When I die, you will find the word Calais
•written on my heart."
THE BLACK PRINCE AT
POITIERS,
Through the centre of France marched the Black
Prince, with a email but valiant army. Into the
heart of that fair kingdom had he come, ravaging
the land as he went, leaving misery and destitution
at every step, when suddenly across his line of march
there appeared an unlooked-for obstacle. The plun-
dering marches of the EngUsh had roused the
French. In hosts they had gathered round their
king, marched in haste to confront the advancing
foe, and on the night of Saturday, September 17,
1356, the English found their line of retreat cut oflf
by what seemed an innumerable array of knights
and men-at-arms, filling the whole country in their
front as far as eye could see, closing with a wall of
hostile steel their only road to safety.
The danger was great. For two 3-ears the Black
Prince and his army of foragers had held France
at their mercy, plundering to their hearts' content.
The year before, the young prince had led his army
up the Garonne into — as an ancient chronicler tells
us — " what was before one of the fat countries of the
world, the people good and simple, who did not know
what war was; indeed, no war had been waged
163
164 HISTORICAL TALES.
against thorn till the prince came. The English and
Gascons found the country full and gaj, the rooms
adorned with carpets and draperies, the caskets and
chests full of fair jewels. But nothing was safe
from these robbers. They, and especially the Gas-
cons, who are very greedy, carried off everything."
When they reached Bordeaux their horses were " so
laden with spoils that they could hardly move."
Again the prince had led his army of freebooters
through France, but he was not to marcb out again
with the same impunity as before. King John, who
had just come to the throne, hastily gathered an
army and marched to his country's relief. On the
night named the Black Prince, marching briskly
forward with his small force of about eight thousand
men, found himself suddenly in face of an over-
whelming array of not less than sixty thousand of
the best fighting blood of France.
The case seemed hopeless. Surrender appeared
the only resource of the English. Just ten years
before, at Crccy, Edward III., in like manner driven
to bay, had with a small force of English put to rout
an overwhelming body of French. In that affair
the Black Prince, then little more than a boy, had
won the chief honor of the day. But it was beyond
hope that so great a success could again be attained.
It seemed madness to join battle with such a dispro-
portion of numbers. Yet the prince remembered
Crecy, and simply said, on being told how mighty
was the host of the French, —
" "Well, in the name of God, let us now study how
we shaU fight with them at our advantage."
THE BLACK PEINCE AT POITIERS. 165
Small as was the English force, it had all the ad-
vantages of position. In its front were thick and
strong hedges. It could be approached only by a
deep and narrow lane that ran between vineyards.
In the rear was higher ground, on which the small
body of men-at-arms were stationed. The bowmen
lay behind the hedges and in the vineyards, guard-
ing the lane of approach. Here they lay that night,
awaiting the fateful morrow.
With the morning's light the French army was
drawn up in lines of assault. " Then trumpets blew
up through the host," says gossipy old Froissartj
•'and every man mounted on horseback and went
into the field, where they saw the king's banner
wave with the wind. There might have been seen
great nobles of fair harness and rich armory of
banners and pennons; for there was all the flower
of France; there was none durst abide at home,
without he would be shamed forever."
It was Sunday morning, a suitable day for the
church to take part in the affair. Those were times
in which the part of the church was apt to be played
with sword and spear, but on this occasion it bore
the olive-branch. At an early hour the cardinal of
Perigord appeared on the scene, eager to make peace
between the opposing forces. The pope had com-
missioned him to this duty.
"Sir," he said, kneeling before King John, "yo
have here all the flower of your realm against a
handful of Englishmen, as regards your company.
And, sir, if ye may have them accorded to you with-
out battle, it shall be mure profitable and honorable
166 HISTORICAL TALES.
than to adventure this noble chivalry. I beg you
let me, in the name of God and humility, ride to the
prince and show htm in what danger ye have him
m."
" That pleases me well," answered the king. " Go ;
but return again shortly."
The cardinal thereupon rode to the English side
and accosted the prince, whom he found on foot
among his men. A courteous greeting passed.
" Fair son," said the envoy of peace, " if you and
your council know justly the power of the French
king, you will suffer me to treat for peace between
you."
'' I would gladly fall to any reasonable way," an-
swered the prince, "if but my honor and that of
my people be saved."
Some further words passed, and the cardinal rode
again to the king.
" Sir," he said, " there seems hope of making peace
with your foes, nor need you make haste to fight
them, for they cannot flee if they would. I beg you,
therefore, to forbear for this day, and put off the
battle till to morrow sunrise. That may give time
to conclude a truce."
This advice was not pleasing to the king, who saw
no wisdom in delay, but the cardinal in the end per-
Buaded him to consent to a day's respite. The con-
ference ended, the king's pavilion of red silk was
raised, and word sent through the army that the
men might take their ease, except the advanced
forces of the constable and marshal.
Ail that day the cardinal kept himself busy in
^.
THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS. 167
earnest efforts to effect an agreement. Back and
forth he rodo between the tents of the king and tho
prince, seeking to make terms of peace or surrender.
Offer after offer was made and refused. The king's
main demand was that four of the principal Englieh-
men should be placed in his hands, to deal with as
he would, and all the others yield themselves pris-
onoi-s. This the prince refused. He would agree
to return all the castles and towns he bad taken,
surrender all prisoners^ and swear not to bear arms
against the French for seven years; this and no
more he would offer.
King John would listen to no such terms. Ho
had the English at his mercy, as he fully believed,
and it was for him, not for thena, to make terms.
He would be generous. The prince and a hundred
of his knights alone should yield themselves pris-
oners. The rest might go free. Surely this was a
most favorable offer, pleaded the cardinal. But so
thought not the Black Prince, who refused it abso-
lutely, and the cardinal returned in despair to Poi-
tiers.
That day of respite was not wasted by the prince.
"What he lacked in men he must make up in work.
He kept his men busily employed, deepening the
dikes, strengthening the hedges, making all the prep-
arations that skill suggested and time permitted.
The sun rose on Monday morning, and with its
first beams the tireless peace-maker was again on
horse, with the forlorn hope that the bloody fray
might still be avoided. Ho found the leaders of the
hosts in a different temper from that of the day
168 HISTORICAL TALES.
before. The time for words had gone ; that for blows
had come.
" Return whither ye will," was King John's abrupt
answer ; " bring hither no more words of treaty or
peace ; and if you love youi-self, depart shortly."
To the prince rode the good cardinal, overcome
with emotion.
" Sir," he pleaded, " do what you can for peace.
Otherwise there is no help from battle, for I can
find no spirit of accord in the French king."
" Nor here," answered the prince, cheerfully. " i
and all my people are of the same intent, — and God
help the right I"
The cardinal turned and rode away, sore-hearted
with pity. As he went the prince turned to his
men.
" Though," he said, " we be but a small company
as compared with the power of our foes, let not that
abash us ; for victory lies not in the multitude of
people, but goes where God sends it. If fortune
makes the day ours, we shall be honored by all the
world ; but if we die, the king, my father, and your
good friends and kinsmen shall revenge us. There-
fore, sirs and comrades, I require you to do your
duty this day; for if God be pleased, and Saint
George aid, this day you shall see me a good knight."
The battle began with a charge of three hundred
French knights up the narrow lane. K"o sooner had
they appeared than the vineyards and hedges rained
arrows upon them, killing and wounding knights
and horses; the animals, wild with pain, flinging
and trampling their masters; the knights, heavy
THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS. 169
with armor and disabled by wounds, strewing that
fatal lane with their bodies ; while still the storm of
Bteel-pointed shafts dealt death in their midst.
The horsemen fell back in dismay, breaking the
thick ranks of footmen behind them, and spreading
confusion wherever they appeared. At this critical
moment a body of English horse, who were posted
on a little hill to the right, rushed furiously upon
the French flank. At the same time the archera
poured their arrows upon the crowded and disor-
dered mass, and the prince, seeing the state of the
enemy, led his men-at-arms vigorously upon their
broken ranks.
" St. George for Guienne I" was the cry, as the
horsemen spurred upon the panic-stricken masses
of the French.
"Let us push to the French king's station; there
lies the heart of the battle," said Lord Chandos to
the prince. "He is too valiant to fly, I fancy. If
we fight well, I trust, by the grace of God and St.
George, we shall have him. You said we should see
you this day a good knight."
" You shall not see me turn back," said the prince.
"Advance, banner, in the name of God and St.
George 1"
On went the banner ; on came the array of fighting
knights; into the French host thoy pressed deeper
and deeper. King John their goal. The field was
sirewn with dead and dying ; panic was spreading
in widening circles through the French army; the
repulsed horsemen were in full flight and thousands
of those behind them broke and followed. King
H 15
170 HISTORICAL TALES.
John fought with knightly courage, his eon Philip,
a boy of sixteen, by his side, aiding him by his cries
of warning. But nothing could withstand the Eng.
lish onset. Some of his defenders fell, others fled;
he would have fallen himself but for the help of a
French knight, in the English service.
"Sir, yield you," he called to the king, pressing
between him and his assailants.
" To whom shall I yield ?" asked the king. " Where
is my cousin, the pi'ince of Wales?''
" He is not here, sir. Yield, and I will bring you
to him."
" And who are you ?"
" I am Denis of Morbecque, a knight of Artois.
I serve the English king, for I am banished from
France, and all I had has been forfeited."
" Then I yield me to you," said the king, handing
him his right gauntlet.
Meanwhile the rout of the French had become
complete. On all sides they were in flight ; on all
sides the English were in pursuit. The prince had
fought until he was overcome with fatigue.
" 1 see no more banners or pennons of the French,"
said Sir John Chandos, who had kept beside him the
day through. " You are sore chafed. Set your ban-
ner high in this bush, and let us rest."
The prince's pavilion was set up, and drink brought
him. As he quaffed it, he asked if any one had
tidings of the French king.
" He is dead or taken," was the answer. " He has
not left the field."
Two knights were thereupon sent to look for bim.
THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS. 171
and had not got far before they saw a troop of men-
at-arms wearily approaching. In their midst was
King John, afoot and in peril, for they had taken
him from Sir Denis, and were quarrelling as to who
owned him.
"Strive not about my taking," said the king.
« Lead me to the prince. I am rich enough to make
you all rich."
The brawling went on, however, until the lords
who had been sent to seek him came near.
"What means all this, good sirs?" they asked.
" Why do you quarrel ?"
" We have the French king prisoner," was the
answer; "and there are more than ten knights and
squires who claim to have taken him and his son."
The envoys at this bade them halt and cease their
clamor, on pain of their heads, and taking the king
and his son from their midst they brought him to the
tent of the prince of Wales, where the exalted cap-
tives were received with all courtea3%
The battle, begun at dawn, was ended by noon.
In that time was slain "all the flower of France;
and there was taken, with the king and the Lord
Philip his son, seventeen earls, besides barons,
knights, and squires."
The men returning from the pursuit brought in
twice as many prisoners as their own army numbered
in all. So great was the host of captives that many
of them were ransomed on the spot, and set free on
their word of honor to .return to Bordeaux with
their ransom before Christmas.
The prince and his comrades had breakfasted that
172 HISTORICAL TALES.
morning in dread ; they supped that night in triumph.
The supper party, as described by Froissart, is a true
picture of the days of chivalry, — in war all cruelty,
in peace all courtesy; ruthless in the field, gentle and
ceremonious at the feast. Thus the picturesque old
chronicler limns it, —
" The prince made the king and his son, the Lord
James of Bourbon, the Lord John d'Artois, the earl of
Tancarville, the Lord d'Estampes, the Earl Dammar-
tyn, the earl of Greville, and the earl of Pertney, to sit
all at one board, and other lords, knights, and squires
at other tables ; and always the prince served before
the king as humbly as he could, and would not sit at
the king's board, for any desire that the king could
make; but he said he was not sufiicient to sit at the
table with so great a prince as the king was ; but then
he said to the king, ' Sir, for God's sake, make none evil
nor heavy cheer, though God did not this day con-
sent to follow your will ; for, sir, surely the king my
father shall bear you as much honor and amity as
he may do, and shall accord with you so reasonably,
and ye shall ever be friends together after; and, sir,
metbinks you ought to rejoice, though the journey
be not as you would have had it; for this day ye
have won the high renown of prowess, and have
passed this day in valiantness all other of your
party. Sir, I say not this to mock you ; for all that
be on our party, that saw every man's deeds, are
plainly accorded by true sentence to give you the
prize and ehaplet."
So ended that great day at Poitiers. It ended
miserably enough for France, the routed soldiery
THE BLACK PEINCE AT TOITIEKS. 173
tbemselv^es becoming bandits to ravage ber, and tbe
people being robbed for ransom till tbe wbole realm
was given over to misery and woo.
It ended famously for England, another proud
cbaplet of victory being added to tbe crown of glory
of Edward III, and bis valiant son, tbe great day
at Crecy being matched with as great a day at Poi-
tiers. Agincourt was still to come, tbe three being
tbe most notable instances in history of the triumph
of a handful of men well led over a great but feebly-
handled host. The age of knighthood and chivalry
reached its culmination on these three memorable
days. It ended at Agincourt, " villanous gunpowder"
sounding its requiem on that great field. Cannon,
indeed, had been used by Edward III. in his wars;
but not until after this date did fire arms banish the
spear and the bow from the " tented field."
WAT TYLER AND THE MEN
OF KENT.
In that year of woe and dread, 1348, the Black
Death fell upon England. Never before had so
frightful a calamity been known ; never since has it
been equalled. Men died by millions. All Europe
had been swept by the plague, as by a besom of de-
struction, and now England became its prey. The
population of the island at that period was not great,
— some three or four millions in all. When the
plague had passed more than half of these were in
their graves, and in many places there were hardly
enough living to bury the dead.
We call it a calamity. It is not bo sure that it
was. Life in England at that day, for the masses
of the people, was not so pi*ecious a boon that death
had need to be sorely deplored. A handful of lords
and a host of laborers, the latter just above the state
of slavery, constituted the population. Many of the
serfs had beeu set free, but the new liberty of the
people was not a state of unadulterated happiness.
War had drained the land. The luxury of the nobles
added to the drain. The patricians caroused. The
plebeians suffered. The Black Death came. After it
had passed, labor, for the first time in English his-
tory, was master of the situation.
174
WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT. 175
Laborers had grown scarce. Many men refused
to work. The first general strike for higher wages
began. In the country, fields were left untilled and
harvests rotted on the ground. "The sheep and
cattle strayed through the fields and corn, and there
were none left who could drive them," In the towns,
craftsmen refused to work at the old rate of wages.
Higher wages were paid, but the scarcity of food
made higher prices, and men were little better off.
Many laborers, indeed, declined to work at all, be-
soming tramps, — what were known as " sturdy beg-
gars," — or haunting the forests as bandits.
The king and parliament sought to put an end to
this state of affairs by law. An ordinance was passed
■whose effect would have made slaves of the people.
Every man under sixty, not a land owner or already
at work (says this famous act), must work for the
employer who demands his labor, and for the rate of
wages that prevailed two years before the plague.
The man who refused should be thrown into jirison.
This law failed to work, and sterner measures were
passed. The laborer was once more made a serf,
bound to the soil, his wage-rate fixed by parlia-
ment. Law after law followed, branding with a hot
iroa on the forehead being finally ordered as a re-
stnant to runaway laborers. It was the first great
effort made by the class in power to put down an
industrial revolt.
The peasantry and the mechanics of the towns
resisted. The poor found their mouth-piece in John
Ball, "A mad priest of Kent," as Froissart calls him.
Mad hid words must have seemed to the nobles of the
176 HISTOEIOAL TALKS.
land. " Good people," he declared, " things will nevei
go well in England so long as goods be not in com-
mon, and so long as there be villains and gentlemen.
By what right are they whom we call lords greater
folk than we ? On what grounds have they deserved
it ? Why do they hold us in serfage ? If we all
came of the same father and mother, of Adam and
Eve, how can they say or prove that they are better
than we, if it be not that they make us gain for
them by our toil what they spend in their pride ?
They are clothed in velvet, and warm in their furs
and their ermines, while we are covered with rags.
They have wine and spices and fair bread; and we
have oat-cake and straw, and water to drink. They
have leisure and fine houses; we have pain and
labor, the rain and the wind in the fields. And yet
it is of us and of our toil that these men hold their
Btate."
So spoke this early socialist. So spoke his hearers
in the popular rhyme of the day :
" When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?"
So things went on for years, growing worse year by
year, the fire of discontent smouldering, ready at a
moment 'to burst into flame.
At length the occasion came. Edward the Third
died, but he left an ugly heritage of debt behind
him. His useless wars in France had beggared the
crown. New monej'' must be raised. Parliament
laid a poll-tax on every person in the realm, tha
poorest to pay as much as the wealthiest.
'A AT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT. 177
Hero was an application of the doctrine of equality
of which the people did not approve. The land was
quickly on fii'e from sea to sea. Crowds of peasants
gathered and drove the tax-gatherers with clubs from
their homes. Rude rhymes passed from lip to lip,
full of the spirit of revolt. All over southern Eng-
land spread the sentiment of rebellion.
The incident which set flame to the fuel was this.
At Dartford, in Kent, Uved one Wat Tyler, a hardy
soldier who had served in the French wars. To his
house, in his absence, came a tax-collector, and de-
manded the tax on his daughter. The mother de-
clared that she was not taxable, being under fourteen
years of age. The collector thereupon seized the
child in an insulting manner, so frightening her that
her screams reached the ears of her father, who was
at work not far off. Wat flew to the spot, struck
one blow, and the villanous collector lay dead at his
feet.
Within an hoilr the people of the town were in
arms. As the story spread through the country, the
people elsewhere rose and put themselves under the
leadership of Wat Tyler. In Essex was another
party in arms, under a priest called Jack Straw.
Canterbury rose in rebellion, plundered the palace
of the archbishop, and released John Ball from tho
prison to which this " mad" socialist had been con-
signed. The revolt spread like wildfire. County
after county rose in insurrection. But the heart of
the rebellion lay in Kent, and from that county
marched a hundred thousand men, with Wat Tyler
at their head, London their goal.
178 HISTORICAL TALES.
To Blackheath they came, the inultilude swelling
as it marched. Every lawyer they met was killed.
The houses of the stewards were burned, and the
records of the manor courts flung into the flames.
A wild desire for liberty and equality animated the
mob, yet they did do further harm. All travellers
were stopped and made to swear that they would be
true to King Eicbard and the people. The king's
mother fell into their hands, but all the harm done her
was the being made to kiss a few rough-bearded men
who vowed loyalty to her son.
The young king — then a boy of sixteen — addressed
them from a boat in the river. But his council
would not let him land, and the peasants, furious at
his distrust, rushed upon London, uttering cries of
" Treason !" The drawbridge of London Bridge had
been raised, but the insurgents had friends in the
city who lowered it, and quickly the capital w^as
swarming with Wat Tyler's infuriated men.
Soon the prisons were broken open, and their in-
mates had joined the insurgent ranks. The palace
of the Duke of Lancaster, the Savoy, the most beau-
tiful in England, was quickly in flames. That noble-
man, detested by the people, had fled in all haste
to Scotland. The Temple, the head-quarters of the
lawyers, was set on fire, and its books and documents
reduced to ashes. The houses of the foreign mer-
chants were burned. There was "method in the
madness" of the insurgents. They sought no indis-
criminate ruin. The lawyers and the foreigners
were their special detestation. Eobbery was not
permitted. One thief was seen with a silver vessel
WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OP KENT. 179
which ho had stolen from the Savoy. He and hia
plunder Avero flung together into the flames. They
were, as they boasted, " seekers of truth and justice,
not thieves or robbers."
Thus passed the first day of the peasant occupation
of London, the people of the town in terror, the in-
surgents in subjection to their leaders, and still more
so to their own ideas. Many of them were drunk,
but no outrages were committed. The influence of
one terrible example repressed all theft. Never had
so orderly a nob held possession of so great a city.
On the second day, Wat Tyler and a band of his
followers forced their way into the Tower. The
knights of the garrison wei'e panic-stricken, but no
harm was done them. The peasants, in rough good
humor, took them by the beards, and declared that
they were now equals, and that in the time to come
they would be good friends and comrades.
But this rude jollity ceased when Archbishop Sud-
bury, who had been active in preventing the king
from landing from the Thames, and the ministers
who wei'e concerned in the levy of the jDoll-tax, fell
into their hands. Short shrift was given these de-
tested oflicials. They were di'aggcd to Tower Hill,
and their heads struck ofi".
" King Eichard and the people I" was the rallying,
cry of the insurgents. It went ill with those who
hesitated to subscribe to this sentiment. So evidently
were the peasants friendly to the king that the youth-
ful monarch fearlessly sought them at Mile End, and
held a conference with sixty thousand of them who
lay there encamped.
180 HISTORICAL TALES.
" I am your king and lord, good people," he boldly
addressed them ; "what will ye?"
"We will that you set us fre^ forever,' was the
answer of the insurgents, "us and our lands; and
that we be never named nor held for serfs."
"I grant it," said the king.
His words were received with shouts of joy. The
conference then continued, the leaders of the peasants
proposing four conditions, to all of which the king
assented. These were, first, that neither they nor
their descendants should ever be enslaved; second,
that tl)e rent of land should be paid in money at a
fixed price, not in service ; third, that they should be
at liberty to buy and sell in market and elsewhere,
like other free men ; foui"th, that they should be
pardoned for past offences.
" I grant them all," said Richard. " Charters of
freedom and pardon shall be at once issued. Go home
and dwell in peace, and no harm shall come to you."
More than thirty clerks spent the rest of that day
writing at all speed the pledges of amnesty promised
by the king. These satisfied tiie bulk of the insur-
gents, who quietly left for their homes, placing all
confidence in the smooth promises of the youthful
monarch.
Some interesting scenes followed their return.
The gates of the Abbey of St. Albans were forced
open, and a throng of townsmen crowded in, led by
one William Grindcobbe, who compelled the abbot to
deliver up the charters which held the town in serf-
age to the abbey. Then they burst into the cloister,
Bought the millstones which the courts had declared
"WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OP KENT. 181
should alone grind corn at St.Albans, and broke them
into small pieces. These were disti'ibuted among
the peasants as visible emblems of their new-gained
freedom.
Meanwhile, Wat Tyler had remained in London,
with thirty thousand men at his back, to see that
the kingly pledge was fullilled. lie had not been at
Mile End during the conference with the king, and
was not satisfied with the demands of the peasants.
He asked, in addition, that the forest laws should be
abolished, and the woods made free.
The next day came. Chance brought about a
meeting between Wat and the king, and hot blood
made it a tragedy. King Eichard was riding with
a train of some sixty gentlemen, among them Wil-
liam Walworth, the mayor of London, when, by ill
hap, they came into contact with Wat and his fol-
lowers.
" There is the king," said Wat. " I will go speak
with him, and tell him what we want."
The bold leader of the peasants rode forward and
confronted the monarch, who drew rein and waited
to hear what he had to say.
" King Richard," said Wat, " dost thou see all my
men there?"
" A)V' said the king. " Why ?"
"Because," said Wat, "they are all at my com-
mand, and have sworn to do whatever I bid them."
What followed is not very clear. Some say that
Wat laid his hand on the king's bridle, others that
ho fingered his dagger threatimingly. Whatever
the provocation, Walworth, the mayor, at that in-
16
182 HISTORICAL TALES.
Btaut pressed forward, sword in hand, and stabbed
the unprotected man in the throat before he could
make a movement of defence. He fell from hia
horse, and was struck a death-blow by one of the
king's followers.
This rash action was one full of danger. Only
the ready wit and courage of the king saved the
Lves of his followers, — perhaps of himself.
" Kill ! kill I" cried the furious peasants, " they
have killed oiir captain."
Bows were bent, swords drawn, an ominous move-
ment begun. The moment was a critical one. The
young king proved himself equal to the occasion.
Spurring his horse, he rode boldly to the front of
the mob.
" "What need ye, my masters ?" he cried. " That
man is a traitor. I am your captain and your king.
Follow me !"
His words touched their hearts. With loud shouta
of loyalty they followed him to the Tower, where
he was met by his mother with tears of joy.
" Rejoice and praise Grod," the young king said to
her ; " for I have recovered today my heritage which
was lost, and the realm of England."
It was true ; the revolt was at an end. The fright-
ened nobles had regained their courage, and six
thousand knights were soon at the service of the
king, pressing him to let them end the rebellion with
jiword and spear.
He refused. His word had been passed, and he
would live to it — at least, until the danger was
passed. The peasants still in London received their
•WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT. 183
charters of freedom and dispersed to their homes.
The city was freed of the low-born multitude who
had held it in mortal terror.
Yot all was not ovei Many of the peasants were
Btill in arms. Those of St. Albans were emulated
by those of St. Edmondsbury, where fifty thousaud
men broke their way into the abbey precincts, and
forced the monks to gi-ant a charter of freedom to
the town. In Norwich a dyer, Littester by name,
calling himself the King of the Commons, forced the
nobles captured by his followers to act as his meat-
tasters, and serve him on their knees during his
repasts. His reign did not last long. The Bishop
of Norwich, with a following of knights and men-
at-arms, fell on his camp and made short work of
his majesty.
The king, soon forgetting his pledges, led an army
of forty thousand men through Kent and Essex,
and ruthlessly executed the peasant leaders. Some
tifteen hundred of them were put to death. The
peasants resisted stubbornly, but they were put
down. The jurors refused to bring the prisoners in
guilty, until they were threatened with execution
themselves. The king and council, in the end, seemed
willing to compi'omise with the peasantry, but tho
land-owners refused compliance. Their serfs were
their propert}*, they said, and could not be taken
from them by king or parliament without their
consent. " And this consent," they declared, " we
have never given and never will give, were we all to
( « in one day."
Xct the revolt of the peasantry was not without
184 HISTORICAL TALES.
its useful effect. From that time serfdom died rap-
idly. Wages continued to rise. A century after the
Black Death, a laborer's work in England "com-
manded twice the amount of the necessaries of life
which could have been obtained for the wages paid
under Edward the Third." In a century and a half
serfdom had almost vanished.
Thus ended the greatest peasant outbreak that
England ever knew. The outbreak of Jack Cade,
which took place seventy years afterwards, was for
political rather than industrial reform. During those
seventy years the condition of the working-classes
had greatly improved, and the occasion for industrial
revolt correspondingly decreased.
THE WHITE ROSE OF ENG-
LAND.
The wars of the White and the Eed Eoses were at
an end, Lancaster had triumphed over York, Eichard
III., the last of the Plantagenets, had died on Bos-
worth field, and the Eed Eose candidate, Henry YII.,
was on the throne. It seemed fitting, indeed, that
the party of the red should bear the banners of
triumph, for the frightful war of white and red had
dohiged England with blood, and turned to crimson
the green of many a fair field. Two of the "White
Eose claimants of the throne, the sons of Edward
lY., had been imprisoned by Eichard III. in the
Tower of London, and, so said common report, had
been strangled in their beds. But their fate was
hidden in mystery, and there were those who be-
lieved that the princes of the Tower still lived.
One claimant to the throne, a scion of the Whit«
Eose kings, Edward, Earl of Warwick, was still
locked up in the Tower, so closely kept from human
sight and knowledge as to leave the field open to the
claims of imposture. For suddenly a handsome
youth appeared in Ireland declaring that he was the
Earl of Warwick, escaped from the Tower, and ask-
ing aid to help him regain the throne, which he
16* 185
186 HISTORICAL TALES.
claimed as rightfully his. The story of this boy is a
short one ; the end of his career fortunately a comedy
instead of a tragedy. In Ireland were many adhei--
ents of the house of York. The story of the hand-
some lad was believed ; he was crowned at Dublin, —
the crown being taken from the head of a statue of
the Virgin Mary, — and was then carried home on
the shoulders of a gigantic Irish chieftain, as was
the custom in green Erin in those days.
The youthful claimant had entered Ireland with a
following of two thousand German soldiers, provided
by Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, sister of Edward
IV., who hated Henry VII. and all the party of
Lancaster with an undying hatred. From Ireland
he invaded England, with an Irish following added
to his German. His small army was mot by the
king with an overpowering force, half of it killed,
the rest scattered, and the young impostor taken
captive.
Henry was almost the first king of Norman Eng-
land who was not cruel by instinct. He could be
cruel enough by calculation, but he was not disposed
to take life for the mere pleasure of killing. He
knew this boy to be an impostor, since Edward, Earl
of Warwick, was still in the Tower. The astute king
deemed it wiser to make him a laughing-stock than
a martj-r. He made inquiry as to his origin. The
boy proved to be the son of a baker of Oxford, his
true name Lambert Simnel. He had been tutored
to play the prince by an ambitious priest named
Simons. This priest was shut up in prison, and died
there. As for his pupil, the king contemptuously
THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 187
eeut him into his kitchen, and condemned him to the
servile office of turnspit. Afterwards, as young
Simnel showed some intelligence and loyalty, he was
made one of the king's falconers. And so ended
the story of this sham Plantagenct.
Hardly had this ambitious boy been set to the
humble work of turning a spit in the king's kitchen,
when a new claimant of the crown appeared, — a
far more dangerous one. It is his story to which
that of Lambert Simnel serves as an amusing pre-
lude.
On one fine day in the year 1492 — Columbus being
then on his way to the discovery of America — there
landed at Cork, in a vessel hailing from Portugal, a
young man very handsome in face, and very winning
in manners, who lost no time in presenting himself
to some of the leading Irish and telling them that
ho was Richard, Duke of York, the second son of
Edward lY. This story some of his hearers were
not ready to believe. They had just passed through
an experience of the same kind.
" That cannot be," they said ; " the sons of King
Edward were murdered by their uncle in the Tower."
" People think so, I admit," said the young stranger.
"My brother was murdered there, foully killed in
that dark prison. But I escaped, and for seven years
have been wandering."
The boy had an easy and engaging manner, a
fluent tongue, and told so well-devised and probable
a story of the manner of his escape, that he had
little difficulty in persuading his credulous hearern
that he was indeed Prince Eichard. Soon he had a
188 HISTORICAL TALES.
party at his back, Cork shouted itself hoarse in ii s
favor, there was banqueting and drinking, and in
this humble fashion the cause of the White Eose
was resuscitated, the banners of York were again
flung to the winds.
A^e have begun our story in the middle. We must
go back to its beginning. Margaret of Burgundy,
whose hatred for the Lancastrian king was intense,
had spread far and wide the rumor that Eichard,
Duke of York, was still alive. The story was that
the villains employed by Eichard III, to murder the
princes in the Tower, had killed the elder only. Ee-
morse had stricken their hardened souls, and com-
passion induced them to spare the younger, and
privately to set him at liberty, he being bidden on
peril of Hfe not to divulge who he really was. This
seed well sown, the astute duchess laid her plans to
bring it to fruitage. A handsome youth was brought
into her presence, a quick-witted, intelligent, crafty
lad, with nimble tongue and unusually taking man-
ners. Such, at least, was the story set afloat by
Henry VII., which goes on to say that the duchess
kept her protege concealed until she had taught him
thoroughly the whole story of the murdered prince,
instructed him in behavior suitable to his assumed
birth, and filled his memory with dotailsof the boy's
life, and certain secrets he would be likely to know,
while advising him how to avoid certain awkward
questions that might be asked. The boy was quick
to learn his lesson, the hope of becoming king of
England inciting his naturally keen wit. This done,
the duchess sent him privately to Portugal, knowing
THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 189
well tliat if bi.s advent could be traced to her house
Buspicion would be aroused.
This is the narrative that has been transmitted to
us, but it is one which, it must be acknowledged, has
come through suspicious channels, as will appear in
the sequel. But whatever be the facts, it is certain
that about this time Henry VII. declared war against
France, and that the war had not made much prog-
ress before the j'outh described sailed from Portugal
and landed in Cork, where he claimed to be Eichard,
Duke of York, and the true heir of the English
throne.
And now began a most romantic and adventurous
career. The story of the advent of a prince of the
house of York in Ireland made its way through
England and France. Henry VII. was just then too
busy with his French war to attend to his new rival ;
but Charles VIII. of France saw here an opportunity
of annoying his enem}-. He accordingly sent envoj^s
to Cork, with an invitation to the youth to seek his
court, where he would be acknowledged as the true
heir to the royal crown of England.
The astute young man lost no time in accepting
the invitation. Charles received him with as much
honor as though he were indeed a king, appointed him
a body-guard, and spread far and wide the statement
that the Duke of York, the rightful heir of the
English crown, was at his court, and that he would
sustain his claim. What might have come of this,
had the war continued, we cannot say. A number
of noble Englishmen, friends of York, made their
way to Paris, and became beUevors in the story of
190 HISTORICAL TALES.
the young adventurer. But the hopes of the an-
pirant in this quarter came to an end with the end-
ing of the war. Charles's secret purpose had been
to force Henry to conclude a peace, and in this ho
succeeded. He had now no further use for his young
protege. He had sufficient honor not to deliver him
into Henry's hands, as he was asked to do ; but ho
set him adrift from his own court, bidding him to
seek his fortune elsewhere.
From France the young aspirant made his way
into Flanders, and presented himself at the court of
the Duchess of Burgundy, with every appearance
of never having been there before. He sought her,
he said, as his aunt. The duchess received him with
an air of doubt and suspicion. He was, she acknowl-
edged, the image of her dear departed brother, but
more evidence was needed. She questioned him,
therefore, closely, before the members of her court,
making searching inquiries into his earlier life and
recollections. These he answered so satisfactorily
that the duchess declared herself transported with
astonishment and joy, and vowed that he was indeed
her nephew, miraculously delivered from prison,
brought from death to life, wonderfully preserved by
destiny for some great fortune. She was not alone
in this belief. All who heard his answers agreed
with her, many of them borne away by his grace of
person and manner and the fascination of his address.
The duchess declared his identity beyond doubt, did
him honor as a born prince, gave him a body-guard
of thirty halberdiers, who were clad in a livery of
murrey and blue, and called him by the taking title
THE WHITE ROSE OP ENGLAND. 191
of the " White Rose of England." He seemed, indeed,
like one risen from the grave to set afloat once more
the banners of the White Rose of York.
The tidings of what was doing in Flanders quickly
reached England, where a party in favor of the as-
pirant's pretensions slowly grew up. Several noble-
inon joined it, discontent having been caused by cer-
tain unpopular acts of the king. Sir Robert ClitFord
sailed to Flanders, visited Margaret's court, and wrote
back to England that there was no doubt that the
young man was the Duke of York, whose person he
knew as well as he knew his own.
While these events were fomenting, secretly and
openly. King Henry was at work, secretly and openly,
to disconcert his foes. He set a guard upon the
English ports, that no suspicious person should enter
or leave the kingdom, and then put his wits to task
to prove the falsity of the whole neatly- wrought tale.
Two of those concerned in the murder of the princes
were still alive, — Sir James Tirrel and John Dighton.
Sir James claimed to have stood at the stair-foot,
while Dighton and another did the mui'der, smother-
ing the princes in their bed. To this they both testi-
fied, though the king, for reasons unexplained, did
not publish their testimony.
Henry also sent spies abroad, to search into the
truth concerning the assumed adventurer. These,
being well supplied with money, and bidden to trace
every movement of the youth, at length declared
that thc}^ had discovered that he was the son of a
Flemish merchant, of the city of Tournay, his name
Perkiu Warbeck, his knowledge of the language and
192 niSTORICAL TALES.
manners of England having been derived from the
English traders in Flanders. This information, with
much to support it, was set afloat in England, and the
king then demanded of the Archduke Philip, sover-
eign of Burgundy, that he should give up this pre-
tender, or banish him from his court. Philip replied
that Burgundy was the domain of the duchess, who
was mistress in her own land. In revenge, Henry
closed all commercial communication between the
two countries, taking from Antwerp its profitable
market in English cloth.
Now tragedy followed comedy. Sir Eobert Clif
ford, who had declared the boy to be undoubtedly
the Duke of York, suffered the king to convince him
that he was mistaken, and denounced several noble-
men as being secretly friends to Perkin Warbeck.
These were arrested, and three of them beheaded,
one of them. Sir William Stanley, having saved
Henry's life on Bos worth Field. But he was rich,
and a seizure of his estate would swell the royal cof-
fers. With Henry VII. gold weighed heavier than
gratitude.
For three years all was quiet. Perkin War-
beck kejit his princely state at the court of the
Duchess of Burgundy, and the merchants of Flanders
Buffered heavily from the closure of the trade of
Antwerp. This grew intolerable. The people were
indignant. Something must be done. The pretended
prince must leave Flanders, or he ran risk of being
killed by its inhabitants.
The adventurous youth was thus obliged to leave
his refuge at Margaret's court, and now entered
THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 193
npon a more active career. Accompanied by a few
hundred men, he sailed from Flanders and huided
on the English coast at Deal. lie hoped for a risirg
in his behalf. On the contrary, the country-people
rose against him, killed many of his followers, and
took a hundred and fifty prisoners. These were all
hanged, by order of the king, along the sea-shore, as
a warning to any others who might wish to invade
England.
Flanders was closed against the pretender. Ire-
land was similarly closed, for Henry had gained the
Irish to his side. Scotland remained, there being
hostility between the English and Scottish kings.
Hither the fugitive made his way. James lY. of
Scotland gave him a most encouraging reception,
called him cousin, and in a short time married him
to one of the most beautiful and charming ladies of
his court, Lady Catharine Gordon, a relative of the
royal house of the Stuarts.
For a time now the fortxmes of the young aspirant
improved. Henry, alarmed at his progress, sought by
bribery of the Scottish lords to have him delivered
into his hands. In this he failed; James was foith-
ful to his word. Soon Perkin had a small army at
his back. The Duchess of Burgundy provided him
with men, money, and arms, till in a short time he
had fifteen hundred good soldiers under his com-
mand.
"With those, and with the aid of King James of
Scotland, who reinforced his army and accompanied
him in person, he crossed the border into England,
and issued a proclamation, calhng himself King
II.— I 71 17
194 HISTORICAL TALES.
Eichard tlie Fourth, and offering large rewards to
any one who should take or distress Henry Tudor,
as he called the king.
Unluckily for the young invader, the people of
England had had enough of civil war. White Eose
or Eed Eose had become of less importance to them
than peace and prosperity. They refused to rise in
his support, and quickly grew to hate his soldiers,
who, being of different nations, most of them brig-
andish soldiers of fortune, began by quarrelling with
one another, and ended by plundering the country.
" This is shameful," said Perkin. " I am not here
to distress tbe English people. Eather than fill the
country with misery, I will lose my rights."
King James laughed at his scruples, giving him to
understand that no true king would stop for such
a trifle. But Perkin was resolute, and the army
marched back again into Scotland without fighting
a battle. The White Eose had shown himself unfit
for kingship in those days. He was so weak as to
have compassion for the people, if that was the true
cause of his retreat.
This invasion had one unlooked-for result. The
people had been heavily taxed by Henry, in prep-
aration for the expected war. In consequence the
men of Cornwall rose in rebellion. With Flammock,
a lawyer, and Joseph, a blacksmith, at their head,
they marched eastward through England until within
sight of London, being joined by Lord Audley and
some other country gentlemen on their route. The
king met and defeated them, though they fought
fiercely. Lord Audley was beheaded, Flammock
THE WHITE KOSE OP ENGLAND. 195
and Joseph were hanged, the rest were pardoned.
And 80 ended this threatening insurrection.
It was of no advantage to the wandering "White
Eose. He soon had to leave Scotland, peace having
been made between the two kings. James, like
Charles VIII. before him, was honorable and would
not give him up, but required him to leave his king-
dom. Perkin and bis beautiful wife, who clung to
him with true love, set sail for Ireland. For a third
time he had been driven from shelter.
In Ireland he found no support. The people had
become friendly to the king, and would have nothing
to do with the wandering White Eose. As a forlorn
hope, he sailed for Cornwall, trusting that the stout
Cornish men, who had just struck so fierce a blow
for their rights, might gather to his support. With
him went his wife, clinging with unyielding faith and
love to his waning fortunes.
He landed at Whitsand Bay, on the coast of Corn-
wall, issued a proclamation under the title of Ivichard
the Fourth of England, and quickly found himself
in command of a small army of Cornishmen. His
wife he left in the castle of St. Michael's Mount, as
a place of safety, and at the head of three thousand
men marched into Devonshire. By the time he
reached Exeter he had six thousand men under his
command. They besieged Exeter, but learning that
the king was on the march, they raised the siege,
and advanced until Taunton was reached, when they
found themselves in front of the king's army.
The Cornishmen were brave and ready. They
were poorly armed and outnumbered, but battle waa
196 HISTORICAL TALES.
their only thought. Such was not the thought of
their leader. For the first time in his career he found
himself face to face with a hostile army. He could
plot, could win friends by his engaging manners,
could do anything but fight. But now that the
critical moment had come he found that he lacked
courage. Perhaps this had as much as compassion
to do with his former retreat to Scotland. It is
certain that the sight of grim faces and brandished
arms before him robbed his heart of its bravery.
Mounting a swift horse, ho fled in the night, followed
by about threescore others. In the morning his
men found themselves without a leader. Having
nothing to fight for, they surrendered. Some few of
the more desperate of them were hanged. The
others were pardoned and permitted to return.
No sooner was the discovery made that the "White
Ptose had taken to the winds than horsemen were
sent in speedy pursuit, one troop being sent to St.
Michael's Mount to seize the Lady Catharine, and a
second troop of five hundred horse to pursue the
fugitive pretender, and take him, if possible, before
he could reach the sanctuary of Beaulieu, in the
Kew Forest, whither be had fled. The lady was
quickly brought before the king. Whether or not he
meant to deal harshly with her, the sight of her
engaging face moved him to compassion and admira-
tion. She was so beautiful, bore so high a reputa-
tion for goodness, and was so lovingly devoted to
her husband, that the king was disarmed of any ill
purposes he may have entertained, and treated her
with the highest respect and consideration. In the
THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 197
end he gave her an allowance suitable to her rank,
placed hor at court near the queen's person, and
continued her friend during life. Years after, when
the story of Perkin Warbeck had almost become a
nursery-tale, the Lady Catharine was still called by
the people the " White Rose," as a tribute to her
beauty and her romantic history.
As regards the fugitive and his followers, they
succeeded in reaching Beaulieu and taking sanc-
tuury. The pursuers, who had failed to overtake
them, could only surround the sanctuary and wait
orders from the king. The astute Henry pursued
his usual course, employing policy instead of force.
Perkin was coaxed out of his retreat, on promise of
good treatment if he should surrender, and was
brought up to London, guarded, but not bound.
Henry, who was curious to see him, contrived to do
so from a window, screening himself while closely
observing his rival.
London reached, the cavalcade became a proces-
sion, the captive being led through the principal
streets for the edification of the populace, before
being taken to the Tower. The king had little rea-
son to fear him. The pretended prince, who had
run away from his army, was not likely to obtain
new adherents. Scorn and contempt were the only
manifestations of popular opinion.
So little, indeed, did Henry dread this aspirant to
the throne, that he was quickly released from the
Tower and brought to Westminster, where he was
treated as a gentleman, being examined from time
to time regarding his imposture. Such parts of his
17*
198 HISTORICAL TALES.
confession as the king saw fit to divulge were printed
and spread through the country, but were of a nature
not likely to settle the difficulty, " Men missing of
that they looked for, looked about for they knew
not what, and were more in doubt than before, but
the king chose rather not to satisfy, than to kindle
coals."
Perkin soon brought the king's complaisance to
an end. His mercurial disposition counselled flight,
and, deceiving his guards, he slipped from the palace
and fled to the sea-shore. Here he found all avenues
of escape closed, and so diligent was the pursuit that
he quickly turned back, and again took sanctuary in
Bethlehem priory, near Eichmond. The prior came
to the king and offered to deliver him up, asking for
his life only. His escapade had roused anger in the
court.
"Take the rogue and hang him forthwith," was
the hot advice of the king's council.
"The silly boy is not worth a rope," answered the
king. " Take the knave and set him in the stocks.
Let the people see what sort of a prince this is."
Life being promised, the prior brought forth his
charge, and a few days after Perkin was set in the
stocks for a whole day, in the palace-court at West-
minster. The next day he was served in the same
manner at Cbeapside, in both places being forced to
read a paper which pui-ported to be a true and full
confession of his imposture. From Cheapsido he
was taken to the Tower, having exhausted the mercy
of the king.
In the Tower he was placed in the company of
THE WHITE ROSE OP ENGLAND. 199
the Earl of "Warwick, the last of the acknowledged
Plantagenets, who had been in this gloomy prison
for fourteen years. It is suspected that the king
had a dark purpose in this. To the one he had
promised life ; the other he had no satisfactory rea-
son to remove ; possibly he fancied that the uneasy
temper of Perkin would give him an excuse for the
execution of both.
If such was his scheme, it worked well. Perkin
had not been long in the Tower before the quick-
silver of his nature began to declare itself. His in-
sinuating address gained him the favor of his keep-
ers, whom he soon began to offer lofty bi'ibes to aid
his escape. Into this plot he managed to draw the
young earl. The plan devised was that the four
keepers should murder the lieutenant of the Tower
in the night, seize the keys and such money as they
could find, and let out Perkin and the earl.
It may be that the king himself had arranged
this plot, and instructed the keepers in their parts.
Certainly it was quickly divulged. And by strange
chance, just at this period a third pretender appeared,
this time a shoemaker's son, who, like the baker's
son, pretended to be the Earl of Warwick. His
name was Ealjjh Wilford. He had been taught his
part by a priest named Patrick. They came from
Suffolk and advanced into Kent, where the priest
took to the pulpit to advocate the claims of his
charge. Both were quickly taken, the youth exe-
cuted, the priest imprisoned for life.
And now Henry doubtless deemed that matters
of this kind had gone far enough. The earl and his
200 HISTORICAL TALES.
fellow-prisoner were indicted for conspiracy, tried
and found guilty, the earl beheaded on Tower Hill,
and Perkin Warbeck hanged at Tyburn. This was
in the year 1499. It formed a dramatic end to the
history of the fifteenth century, being the closing
event in the wars of the White and the Red Eoses,
the death of the last Plantagenet and of the last
White Rose aspirant to the throne.
In conclusion, the question may be asked. Who
was Perkin Warbeck? All we know of him is the
story set afloat by Henry VII., made up of accounts
told by his spies and a confession wrested from a
boy threatened with death. That he was taught his
part by Margaret of Burgundy we have only this
evidence for warrant. He was publicly acknowl-
edged by this lady, the sister of Edward IV., was
married by James of Scotland to a lady of royal
blood, was favorably received by many English
lords, and at least a doubt remains whether he was
not truly the jirincely person he declared himself
However that be, his story is a highly romantic one,
and forms a picturesque closing scene to the long
drama of the Wars of the Roses.
THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF
GOLD.
It was the day fixed for the opening of the most
brilliant pageant known to modern history. On the
green space in front of the dilapidated castle of
Guisnes, on the soil of France, but within what was
known as the English pale, stood a summer palace
of the amplest proportions and the most gorgeous
decorations, which was furnished within with all
that comfort demanded and art and luxury could
provide. Let us briefly describe this magnificent
palace, which had been prepared for the temporary
residence of the English king.
The building was of wood, square in shape, each
side being three hundred and twenty-eight feet long.
On every side were oriel-windows and curiously
glazed clerestories, whose mullions and posts were
overlaid with gold. In front of the grand entrance
stood an embattled gate-way, having on each side
statues of warriors in martial attitudes. From the
gate to the palace sloped upward a long passage,
flanked with images in bright armor and presenting
"sore and terrible countenances." This led to an
embowered landing-place, where, fanng the great
doors, stood antique figures girt with olive-branches.
201
202 HISTORICAL TALES.
Interiorly the palace halls and chambers were
superbly decorated, white silk forming the ceilings
of the passages and galleries, from which depended
silken hangings of various colors and braided cloths,
" which showed like bullions of fine braided gold."
Eoses set in lozenges, on a golden ground-work,
formed the chamber ceilings. The wall spaces were
decorated with richly carved and gilt panels, while
embroidered silk tapestry hung from the windows
and formed the walls of the corridors. In the state
apartments the furniture was of princely richness,
the whole domains of art and industry having been
ransacked to provide their most splendid belongings.
Exteriorly the building presented an equally ornate
appearance, glass, gold-work, and ornamental hang-
ings quite concealing the carpentry, so that "every
quarter of it, even the least, was a habitation fit for
a prince."
To what end, in the now far-away year of 1520,
and in that rural locality, under the shadows of a
castle which had fallen into irredeemable ruin, had
such an edifice been built, — one which only the
revenues of a kingdom, in that day, could have
erected? Its purpose was a worthy one. France
and England, whose intercourse for centuries had
been one of war, were now to meet in peace. Crecy
and Agincourt had been the last meeting-places of
tbe monarchs of these kingdoms, and death and ruin
bad followed their encounters. Now Henry the
Eighth of England and Francis the First of France
were to meet in peace and amity, spending the reve-
nues of their kingdoms not for armor of linked mail
THE FIELD OF TUE CLOXn OF GOLD. 203
and death-dealing weapons, but for splendid attire
and richest pageantry, in token of friendship and
fraternity between the two reahns.
A century had greatly changed the relations of
England and France. In 1420 Henry V. had re-
cently won the great victor}'- of Agincourt, and
France lay almost prostrate at his feet. In 1520 the
English possessions in France were confined to the
seaport of Calais and a small district around it
known as the " English pale." The castle of Gui.sncs
stood just within the English border, the meeting
between the two monarchs being fixed at the line of
separation of the two kingdoms.
The palace we have described, erected for the
habitation of King Henry and his suite, had been
designed and ordered by Cardinal Wolsey, to whoso
skill in pageantry the management of this great
festival had been consigned. Extensive were the
preparations alike in England and in France. All
that the island kingdom could furnish of splendor
and riches was pi-ovided, not alone for the adorn
ment of the king and his guard, but for the host of
nobles and the multitude of persons of minor estate,
who came in his train, the whole following of the
king being nearly four thousand persons, while more
than a thousand formed the escort of the queen.
For the use of this great company had been brought
nearly four thousand riohly-ca])arisoned horses, with
vast quantities of the other essentials of human
comfort and regal display.
While England had been thus busy in preparing
for the pageant, France had been no less active.
204 HISTORICAL TALES,
Arde, a town near the English pale, had been selected
as the dwelling-place of Francis and his train. As
for the splendor of adornment of those who followed
him, there seems to have been almost nothing worn
but silks, velvets, cloth of gold and silver, jewels and
precious stones, such being the costliness of the
display that a writer who saw it humorously says,
*' Many of the nobles carried their castles, woods, and
farms upon their backs."
Magnificent as was the palace built for Henry and
his train, the arrangements for the French king and
his train were still more imposing. The artistic
taste of the French was contrasted with the English
love for solid grandeur, Francis had proposed that
both parties should lodge in tents erected on the
field, and in pursuance of this idea there had been
prepared " numerous pavilions, fitted up with halls,
galleries, and chambers ornamented within and with-
out with gold and silver tissue. Amidst golden balls
and quaint devices glittering in the sun, rose a gilt
figure of St. Michael, conspicuous for his blue mantle
powdered with golden fleurs-de-lis, and crowning a
royal pavilion of vast dimensions supported by a
single mast. In his right hand he held a dart, in
his left a shield emblazoned with the arms of France.
Inside, the roof of the pavilion represented the
canopy of heaven ornamented with stars and figures
of the zodiac. The lodgings of the queen, of the
Duchess dAlenijon, the king's favorite sister, and of
other ladies and princes of the blood, were covered
with cloth of gold. The rest of the tents, to the
number of three or four hundred, emblazoned with
THE FIELD OI TIIE CLOTH OF GOLD. 205
tho arms of their owners, were pitched on the banks
of a small river outside the city walls."
Ko less abundant provision had been made for the
residence of the English visitors. "When King Henry
looked from the oriel windows of his fairy palace,
he saw before him a scene of the greatest splendor
and the most incessant activity. The green space
stretching southward from the castle was covered
with tents of all shapes and sizes, many of them
brilliant with emblazonry, while from their tops
floated rich-colored banners and pennons in profusion.
Before each tent stood a sentry, his lance-point glit-
tering like a jewel in the rays of the June sun. Here
richly-caparisoned horses were prancing, there sunip-
ter mules laden with supplies, and decorated with
ribbons and flowers, made their slow way onward.
Everywhere was movement, everywhere seemed glad-
ness; meri'iment ruled supreme, the hilarity being
doubtless heightened by frequent visits to gilded
fountains, which spouted forth claret and hj^pocras
into silver cups from which all might drink. Kever
had been seen such a picture in such a place. The
splendor of color and decoration of the tents, the
shining armor and gorgeous dresses of knights and
nobles, the brilliancy of the military display, the
glittering and gleaming effect of the pageant as a
whole, rendering fitly applicable the name bj^ which
this royal festival has since been known, " The Field
of tho Cloth of Gold."
Two leagues separated Ardes and Guisnes, two
leagues throughout which the spectacle extended,
rich tents and glittering emblazonry occupying tho
18
206 HISTORICAL TALES.
whole space, the canvas habitations of the two nations
meeting at the dividing-line between England and
France. It was a splendid avenue arranged for the
movements of the monarchs of these two great king-
doms.
Such was the scene : what were the ceremonies ?
They began with a grand procession, headed by
Cardinal "Wolsey, who, as representative of the king
of England, made the first move in the game of o?
tentation. Before him rode fifty gentlemen, each
wearing a great gold chain, while tlieir horses were
richly caparisoned with ci'imson velvet. His ushers,
fifty other gentlemen, followed, bearing maces of
gold which at one end were as large as a man's head.
Next came a dignitary in crimson velvet, proudly
carrying the cardinal's cross of gold, adorned with
a crucifix of precious stones. Four lackeys, attired
in cloth of gold and with magnificent plumed bonnets
in their hands, followed. Then came the cardinal
himself, man and horse splendidly equipped, his strong
and resolute face full of the pride and arrogance
which marked his character, his bearing that of
almost regal ostentation. After him followed an
array of bishops and other churchmen, while a hun-
dred archers of the king's guard completed the pro-
cession.
Reaching Arde, the cardinal dismounted in front
of the royal tent, and, in the stateliest manner, did
homage in his master's name to Francis, who received
him with a courteous display of deference and affec-
tion. The next day the representatives of France
returned this visit, with equal pomp and parade, and
HENRY THE EIGHTH.
THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 207
With as kindly a reception from Henry, while the
English nobles feasted those of France in their lord-
liest fashion, so boisterous being their hospitality
that they fairly forced their visitors into their tents.
These ceremonial preliminaries passed, the meet-
ing of the two sovereigns came next in order. Henry
had crossed the channel to greet Francis; Francis
agreed to be the first to cross the frontier to greet
him. Juno 7 was the day fixed. On this day the
king of France left his tent amid the I'oar of cannon,
and, followed by a noble retinue in cloth of gold and
Bilver, made his way to the frontier, where was set
up a gorgeous pavilion, in whose decorations the her-
aldi'ies of England and France were commingled. In
this handsome tent the two monarchs were to confer.
About the same time Heniy set out, riding a
powerful stallion, nobly caparisoned. At the border-
line between English and French territory the two
monarchs halted, facing each other, each still on his
own soil. Deep silence prevailed in the trains, and
every eye was fixed on the two central figures.
They were strongly contrasted. Francis was tall
but rather slight in figure, and of delicate features.
Henry was stout of form, and massive but handsome
of face. He had not yet attained those swollen pro-
portions of face and figure in which history usually
depicts him. Their attire was as splendid as art and
fashion could produce. Francis was dressed in a
mantle of cloth of gold, which fell over a jewelled
cassock of gold frieze. He wore a bonnet of ruby
velvet enriched with gems, while the front and
sleeves of his mantle were splendid with diamonds.
208 HISTORICAL TALES.
rubies, emeralds, and " ropes of pearls." He rode a
"beautiful horse covered with goldsmith's work."
Henry was dressed in cloth of silver damask,
studded with gems, and ribbed with gold cloth, while
his horse was gay wiih trappings of gold embroidery
and mosaic work. Altogether the two men were as
splendid in appearance as gold, silver, jewelry, and
the costliest tissues could make them, — and as differ-
ent in personal appearance as two men of the same
race could well be.
The occasion was not alone a notable one, it was
to some extent a critical one. For centuries the
meetings of French and English kings had beea
hostile ; could they now be trusted to be peaceful ?
Might not the sword of the past be hidden in the
olive-branch of the present? Suppose the lords of
France should seize and hold captive the English
king, or the English lords act with like treachery
towards the French king, what years of the outpouring
of blood and treasure might follow I Apprehensions
of such treachery were not wanting. The followers
of Francis looked with doubt on the armed men in
Henry's escort. The English courtiers in like man-
ner viewed with eyes of question the archers and
cavaliers in the train of Francis. Lord Abergavenny
ran to King Henry as he was about to mount for the
ride to the French frontier.
"Sire," he said, anxiously, "ye be my lord and
sovereign ; wherefore, above all, I am bound to show
you the truth and not be let for none. I have been
in the French party, and they be more in number,^
double so many as ye be."
THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD, 209
" Siro," answered Lord Shrewsbury, " whatever
my lord of Abergavenny sayeth, I myself have been
there, and the Frenchmen be more iu fear of you
and your subjects than your subjects be of thetn.
\Vhereforc, if I were worthy to give counsel, your
grace should march forward."
Bluff King Hurry had no thought of doing any-
thing else. The doubt which shook the souls of some
of his followers, did not enter his.
" So we intend, my lord," he briefly answered, and
rode forward.
For a moment the two kings remained face to face,
gazing upon one another in silence. Then came a
burst of music, and, spurring their horses, they gal-
loped forward, and in an instant were hand in hand.
Three times they embraced ; then, dismounting, they
again embraced, and walked arm in arm towards the
pavilion. Brief was the conference within, the con-
stables of France and England keeping strict ward
outside, with swords held at salute. Not till the
monarchs emerged was the restraint broken. Then
Ilcnry and Francis were presented to the dignitaries
of the opposite nation, their escorts fraternized,
barrels of wine were broached, and as the wine-cups
were drained the toast, " Good fi-ieuds, French and
English," was cheei'ily repeated from both sides. Tl
nobles were emulated in this by their followers, am*
the good fellowship of the meeting was signalizeu
by abundant revelry, night only ending the merry-
making.
Friday, Saturday, and Sunday passed in exchange
of courtesies, and iu preparations for the tournament
II.— o IS*
210 HISTORICAL TALES.
which was to be the great event of the occasion. On
Sunday afternoon Henry crossed the frontier to do
homage to the queen of France, and Francis offered
the same tribute to the English queen. Henry rode
to Arde in a dress that was heavy with gold and
jewels, and was met by the queen and her ladies,
whose beauty was adorned with the richest gems
and tissues and the rarest laces that the wealth and
taste of the time could command. The principal
event of the reception was a magnificent dinner,
whose service was so rich and its viands so rare and
costly that the chronicler confesses himself unequal
to the task of describing it. Music, song, and
dancing filled up the intervals between the courses,
and all went merrily until five o'clock, when Henry
took his leave, entertaining the ladies as he did so
with an exhibition of his horsemanship, he making
his steed to " bound and curvet as valiantly as man
could do." On his road home he met Francis, re-
turning from a like reception by the queen of Eng-
land. " What cheer ?" asked the two kings as they
cordially embraced, with such a show of amity that
one might have supposed them brothers born.
The next day was that set for the opening cf the
tournament. This was to be held in a park on the
high ground between Arde and Guisnes, On each
side of the enclosed space long galleries, hung with
tapestry, were erected for the spectators, a specially-
adorned box being prepared for the two queens. Tri-
umphal arches marked each entrance to the lists, at
which stood French and English archers on guard.
At the foot of the lists was erected the " tree of
THE FIELD OP THE CLOTH OP GOLD. 211
noblesse," on which were to be hung the shields of
those about to engage in combat. It bore " the noble
thorn [the sign of Henry] entwined with raspberry"
[the sign of Francis] ; around its trunk was wound
cloth of gold and green damask ; its leaves were
formed of green silk, and the fruit that hung from
its limbs was made of silver and Venetian gold.
Uenry and Francis, each supported hy some eigh-
teen of their noblest subjects, designed to hold the
lists against all comers, it being, however, strictly
enjoined that sharp-pointed weapons should not be
used, lest serious accidents, as in times past, might
take place. Various other rules were made, of which
we shall only name that which required the challenger
who was worsted in any combat to give " a gold token
to the lady in whose cause the comer fights."
Shall we tell the tale of this show of mimic war?
Splendid it was, and, unlike the tournaments of an
older date, harmless. The lists were nine hundred
feet long and three hundred and twenty broad, the
galleries bordering them being magnificent with their
hosts of richlj'-attired lords and ladies and the vari-
colored dresses of the archers and others of lesser
blood. For two days, Monday and Thursday. Henry
and Francis held the lists. In this sport Uenry dis-
plaj^ed the skill and prowess of a true warrior.
Francis could scarcely wield the swords which his
brother king swept in circles around his head. "When
he spurred, with couched lance, upon an antagonist,
his ease and grace aroused the plaudits of the spec-
tators, which became enthusiastic as saddle aftoT
saddle was emptied by the vigor of his thrust.
212 HISTORICAL TALES.
Next to Henry in strength and prowess was
Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who vied with
the king for the honors of the field. " The king of
England and Suffolk did marvels," says the chron-
icler. On the days when the monarchs did not
appear in the field lesser knights strove for the hon-
ors of the joust, wrestling-matches helped to amuse
the multitude of spectators, and the antics of mum-
mers wound up the sports of the day. Only once did
Henry and Francis come into friendly contest. Thif«
was in a wrestling-match, from which the French
king, to the surprise of the spectators, carried off
the honors. By a clever twist of the wrestler's art,
he managed to throw his burly brother king. Henry's
face was red with the hot Tudor blood when he
rose, his temper had been lost in his fall, and there
was anger in the tone in which he demanded a re-
newal of the contest. But Francis was too wise to
fan a triumph into a quarrel, and by mild words suc-
ceeded in smoothing the frown from Henry's brow.
For some two weeks these entertainments lasted,
the genial June sun shining auspiciously upon the
lists. From the galleries shone two minor lumina-
ries, the queens of England and France, who were
always present, " with their ladies richly dressed in
jewels, and with many chariots, litters, and hackneys
covered with cloth of gold and silver, and emblazoned
with their arras." They occupied a glazed gallery
hung with tapestry, where they were often seen in
conversation, a pleasure not so readily enjoyed by
their ladies in waiting, most of whom had to do their
talking through the vexatious aid of an interpreter.
THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OP GOLD. 213
During most of the time through which the tour-
nR,ment extended the distrust of treachery on one
side or the other continued. Francis never entered
the English pale unless Henry was on French soil.
Henry was similarly distrustful. Or, rather, the
distrust lay in the advisers of the monarchs, and as
the days went on grew somewhat offensive. Francis
was the first to break it, and to show his confidence
in the good faith of his brother monarch. One
morning early he crossed the frontier and entered
the palace at Guisnes while Henry was still in bed,
or, as some say, was at breakfast. To the guards at
the gate he playfully said, " Surrender your arms,
you are all my prisoners ; and now conduct me to
my brother of England." He accosted Henry with
the utmost cordiality, embracing him and saying, in
a merry tone, —
" Here you see I am your prisoner."
"My brother," cried Henry, with the warmest
pleasure, "you have played me the most agreeable
trick in the world, and have showed me the full
confidence I may place in you. I surrender myself
your prisoner from this moment."
Costly presents passed between the two monarchs,
and from that moment all restraint was at an end.
Each rode to see the other when he chose, their
attendants mingled with the same freedom and con-
fidence, and during the whole time not a quarrel, or
even a dispute, arose between the sons of England
and France. In the lists they used spear and sword
with freedom, but out of them they were the warmest
of friends.
214 HISTORICAL TALES.
On Sunday, June 24, the tournament closed wiih
a solemn mass sung by Wolsey, who was assisted by
the ecclesiastics of the two lands. When the gospels
were presented to the two kings to kiss, there was a
friendly contest as to who should precede. And at
the Agnus Dei, when the Fax was presented to the
two queens, a like contest arose, which ended in their
kissing each other in lieu of the sacred emblem.
At the close of the services a showy piece of fire-
works attracted the attention of the spectators.
" There appeared in the air from Arde a great arti-
ficial salamander or dragon, four fathoms long and
full of fire ; many were frightened, thinking it a
comet or some monster, as they could see nothing
to which it was attached : it passed right over the
chapel to Guisnes as fast as a footman can go, and
as high as a bolt from a cross-bow." A splendid
banquet followed, which concluded the festivities of
the " Field of the Cloth of Gold." The two kings
entered the lists again, but now only to exchange
farewells. Henry made his way to Calais ; Francis
returned to Abbcyville: the great occasion was at
an end.
"What was its result? Amity between the two
nations ; a centtiry of peace and friendship ? Not so.
In a month Henry had secretly alh'ed himself to
Charles the Fifth against Francis of France. In five
years was fought the battle of Pavia, between France
and the Emperor Charles, in which Francis, aftei
shoAving great valor on the field, was taken prisoner.
" All is lost, except honor," he wrote. Such was the
eequel of the " Field of the Cloth of Gold."
THE STORY OF ARABELLA
STUART
Op royal blood waH the lady here named, near to
Ibe English throne. Too near, as it proved, for her
own comfort and hapjiiness, for her hfe was dis-
tracted by the fears of those that filled it. Her
Btory, in consequence, became one of the romances
of EngUsh history.
" The Lady Arabella," as Bhe was called, was nearly
related to Queen Elizabeth, and became an object of
jealous persecution by that royal lady. The gi'cat
Elizabeth had in her disposition something of the
dog in the manger. She would not marry herself,
and thus provide for the succession to the throne,
and she was determined that the fair Arabella should
not perform this neglected duty. Hence Arabella's
misery.
The first thing we hear of this unfortunate scion
of royal blood concerns a marriage. The whole story
of her life, in fact, is concerned with marriage, and
its fatal ending was the result of marriage. Never
had a woman been more sought in marriage ; never
more hindered ; her life was a tragedy of marriage.
Her earlier story may be briefly given. James VI.
of Scotland, cousin of the Lady Arabella, chose as a
216
216 HISTORICAL TALES.
husband for her another cousin, Lord Esme Stuart,
Duke of Lennox, his proposed heir. The match was
a desirable one, but Queen Elizabeth forbade the
banns. She threw the lady into a prison, and defied
King James when he demanded her delivery, not
hesitating to speak with contempt of her brother
monarch.
The next to choose a husband for Arabella waa
the pope, who would have been delighted to pro-
vide a Catholic for the succession to the English
throne. A prince of the house of Savoy was the
choice of his holiness. The Duke of Parma was mar-
ried, and his brother was a cardinal, and therefore
unmarriageable, but the pope was not to be defeated
by any such little difficulty as that. He secularized
the churchman, and made him an eligible aspirant
for the lady's hand. But, as may well be supposed,
Elizabeth decisively vetoed this chimerical plan.
To escape from the plots of scheming politicians,
the Lady Arabella now took the task in her own
hand, proposing to marry a son of the Earl of ]^J"orth-
umberland. Unhappily, Elizabeth would none of it.
To her jealous fancy an English earl was more dan-
gerous than a Scotch duke. Thus went on this ex-
traordinary business till Elizabeth died, and King
James of Scotland, whom she had despised, became
her successor on the throne, she having paved the
way to his succession by her neglect to provide an
heir for it herself and her insensate determination
to prevent Arabella Stuart from doing so.
James was now king. He had chosen a husband
for his cousin Arabella before. It was a natural pre-
THE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART. 217
sumption that he would not object to her marriage
now. But if Elizabeth was jealous, he was suspi-
cious. A foolish plot was made by some unimpor-
tant individuals to get rid of the Scottish king and
place Arabella on the English throne. A letter to
this effect was sent to the lady. She laughed at it,
and sent it to the king, who, probably, did not con-
sider it a laughing-matter.
This was in 1603. In 1604 the king of Poland is
paid to have asked for the lady's hand in marriage.
Count Maurice, Duke of Guildres, was also spoken
of as a suitable match. But James had grown aa
obdurate as Elizabeth, — and with as little sense and
reason. The lady might enjoy life in single blessed-
ness as she pleased, but marry she should not. " Thus
far to the Lady Arabella crowns and husbands were
like a fairy banquet seen at moonlight opening on
her sight, impalpable, and vanishing at the moment
of approach."
Several years now passed, in which the lady lived
as a dependant on the king's bount}', and in which,
so far as we know, no thoughts of marriage were
entertained. At least, no projects of marriage were
made public, whatever may have been the lady's
secret thoughts and wishes. Then came the roman-
tic event of her Hfe, — a marriage, and its striking
consequences. It is this event which has made her
name remembered in the romance of history.
Christmas of 1608 had passed, and the Lady Ara-
bella was still unmarried; the English crown had
not tottered to its fall through the entrance of this
fair maiden into the bonds of matrimony. The year
K 19
218 HISTORICAL TALES.
1G09 began, and terror seized the English court;
this insatiable woman was reaching out for another
husband ! This time the favored swain was Mr. Wil-
liam Seymour, the second son of Lord Beauchamp,
and ffrandson of the earl of Hertford. He was a man
of admii-ed character, a studious scholar in times of
peace, an ardent soldier in times of war. He and
Arabella had known each other from childhood.
In February the during rebellion of the Lady
Arabella became known, and sent its shaft of terror
to the heart of King James. The woman was at it
again, wanting to marry; she must be dealt with.
She and Seymour were summoned before the privy
council and sharply questioned. Seymour was
harshly censured. How dared he presume to seek
an alliance with one of royal blood, he was asked, in
blind disregard of the fact that royal blood ran in
his own veins.
He showed fitting humility before the council,
pleading that he meant no offence. Thus he told
the dignified councillors the story of his wooing, —
"I boldly intruded myself into her ladyship's
chamber in this court on Candlemas-day last, at
which time I imparted my desire unto her, which
was entertained, but with this caution on either
part, that both of us resolved not to proceed to any
final conclusion without his Majesty's most gracious
favor first obtained. And this was our first meeting.
After this we had a second meeting at Briggs's house
in Fleet Street, and then a third at Mr. Baynton's ;
at both of which we had the like conference and
resolution as before."
TUE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART. 219
Neither of tlicm would think of marrying without
"his Majesty's most gi-acious favor," they declared.
This favor could not be granted. The safety of the
English crown had to be considered. The lovers
were admonished by the privy council and dismissed.
But love laughs at privy councils, as well as at
locksmiths. This time the Lady Arabella was not
to be hindered. She and Seymour were secretly mar-
ried, without regard to " his Majesty's most gracious
favor," and enjoyed a short period of connubial bliss
in defiance of king and council.
Their offence was not discovered till July of the
following year. It roused a small convulsion in
court circles. The king had been defied. The cul-
prits must be punished. The lovers — for they were
still lovers— were separated, Seymour being sent to
the Tower, for " his contempt in marrying a lady of
the royal family without the king's leave;" the lady
being confined at the house of Sir Thomas Parry, at
Lambeth.
Their confinement was not rigorous. The lady was
allowed to walk in the garden. The gentleman was
given the freedom of the Tower. Letters seem to
have passed between them. From one of these an-
cient love-letters we may quote the affectionate con-
clusion. Seymour had taken cold. Arabella writes :
"I do assure you that nothing the State can do
with me can trouble me so much as this news of your
being ill doth ; and, you see, when 1 am troubled I
trouble you with too tedious kindness, for so I think
you will account so long a letter, yourself not having
220 HISKJRICAL TALES.
written to me this good while so much as how 3'ou
do. But, sweet sir, I speak not of this to troulile
you with writing but when you please. Be well,
and I shall account myself happy in being
" Your faithful, loving wife. Arb. S."
They wrote too much, it seems. Their corre-
spondence was discovered. Trouble ensued. The king
determined to place the lady in closer confinement
under the bishop of Durham.
Arabella was in despair when this news was brought
her. She grew so ill from her depression of spirits that
she could only travel to her new place of detention in
a litter and under the care of a physician. On reaching
Highgate she had become unfit to proceed, her pulse
weak, her countenance pale and wan. The doctor left
her there and returned to town, where he reported to
the king that the lady was too sick to travel.
'• She shall proceed to Durham if I am king," an-
swered James, with his usual weak-headed obstinacy.
" I make no doubt of her obedience," answered
the doctor.
" Obedience is what I require," replied the king.
*' That given, I will do more for her than she ex-
pects."
He consented, in the end, that she should remain
a month at Highgate, under confinement, at the end
of which time she should proceed to Durham. The
month passed. She wrote a letter to the king
which procured her a second month's respite. But
that time, too, passed on, and the day fixed for her
further journey approached.
THE 3T0RT OP ARABELLA STUART. 221
The lady now showed none of the wild grief which
Bhe had at first displayed. She was resigned to her
fate, she said, and manifested a tender sorrow which
won the hearts of her keepers, who could not but
Bympiithize with a high-born lady thus persecuted
for what was assuredly no crime, if even a fault.
At heart, however she was by no moans so tran-
quil as she seemed. Iler communications with Sey-
mour had secretly continued, and the two had
l)lanned a wildly romantic project of escape, of which
this seeming resignation was but part. The day pre-
ceding that fixed for her departure arrived. The
lady liad persuaded an attendant to aid her in pay-
ing a last visit to her husband, whom she declared
she must see before going to her distant prison. She
would return at a fixed hour. The attendant could
wait for her at an appointed place.
This credulous servant, led astray, doubtless, by
sympathy with the loving couple, not only consented
to the request, but assisted the lady in assuming an
elaborate disguise.
*' She drew," we are told, " a pair of large French-
fashioned hose or trousers over her petticoats, put
on a man's doublet or coat, a peruke such as men
wore, whose long locks covered her own ringlets, a
black hat, a black coat, russet boots with red tops,
and a rapier by her side. Thus accoutred, the Lady
ArabeUa stole out with a gentleman about three
o'clock in the afternoon. She had only proceeded a
mile and a half when they stopped at a post-inn,
where one of her confederates was waiting with
horses ; yet she was so sick and faint that the hostler
19*
222 HISTORICAL TALES.
who held her stirrup observed that the gentleman
could hardly hold out to Loudon."
But the "gentleman" grew stronger as she pro-
ceeded. The exercise of riding gave her new spirit.
ITer pale face grew rosy ; her strength increased ;
b}^ six o'clock she reached Blackwall, where a boat
and servants were waiting. The plot had been well
devised aud all the necessary preparations made.
The boatmen were bidden to row to "Woolwich.
This point reached, they were asked to proceed to
Gravesend. Then they rowed on to Tilbury. By
this time they were fatigued, and landed for rest
and refreshment. But the desired goal had not yet
been reached, and an offer of higher pay induced
them to push on to Lee.
Here the fugitive lady rested till daybreak. The
liffht of morn discovered a French vessel at anchor
off the harbor, which was quickly boarded. It had
been provided for the escape of the lovers. But
Seymour, who had planned to escape from the Tower
and meet her here, had not arrived. Arabella was
desirous that the vessel should continue at anchor
until he appeared. If he should fail to come she
did not care to proceed. The land that held her
lord was the laud in which she wished to dwell, even
if they should be parted by fate and forced to live
asunder.
This view did not please those who were aiding
her escape. They would be pursued, and might bo
overtaken. Delay was dangerous. In disregard of
her wishes, they ordered the captain to put to sea.
As events turned out, their haste proved unfortunate
THE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART. 223
for the fair fui^itive, and the "cause of woes un
numbered" to the loving pair.
Leaving her to her journey, we must return to the
adventures of Seymour. Prisoner at large, as ho
was, in the Tower, escape proved not difficult. A
cart had entered the enclosure to bring wood to his
apartment. On its departure he followed it through
the gates, unobserved by the warder. His servant
was left behind, with orders to keep all visitors from
the room, on pretence that his master was laid up
with a raging toothache.
Eeaching the river, the escaped prisoner found a
man in his confidence in waiting with a boat. He
was rowed down the stream to Lee, whei*e he ex-
pected to find his Arabella in waiting. She was not
there, but in the distance was a vessel which ho
fancied might have her on board. lie hired a fisher-
man to take him out. Hailing the vessel, he inquired
its Dame, and to his grief learned that it was not the
French ship which had been hired for the lovers'
flight. Fate had separated them. Filled with de-
spair, ho took passage on a vessel from Newcastle,
whose captain was induced, for a fair consideration,
to alter his course. In due time he landed in Flan-
ders, free, but alone. He was never to set eyes on
Arabella Stuart again.
Meanwhile, the escape of the lady from Higbgate
had become known, and had aroused almost as much
alarm as if some frightful calamity had overtaken
the State. Confusion and alarm pervaded the court.
The Gunpowder Plot itself hardly shook up the gray
heads of King James's cabinet more than did the
224 HISTORICAL TALES.
flight of this pair of parted doves. The wind seemed
to waft peril. The minutes seemed fraught with
threats. Couriers were despatched in all haste to
the neighboring seaports, and hurry everywhere pre-
vailed.
A messenger was sent to the Tower, bidding the
lieutenant to guard Seymour with double vigilance.
To the surprise of the worthy lieutenant, he dis-
covered that Seymour was not there to be guarded.
The bird had flown. Word of this threw King
James into a ludicrous state of terror. He wished
to issue a vindictive proclamation, full of hot ful-
minations, and could scarcely be persuaded by his
minister to tone down his foolish utterances. The re-
vised edict was sent off with as much speed as if an
enemy's fleet were in the offing, the courier being
urged to his utmost despatch, the postmasters aroused
to activity by the stirring superscription, " Haste,
haste, post-haste! Haste for your life, your life!"
One might have thought that a new Norman inva-
sion was threatening the coast, instead of a pair of
new-married lovers flying to finish their honey-moon
in peace and freedom abroad.
When news of what had happened reached the
family of the Seymours, it threw them into a state
of alarm not less than that of the king. They knew
what it meant to ofl'end the crown. The progenitor
of the family, the Duke of Somerset, had lost his head
through some off'ence to a king, and his descendants
had no ambition to be similarly curtailed of their
natural proportions. Francis Seymour wrote to his
uncle, the Earl of Hertford, then distant from London.
THE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART. 225
telling the story of the flight of his brother and the
hidy. This letter still exists, and its appearance
indicates the terror into which it threw the earl.
It reached him at midnight. With it came a summons
to attend the privy council. He read it apparently
by the light of a taper, and with such agitation that
the sheet caught fire. The scorched letter still exists,
and is burnt through at the most critical part of its
Btory. The poor old earl learned enough to double
his terror, and lost the section that would have alle-
viated it. He hastened up to London in a state of
doubt and fear, not knowing but that he was about
to be indicted for high treason.
Meanwhile, what had become of the disconsolate
Lady Arabella? The poor bride found herself alone
upon the Bcas, mourning for her lost Seymour, im-
ploring her attendants to delay, straining her eyes
in hopes of seeing some boat bearing to her him she
60 dearly loved. It was in vain. No Sej'mour ap-
peared. And the delay in her flight proved fatal.
The French ship which bore her was overtaken in
Calais roads by one of the king's vessels which had
been so hastily despatched in pursuit, and the lady
was taken on board and brought back, protesting
that she cared not what became of her if her dear
Seymour should only escape.
The story ends mournfullj'. The sad-hearted
bride was consigned to an imprisonment that preyed
heavily upon hor. Never very strong, her sorrow and
depression of s])irit8 reduced her powers, while, with
the hope that she might die the sooner, she refused
the aid of physicians. Grief, desimir, intense emo-
II.— p
226 HISTORICAL TALES.
tion, in time impaired her reason, and at the end Df
four years of prison life she died, her mind having
died before. Earely has a simple and innocent
marriage produced such sad results through the
uncalled-for jealousy of kings. The sad romance of
the poor Lady Arabella's life was due to the fact that
she had an unreasonable woman to deal with in
Elizabeth, and a suspicious fool in James. Sound
common-sense must say that neither had aught to
gain fi'om their persecution of the poor lady, whom
they were so obstinately determined should end life
a maid.
Seymour spent some years abroad, and then was
permitted to return to England. His wife was dead ;
the king had naught to fear. He lived through
three successive reigns, distinguishing himself by
his loyalty to James and his two successors, and to
the day of his death retaining his warm affection
for his first love. He married again, and to tho
daughter born from this match he gave the name
of Arabella Stuart, in token of his undying attach-
ment to the lady of his life's romance.
LOVE'S KNIGHT-ERRANT.
On the 18th of February, 1G23, two young men,
Tom and John Smith by name, plainly dressed and
atteuded by one companion in the attire of an upper-
servant, rodo to the ferry at Gravesend, on the
Thames. Thcj wore heavy beards, which did not
look altogether natural, and had pulled their hats
well down over their foreheads, as if to hide their
faces from prying eyes. They seemed a cross be-
tween disguised highwaymen and disguised noble-
men.
The ancient ferryman looked at them with some
suspicion as they entered his boat, asking himself,
*' What lark is afoot with these young bloods?
There's mischief lurking under those beards."
His suspicions were redoubled when his passengers,
in arbitrary tones, bade him put them ashore below
the town, instead of at the usual landing-place. And
he became sure that they were great folks bent on
mischief when, on landing, one of them handed him
a gold piece for his fare, and rode away without
asking for change.
" Aha ! my brisk lads, I have you now," he said,
with a chuckle. " There's a duel afoot. Those two
j'oungsters are off for the other side of the Channel,
227
228 HISTORICAL TALES.
to let out some angry blood, and the other goes
along as second or surgeon. It's very neat, but the
law saj^s nay ; and I know my duty. I am not to be
bought off with a piece of gold."
Pocketing bis golden fare, he hastened to the nearest
magistrate, and told his story and his suspicion.
The magistrate agreed with him, and at once de-
spatched a post-boy to Eochester, with orders to have
the doubtful travellers stopped. Away rode the mes-
senger at haste, on one of the freshest horses to be
found in Gravesend stables. But his steed was no
match for the thoroughbreds of the suspected way-
farers, and they had left the ancient town of Eochester
in the rear long before he reached its skirts.
Eochester passed, they rode briskly onward, con-
versing with the gay freedom of frolicsome youth ;
wben, much to tbeir alarm as it seemed, they saw in
the road before them a stately train. It consisted
of a carriage that appeared royal in its decorations
and in the glittering trappings of its horses, beside
which rode two men dressed like noblemen, following
whom came a goodly retinue of attendants.
The young waj^farers seemed to recognize the trav-
ellers, and drew up to a quick halt, as if in alarm.
" Le wknor and Main waring, by all that's unlucky I"
said the one known as Tom Smith.
" And a carriage-load of Spanish high mightiness
between them ; for that's the ambassador on his way
to court," answered John Smith. " It's all up with
our escapade if they get their eyes on us. We must
bolt."
"How, and whither?"
love's knight-errant. 229
"Over the hedge and far awuy."
Spurring their horses, they broke through the low
hedge that bordered the road-side, and galloped at a
rapid pace across the fields beyond. The approaching
party viewed this movement with lively suspicion.
"^^1l0 can they be?" queried Sir lewis Lewknor,
one of the noblemen.
His companion, who was no less a personage than
Sir Henry Mainwaring, lieutenant of Dover Castle,
looked questioningly after the fugitives.
"They are well mounted and have the start on ua.
"We cannot overtake them," he muttered.
" You know them, then ?" asked Lewknor.
" I have my doubt that two of them are the young
Barneveldts, who have just tried to murder the
Prince of Orange. They must be stopped and ques-
tioned."
He turned and bade one of his followers to ride
back with all speed to Canterbury, and bid the
magistrates to detain three suspicious travellers, who
would soon reach that town. This done, the train
moved on, Mainwaring satisfied that he had checked
the runaways, whoever they were.
The Smiths and their attendant reached Canter-
bury in good time, but this time they were outridden.
Mainwaring's messenger had got in before them,
and the young adventurers found themselves stopj)cd
by a mounted guard, with the unwelcome tidings
that his honor, the mayor, would like to see them.
Being brought before his honor, they blustered a
little, talked in big tones of the rights of English.
men, and asked angrilji who had dared order theii*
20
230 HISTORICAL TALES.
detention. They found master mayor cool and do-
cided.
" Gentlemen, you will stay here till I know bettor
who you are," he said. ''Sir Henry Mainwaring
has ordered you to be stopped, and he best knows
why. Nor do I fancy he has gone amiss, for your
names of Tom and John Smith fit you about as well
as your beards."
At these words, the one that claimed the name of
John Smith burst into a hearty laugh. Seizing his
beard, he gave it a slight jerk, and it came off in his
hand. The. mayor started in surprise. The face
before him was one that he very well knew.
" The Marquis of Buckingham !" he exclaimed.
"The same, at your service," said Buckingham,
still lauo-hinsr. " Mainwaring takes me for other
than I am. Likely enough he deems me a runaway
road-agent. You will scarcely stop the lord admiral,
going in disguise to Dover to make a secret inspec-
tion of the fleet ?"
" Wh}-, that certainly changes the case," said the
mayor. " But who is your companion ?" he con-
tinued, in a low tone, looking askance at the other.
"A young gallant of the court, who keeps me
company," said Buckingham, carelessly.
" The road is free before you, gentlemen," said the
mayor, graciously. " I will answer to Mainwaring."
He turned and bade his guards to deliver their
horses to the travellers. But his eyes followed them
with a peculiar twinkle as they left the room.
" A young gallant of the court !" he muttered.
" I have seen that gallant before. Well, well, what
love's knight-errant. 231
mad frolic is afoot ? Thank the stars, I am not
bound, bj' virtue of my office, to know him."
The part}^ reached Dover without further adven-
ture. But the inspection of the fleet was evidently
an invention for the benefit of the mayor. Instead
of troubling themselves about the fleet, they entered
a vessel that seemed awaiting them, and on whose
deck they were joined by two companions. In a
ver}^ short time they were out of harbor and off
with a fresh wind across the Channel. Mainwaring
had been wrong, — was the ferryman right ? — was a
duel the purpose of this flight in disguise ?
No; the travellers made no halt at Boulogne, tho
favorite duelling-ground of English hot-bloods, but
pushed off in haste for Montreuil, and thence rode
straight to Paris, which they reached after a two-
daj^s' journey.
It seemed an odd freak, this ride in disguise for
the mere pui'pose of a visit to Paris. But thei'e was
nothing to indicate that the two young men had any-
other object as they strolled carelessly during the
next day about the French capital, known to none
there, and enjoying themselves like school-boys on a
holiday.
Among tho sights which they managed to see
were the king, Louis XIII., and his royal mother,
Marie de Medecis. That evening a mask was to bo
rehearsed at the palace, in which the queen and tho
Princess Henrietta Maria were to take part. On
the plea of being strangers in Paris, the two young
Englishmen managed to obtain admittance to this
royal merrymaking, which they highly enjoyed. Aa
232 HISTORICAL TALES.
to what they saw, we have a partial record in a sub-
sequent letter from one of them.
"There danced," says this epistle, "the queen and
madame, with as many as made up nineteen fair
dancing ladies; amongst which the queen is the
handsomest, which hath wrought in me a greater
desire to see her sister."
This sister was then at Madrid, for the queen of
France was a daughter of Philip III. of Spain.
And, as if Spain was the true destination of the
travellers, and to see the French queen's sister their
object, at the early hour of three the next morning
they were up and on horseback, riding out of Paris
on the road to Bayonne. Away they went, pressing
onward at speed, he whom we as yet know only as
Tom Smith taking the lead, and pushing forward
with such youthful eagerness that even the seasoned
Buckingham looked the worse for wear before they
reached the borders of Spain.
"Who was this eager errant knight? All London
by this time knew, and it is time that we should
learn. Indeed, while the youthful wayfarers were
speeding away on their mad and merry ride, the
privy councillors of England were on their knees
before King James, half beside themselves with ap-
prehension, saying that Prince Charles had disap-
peared, that the rumor was that he had gone to
Spain, and begging to know if this wild rumor were
true.
« There is no doubt of it," said the king, " But
what of that? His father, his grandfather, and his
groat-grandfather all went into foreign countries to
love's knight-errant. 233
fetch home their wives, — why not the prince, my
8on?"
'* England may learn why," was the answer of the
alarmed councillors, and after them of the disturbed
country. " The king of Spain is not to be trusted
with such a royal morsel. Suppose he seizes the
heir to England's throne, and holds him as hostage!
The boy is mad, and the king in his dotage to permit
so wild a thing." Such was the scope of general
comment on the prince's escapade.
"While England fumed, and King James had begun
to fret in chorus with the country, his " sweet boys
and dear venturous knights, worthy to be put in a
new romanso," as he had remarked on first learning of
their flight, were making their way at utmost horse-
speed across France. A few miles beyond Bayonne
they met a messenger from the Earl of Bristol, am-
bassador at Madrid, bc-aring despatches to England.
They stopped him, opened his papers, and sought to
read them, but found the bulk of them written in a
cipher beyond their powers to solve. BafHed in
this, they bade Gresley, the messenger, to return
with them as far as Irun, as they wished him to bear
to the king a letter written on Spanish soil.
No great distance forther brought them to the
small river Bidassoa, the Eubicon of their journey.
It formed the boundary between France and Spain.
On reaching its southern bank they stood on the
soil of the land of the dons, and the truant prince
danced for jo}^, filled with delight at the succe.-^s of
his runaway prank. Gresley afterwards reported
in England that Buckingham looked worn from his
20*
234 HISTORICAL TALES.
long ride, but that he had never seen Prince Charles
BO merry.
Onward through this new kingdom went the
youthful scapegraces, over the hills and plains of
Spain, their hearts beating with merry music, — Buck-
ingham gay from his native spirit of adventure,
Charles eager to see in knight-errant fashion the
charming infanta of Spain, of whom he had seen, as
yet, only the " counterfeit presentment," and a view
of whom in person was the real object of his jour-
ney. So ardent were the two young men that they
far outrode their companions, and at eight o'clock in
the evening of March 7, seventeen days after they
had left Buckingham's villa at Newhall, the truant
pair were knocking briskly at the door of the Earl
of Bristol at Madrid.
Wilder and more perilous escapade had rarely been
adventured. The king had let them go with fear
and trembling. Weak-willed monarch as he was, he
could not resist Buckingham's persuasions, though
he dreaded the result. The uncertain temper of
Philip of Spain was well-known, the preliminaries
of the marriage which had been designed between
Charles and the infanta were far from settled, the
political relations between England and Spain were
not of the most pacific, and it was within the bounds
of probability that Philip might seize and hold the
heir of England. It would give him a vast advan-
tage over the sister realm, and profit had been knoAvn
to outweigh honor in the minds of potentates.
Heedless of all this, sure that his appearance would
dispel the clouds that hung over the marriage com-
love's knight-errant, 235
pact iind shed the sunshine of peace and union over
the two kingdoms, giddy with the hopefuhiess cf
youth, and infected with Buckingham's love of gal-
lantry and adventure, Charles reached Madrid with-
out a thought of peril, wild to see the infiinta in his
new role of knight-errant, and to decide for himself
whether the beauty and accomplishments for which
slie was famed were as patent to his eye as to the
voice of common report, and such as made her worthy
the love of a prince of high degree.
Such was the mood and such the hopes with
•which the romantic prince knocked at Lord Bristol's
door. But such was not the feeling with which the
practised diplomat received his visitors. He saw at
a glance the lake of possible mischief before him ;
3'ct he was versed in the art of keeping his counte-
nance serene, and received his guests as cordially as if
they had called on him in his London mansion.
Bristol would have kept the coming of the prince to
himself, if it had been possible. But the utmost ho
could hope was to keep the secret for that night, and
even in this he failed. Count Gondomar, a Spanish
di])lomat, called on him, saw his visitors, and while
affecting ignorance was not for an instant deceived.
On leaving Bristol's house he at once hurried to the
royal palace, and, filled with his weighty tidings,
burst upon Count Olivares, the king's favorite, at
supper. Gondomar's face was beaming. Olivaros
looked at him in surprise.
" What brings you here so late ?" he asked. " One
would think that you had got the king of England
in Madrid."
236 HISTORICAL TALES.
" If I have not got the king," replied Gondomar,
" at least I have got the prince. You cannot ask a
rarer prize."
Olivares sat stupefied at the astounding news. As
soon as he could find words he congratulated Gon-
domar on his important tidings, and quickly hastened
to find the king, who was in his bedchamber, and
whom he astonished with the tale he had to tell.
The monarch and his astute minister eai-nestlj dis-
cussed the subject in all its bearings. On one point
they felt sure. The coining of Charles to Spain
was evidence to them that he intended to change his
religion and embrace the Catholic faith. He would
never have ventured otherwise. But, to "make as-
surance doubly sure," Philip turned to a crucifix
which stood at the head of his bed, and swore on it
that the coming of the prince of Wales should not
induce him to take a step in the marriage not favored
by the pope, even if it should involve the loss of his
kingdom.
" As to what is temporal and mine," he said, to
Olivares, " see that all his wishes are gratified, in
consideration of the obligation under which he has
placed us by coming here."
Meanwhile, Bristol spent the night in the false
belief that the secret was still his own. He sum-
moned Gondomar in the morning, told him, with a
show of conferring a favor, of what had occurred,
and bade him to tell OHvares that Buckingham had
arrived, but to say nothing about the prince. That
Gondomar consented need not be said. He had
already told all there was to tell. In the afternoon
love's knigut-errant. 237
Buckingham and 01ivare8 had a brief interview in
the gardens of the palace. After nightfall the Eng-
lish marquis had the honor of kissing the hand of
bis Catholic Majesty, Philip IV. of Spain. Ho told
the king of the arrival of Prince Charles, much to
the seeming surprise of the monarch, who had learned
the art of keeping his countenance.
During the next day a mysterious silence was pre-
served concerning the great event, though certain un-
usual proceedings took place. Philip, with the queen,
bis sister, the infanta, and his two brothers, drove
backward and forward through the streets of Madrid.
In another carriage the Prince of Wales made a simi-
larly stately progress through the same streets, the
puipose being to yield him a passing glimpse of his
betrothed and the royal family. The streets were
thronged, all eyes were fixed on the coach containing
the strangers, yet silence reigned. The rumor had
spread far and wide who those strangers were, but it
was a secret, and no one must show that the secret
was afoot. Yet, though their voices were silent, their
hearts were full of triumph in the belief that the
fuLui-e king of England had come with the purjioso
of embracing the national faith of Spain.
At the end of the procession Olivares joined the
prince and told him that his royal master was dying
to speak with him, and could scarcely i*estrain him-
self. An interview was quickly arranged, its locality
to be the coach of the king. Meanwhile, Olivares
Bought Buckingham.
"Let us despatch this matter out of hand," ho
said, " and strike it up without the popo."
238 HISTORICAL TALES.
" Yery well," answered Buckingham ; " but how is
it to be done ?"
" The means are very easy," said Olivares, lightly.
" It is but the conversion of the prince, which we
cannot conceive but his highness intended when he
resolved upon this journey."
This belief was a very natural one. The fact of
Charles being a Protestant had been the stumbling-
block in the way of the match. A dispensation for
the marriage of a Catholic princess with the Prot-
estant prince of England had been asked from the
pope, but had not yet been given. Charles had
come to Madrid with the empty hope that his pres-
ence would cut the knot of this difficulty, and win
him the princess out of hand. The authorities and
the people, on the contrary, fancied that nothing
less than an intention to turn Catholic could have
brought him to Spain. As for the infanta herself, she
was an ardent Catholic, and bitterly opposed to being
united in marriage to a heretic prince. Such was the
state of affairs that prevailed. The easy pathway
out of the difficulty which the hopeful prince had de-
vised was likely to prove not quite free from thorns.
The days passed on. Buckingham declared to
Olivares that Charles had no thought of becoming
a Catholic. Charles avoided the subject, and talked
only of his love. The Spanish ministers blamed
Bristol for his indecision, and had rooms prepared
for the prince in the royal palace. Charles willingly
accepted them, and on the 16th of March rode
through the streets of Madrid, on the right hand of
the king, to his new abode.
love's kniqht-errant. 23&
The people were now permitted to applaud to
their hearts' desire, as no further pretence of a secret
existed. Glad acclamations attended the progress
of the royal cortege. The people shouted with joy,
and all, high and low, sang a song composed for tho
occasion by Lope de Vega, the famous dramatist,
which told how Charles had come, under the guidance
of love, to the Spanish sky to see his star Maria.
" Carlos Estuardo soy
Que, siendo amor mi guia,
Al cielo d Espana voy
Por ver mi estrella Maria."
The palace was decorated with all its ancient
splendor, tho streets everj'whcre showed signs of
the public joy, and, as a special mark of royal clem-
ency, all prisoners, except those held for heinous
crimes, were set at liberty, among them numerous
English galley-slaves, who had been captured in
pirate vessels preying upon Spanish commerce.
Yet all this merrymaking and clemency, and all
the negotiations which proceeded in the precincts of
the palace, did not expedite the question at issue.
Charles had no thought of becoming a Catholic.
Philip had little thought of permitting a marriage
under any other conditions. The /nfanta hated the
Idea of the sacrifice, as she considered it. The au-
thorities at Eome refused the dispensation. The
wheels of tho whole business seemed firmly blocked.
Meanwhile, Charles had seen the infanta again,
Bomewhat more closely than in a passing glance from
a carriage, and though no words had passed between
240 HISTORICAL TALES.
them, her charms of face strongly attracted his sus-
ceptible heart. He was convinced that he deeply
loved her, and he ardently pressed for a closer inter-
view. This Spanish etiquette hindered, and it was
not until April 7, Easter Day, that a personal inter-
view was granted the ardent lover. On that day
the king, accompanied by a train of grandees, led
the English prince to the apartments of the queen,
who sat in state, with the infanta by her side.
Greeting the queen with proper respect, Charles
turned to address the lady of his love. A few cere-
monial words had been set down for him to utter,
but his English heart broke the bonds of Spanish
etiquette, and, forgetting everything but his passion,
he began to address the princess in ardent words of
his own choice. He had not gone far before there
was a sensation. The persons present began to
whisper. The queen looked with angry eyes on the
presuming lover. The infanta was evidently an-
noyed. Charles hesitated and stopped short. Some-
thing seemed to have gone wrong. The infanta
answered his eager words with a few cold, common-
place sentences ; a sense of constraint and uneasiness
appeared to haunt the apartment ; the interview was
at an end. English ideas of love-making had proved
much too unconventional for a Spanish court.
From that day forward the affair di*agged on with
infinite deliberation, the passion of the prince grow-
ing stronger, the aversion of the infanta seemingly
increasing, the purpose of the Spanish court to mould
the ardent lover to its own ends appearing mora
decided.
love's KNianT-ERRANT. 241
"Whilo Charles showed his native disposition by
prevarication, Bueldngham showed his by an impa-
tience that soon led to anger and insolence. Tho
wearisome slowness of the negotiations ill suited his
hasty and arbitrary temper, ho quarrelled with mem-
bers of the State Council, and, in an interview be-
tween the prince and the friars, he grow so incensed
at the demands made that, in disregard of all tho
decencies of etiquette, he sprang from his seat, ex-
pressed his contempt for the ecclesiastics by insult-
ing gestures, and ended by flinging his hat on the
ground and stamping on it. That conference camo
to a sudden end.
As the stay of the prince in Madrid now seemed
likely to be protracted, attendants were sent him
from England that he might keep up some show of
state. But the Spanish court did not want them,
and contrived to make their stay so unpleasant and
their accommodations so poor, that Charles soon
packed the most of them off home again.
" I am glad to get away," said one of these, James
Eliot by name, to the prince; "and hope that your
Highness will soon leave this pestiferous Spain. It
is a dangerous place to alter a jnan and turn him. I
myself in a short time have perceived my own weak-
ness, and am almost turned."
" What motive had you?" asked Charles. " What
have 3'ou seen that should turn j'ou ?"
« :Marry," replied Eliot, " when I was in England,
I turned tho whole Bible over to find Purgatorj-,
and because I could not find it there I believed there
was none. But now that I have come to Spain, J
II.— L q 21
242 HISTORICAL TALES.
have found it here, and that your Highness is in it ;
■whence that you may be released, we, your High-
ness's servants, who are going to Paradise, will offer
unto God our utmost devotions."
A purgatory it was, — a purgatory lightened for
Charles by love, he playing the role assigned by
Dante to Paolo, though the infanta was little in-
clined to imitate Francesca da Eimini. Buckingham
fumed and fretted, was insolent to the Spanish minis-
ters, and sought as earnestly to get Charles out of
Madrid as he had done to get him there, and less
successfully. But the love-stricken prince had be-
come impracticable. His fancy deepened as the
days passed by. Such was the ardor of his passion,
that on one day in May he broke headlong through
the rigid wall of Spanish etiquette, by leaping into
the garden in which the lady of his love was walk-
ing, and addressing her in words of passion. The
startled girl shrieked and fled, and Charles was with
difficulty hindered from following her.
Only one end could come of all this. Spain and
the pope had the game in their own hands. Charles
had fairly given himself over to them, and his ardent
passion for the lady weakened all his powers of re-
sistance. King James was a slave to his son, and
incapable of refusing him anything. The end of it
all was that the English king agreed that all perse-
cution of Catholics in England should come to an
end, without a thought as to what the parliament
might say to this hasty promise, and Chai'les signed
papers assenting to all the Spanish demands, except-
ing that he should himself become a Catholic.
love's knight-errant. 243
The year wore wearily on till August was reached.
England and her king were by this time wildly
anxious that the prince should return. Yet he hung
on with the pitiful indecision that marked his whole
life, and it is not unlikely that the incident which in-
duced him to leave Spain at last was a wager with
Bristol, who offered to risk a ring worth one thou-
sand pounds that the prince would spend his Christ-
mas in Madrid.
It was at length decided that he should return, the
2d of September being the day fixed upon for his de-
parture. He and the king enjoyed a last hunt to-
gether, lunched under the shadows of the trees, and
bude each other a seemingly loving farewell. Buck-
ingham's good-by was of a different character. It
took the shape of a violent quarrel with Olivares, the
Spanish minister of state. And home again set out
the brace of knights-errant, not now in the simple
fashion of Tom and John Smith, but wiih much of the
processional display of a royal cortege. Then it was
a gay ride of two ardent youths across France and
Spain, one filled with thoughts of love, the other
with the spirit of adventure. Now it was a stately,
almost a regal, movement, with anger as its source,
disappointment as its companion. Charles had fairly
sold himself to Philip, and yet was returning homo
without his bride. Buckingham, the nobler nature
of the two, had by his petulance and arrogance kept
himself in hot water with the Spanish court. Alto-
gether, the adventure had not been a success.
The bride Avas to follow the prince to England m
the spring. But the farther he got from Madrid the
244 HISTORICAL TALES.
less Charles felt that he wanted her. His love,
which had grown as he came, diminished as he went.
It had then spread over his fancy like leaves on a
tree in spring ; now it fell from him like leaves from
an October tree. It had been largely made up, at
the best, of fancy and vanity, and blown to a white
heat by the obstacles which had been thrown in his
way. It cooled with every mile that took him from
Madrid.
To the port of Santander moved the princely train.
As it entered that town, the bells were rung and
cannon fired in welcoming peals. A fleet lay there,
sent to conve}' him home, one of the ships having a
gorgeously-decorated cabin for the infanta, — who
was not there to occupy it.
Late in the day as it was, Charles was so eager ta
leave the detested soil of Spain, that he put off in a
boat after nightfall for the fleet. ' It was a movement
not without its peril. The wind blew, the tide was
strong, the rowers proved helpless against its force,
and the boat with its precious freight would have
been carried out to sea had not one of the sailors
managed to seize a rope that hung by the side of a
ship which they were being rapidly swept past. In
a few minutes more the English prince was on an
English deck.
For some days the wind kept the fleet At Santan-
der. All was cordiality and festivity between Eng-
lish and Spaniards. Charles concealed his change
of heart. Buckingham repressed his insolence. On
the 18th of September the fleet weighed anchor and
left the coast of Spain. On the 5th of October Prine3
i.ove's kmght-errant. 245
Charles landed at Portsmouth, his romantic escapade
happily at an end.
He hurried to ]jondon with all speed. But rapidly
as he went, the news of his coming had spread
before him. He came without a Spanish bride. The
peojjle, who despised the whole burliness and feared
its results, were wild with delight. When Charles
landed from the barge in which he had crossed the
Thames, he found the streets thronged with applaud-
ing people, he heard the bells on every side merrily
ringing, be heard the enthusiastic people shouting,
" Long live the Prince of "Wales !" All London was
wild with delight. Their wandering prince had been
lost and was found again.
The day was turned into a holiday. Tables loaded
with food and wine were placed in the streets by
wealthy citizens, that all who wished might partake.
Prisoners for debt were set at liberty, their debts
being paid by persons unknown to them. A cart-
load of felons on its way to the gallows at Tyburn
was turned back, it happening to cross the prince's
path, and its inmates gained an unlooked-for respite.
When night fell the town blazed out in illumination,
candles being set in every window, while bonfires
blazed in the streets. In the short distance between
St. Paul's and London Bridge flamed more than a
hundred piles. Carts laden with wood were seized
by the populace, the hoi-ses taken out and the torch
applied, cart and load together adding their tribute
of flame. Never had so sudden and spontaneous
an ebullition of joy broken out in London streets.
The return of the prince was a strikingly different
21*
246 HISTORICAL TALES.
affair from that mad ride m disguise a few months
before, which spread suspicion at every step, and
filled England with rage when the story bect.mo
known.
We have told the story of the prince's adventure ;
a few words will tell the end of his love-affair As
for Buckingham, he had left England as a marquis,
he came back with the title of duke. King James
had thus rewarded him for abetting the folly of
his son. The Spanish marriage never took place.
Charles's love had been lost in his journey home.
He brought scarce a shred of it back to London.
The temper of the English people in regard to the
concessions to the Catholics was too outspokenly
hostile to be trifled with. Obstacles arose in the way
of the marriage. It was postponed. Difficulties
appeared on both sides the water. Before the year
ended all hopes of it were over, and the negotiations
at an end. Prince Charles finally took for wife that
Princess Henrietta Maria of France whom he and
Buckingham had first seen dancing in a royal masque,
during their holiday visit in disguise to Paris. The
romance of his life was over. The reality was soon
to begin.
THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT
CASTLE.
On the top of a lofty hill, with a broad outlook
over tho counties of Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, and
Nottinghamshire, stood Pontefract Castle, a strong
work belonging to the English crown, but now in
the hands of Cromwell's men, and garrisoned by
Boldiers of the Parliamentary ai-my. Tho war, indeed,
was at an end. King Charles in prison, and Cromwell
lord of the realm, so that further resistance seemed
useless.
But now came a rising in Scotland in favor of tho
king, and many of the royalists took heart again,
hoping that, while Cromwell was busy with tho
Scotch, there would be risings elsewhere. In their
view the war was once more afoot, and it would be
a notable deed to take Pontefract Castle from its
Puritan garrison and hold it for the king. Such were
the inciting causes to the events of which we have
now to speak.
There was a Colonel ^^forrice, who, as a very young
man, had been an oflicer in the king's arm}'. Ho
afterwards joined the army of the Parliament, where
he made friends and did some bold service. Later
on, the strict discipline of Ci'omweli's army oflFeuded
247
248 HISTORICAL TALES.
this versatile gentleman, and he threw up his com-
mission and retired to his estates, where he enjoyed
life with much of the Cavalier freedom.
Among his most intimate friends was the Parlia-
mentary governor of Pontefract Castle, who enjoyed
his society so greatly that he would often have him
at the castle for a week at a time, they sleeping to-
gether like brothers. The confiding governor had
no suspicion of the treasonable disposition of his bed-
fellow, and, though warned against him, would not
listen to complaint.
Morrice was familiar with the project to surprise
the fortress, at the head of which was Sir Marma-
duke Langdale, an old officer of the king. To one
of the conspirators he said, —
" Do not trouble yourself about this matter. I
will surprise the castle for you, whenever you think
the time ripe for it."
This gentleman thereupon advised the conspirators
to wait, and to trust him to find means to enter the
stronghold. As they had much confidence in him,
they agreed to his request, without questioning him
too closely for the grounds of his assurance. Mean-
while, Morrice went to work.
" I should counsel you to take great care that you
have none but faithful men in the garrison," he said
to the governor. " I have reason to suspect that
there are men in this neighborhood who have designs
upon the castle ; among them some of your frequent
visitors."
He gave him a list of 7iames, some of them really
conspirators, others sound friends of the Parliament,
THE TAKING OP PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 249
"You need hardly bo troubled about these fellows,
however," he said. " I have a friend in their counsel,
and am sure to be kept posted as to their plans.
And for that matter I can, in short notice, brin<^ you
forty or fifty safe men to strengthen your garrison,
should occasion arise."
lie made himself also familiar with the soldiers of
the garrison, playing and drinking with them ; and
when sleeping there would often rise at night and
visit the guards, sometimes inducing the governor,
by misrc])resentations, to dismiss a faithful man, and
replace him by one in his own confidence.
So the affair went on, Morrice laying his plans
with much skill and caution. As it proved, however,
the conspirators became impatient to execute the
affair before it was fully ripe. Scotland was in arms ;
there were alarms elsewhere in the kingdom ; Crom-
well was likely to have enough to occupy him ; delay
seemed needless. They told the gentleman who had
asked them to wait that he must act at once. lie
in his turn advised Morrice, who lost no time in com-
pleting his plans.
On a certain night fixed by him the surprise-party
were to be ready with ladders, which they must erect
in two places against the wall. Morrice would see
that safe sentinels were posted at these points. At
a signal agi-ced upon they were to mount the ladders
and break into the castle.
The night came. Morrice was in the castle,
where he shared the governor's bed. At the hour
arranged he rose and sought the walls. He was just
in time to prevent ;he failure of the entcprise. Un.
250 HISTORICAL TALES.
known to him, one of the sentinels had been changed.
Those without gave the signal. One of the sentinels
answered it. The surprise-party ran forward with
both ladders.
Morrice, a moment afterwards, heard a cry of
alarm from the other sentinel, and hasting forward
found him running back to call the guard. He looked
at him. It was the wrong man ! There had been
some mistake.
" What is amiss?" he asked.
"There are men under the wall," replied the sol-
dier. " Some villany is afoot."
" Oh, come, that cannot be."
" It is. I saw them."
" I don't believe you, sirrah," said Morrice, severely.
"You have been frightened by a shadow. Come,
show mo the place. Don't make yourself a laughing-
stock for your fellows."
The sentinel turned and led the way to the top of
the wall. He pointed down.
"There; do you see?" he asked.
His words stopped there, for at that instant he
found himself clasped by strong arms, and in a
minute more was thrown toppling from the wall.
Morrice had got rid of the dangerous sentry.
By this time the ladders were up, and some of
those without had reached the top of the wall. They
signalled to their friends at a distance, and rushed to
the court of guard, whose inmates they speedily mas-
tered, after knocking two or three of them upon the
head. The gates were now thrown open, and a strong
body of horse and foot who waited outside rode in.
THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 251
The castle was won. Morrice led a party to the
governor's chamber, told him that "the castle waa
eurprisod and himself a prisoner," and advised him
to surrender. The worthy governor seized his arms
and dealt some blows, but was quickly disarmed, and
Pontcfract was again a castle of the kmg.
So ended the first act in this drama. There was
a second act to be jjlayed, in which Cromwell was to
take a hand. The garrison was quickly reinforced
by royalists from the surrounding counties ; the
castle was well provisioned and its fortifications
strengthened ; contributions were raised fi'om neigh-
boring parts; and the marauding excursions of the
garrison soon became so annoying that an earnest
appeal was made to Cromwell, " that he would make
it the business of his army to reduce Pontefract,"
Just then Cromwell had other business for his
army. The Scots were in the field. He was march-
ing to reduce them. Pontefract must wait. He
sent, however, two or three regiments, which, with
aid from the counties, he deemed would be sufficient
for the work.
Events moved rapidly. Before the Parliamen-
tarian troops under Eainsborough i-cachcd the castle,
Cromwell had met and defeated the army of Scots,
taking, among other prisoners, Sir Marmaduke Lang-
dale, whom the Parliament threatened to make " an
example of their justice,"
The men of Pontefract looked on Sir Marmaduke
as their leader, Painsborough was approaching the
castle, but was still at some distance. It was deemed
a worthy enterprise to take him prisoner, if possible.
252 HISTORICAL TALES.
and hold him as hostage for Sir JVIarmaduke. Mor-
rice took on himself this diflEicuit and dangerous
enterprise.
At nightfall, with a party of twelve picked and
choice men, he left the castle and made his way
towards the town which Eaiusborough then occu-
pied. The whole party knew the roads well, and
about daybreak reached the point for which they
had aimed, — the common road leading from York.
The movement had been shrewdly planned. The
guards looked for no enemy from this direction, and
carelessly asked the party of strange horsemen
*' whence they came."
The answer was given with studied ease and care-
lessness.
" Where is your general ?" asked Morrice. " 1
have a letter for him from Cromwell."
The guard sent one of their number with the party
to show them where Eaiusborough might be found,
— at the best inn of the town. "When the inn-gate
was opened in response to their demand, three only
of the party entered. The others rode onward to
the bridge at the opposite end of the town, on the
road leading to Pontefract. Here they found a guard
of horse and foot, with whom they entered into
easy conversation.
" We are waiting for our officer," they said. " He
went in to speak to the general. Is there anything
convenient to drink ? We have had a dry ride."
The guards sent for some drink, and, it being now
broad day, gave over their vigilance, some of the
horse-soldiers alighting, while the footmen sought
THE TAKING OP PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 253
their court of guard, fancying that their hour of
duty was passed.
Meanwhile, tragical work was going on at the inn.
Nobody had been awake there but the man who
opened the gate. They asked him where the geii-
eral lay. He pointed up to the chamber-door, and
two of them ascended the stairs, leaving the third
to hold the horses and in conversation with the sol-
dier who had acted as their guide.
Eainsborough was still in bed, but awakened on
their entrance and asked them who they were and
what they wanted.
" It is yourself we want," they replied. " You are
our prisoner. It is for you to choose whether you
prefer to be killed, or quietly to put on your clothes,
mount a horse which is ready below for you, and go
with us to Pontefract."
He looked at them in surprise. They evidently
meant what they said ; their voices were firm, their
arms ready; he rose and dressed quickly. This com-
pleted, they led him down-stairs, one of them carry-
ing his sword.
When they reached the street only one man waa
to be seen. The soldier of the guard had been sent
away to order them some breakfast. The prisoner,
seeing one man only where he had looked for a troop,
Btruggled to escape and called loudly for help.
It was evident that ho could not be carried off;
the moment was critical ; a few minutes might bring
a force that it would be madness to resist ; but they
had not come thus far and taken this risk for nothing.
He would not go; they had no time to force him;
22
254 HISTORICAL TALES.
only one thing remained : they ran him through
with their swords and left him dead upon the ground
Then, mounting, they rode in haste for the bridge.
Those there knew what they were to do. The
ajtproach of their comrades was the signal for action.
They immediately drew their weapons and attacked
those with whcm they had been in pleasant con-
versation. In a brief time several of the guard
were killed and the others in full flight. The road
was clear. The others came up. A minute more
and they were away, in full flight, upon the shortest
route to Pontefract, leaving the soldiers of the town
in consternation, for the general was soon found
dead, with no one to say how he had been killed.
Not a soul had seen the tragic deed. In due time
Morrice and his men reached Pontefract, without
harm to horse or man, but lacking the hoped-for
prisoner, and having left death and vengeance be-
hind them.
So far all had gone well with the garrison. Hence-
forth all promised to go ill. Pontefract was the one
place in England that held out against Cromwell,
the last stronghold of the king. And its holders had
angered the great leader of the Ironsides by killing
one of his most valued ofiicers. Ptetribution was
demanded. General Lambert was sent with a strong
force to reduce the castle.
The works were strong, and not easily to be taken
by assault. They might be taken by hunger. Lam-
bert soon had the castle surrounded, cooping the
garrison closely within its own precincts.
Against this they protested, — in the martial man-
THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 255
ner. Many bold sallies were made, in which num-
bers on both sides lost their lives. Lambert soon
discovered that certain persons in the country around
were in correspondence with the garrison, scndini^
them information. Of these he made short work,
according to the militi.ry ethics of that day. They
were seized and hanged within sight of the castle;
among them being two divines and some women of
note, friends of the besieged. Some might call this
murder. They called it war, — a salutary exam})le.
Finding themselves closely confined within their
walls, their friends outside hanged, no hoj^e of relief,
starvation their ultimate fate, the garrison concluded
at length that it was about time to treat for terms
of peace. All England besides was in the hands of
Cromwell and the Parliament ; there was nothing to
oe gained by this one fortress holding out, unless it
were the gallows. They therefore offered to deliver
up the castle, if they might have honorable con-
ditions. If not, they said, —
" We are still well stocked with provisions, and can
hold out for a long time. If we are assured of par-
don we will yield ; if not, we are ready to die, and
will not sell our lives for less than a good price."
'•I know 3^ou for gallant men," replied Lambert,
"and am read}' to grant life and liberty to as many
of you as I can. But there are six among j^ou whoso
lives I cannot save. I am sorry for this, for they
are brave men ; but mj'- hands are bound."
*' "Who are the six ? And what have they done that
they should be beyond mercy?"
" They were concerned in the death of Eaias-
256 HISTORICAL TALES.
borough. I do not desire their death, but Cromwell
is incensed against them."
lie named the six. They were Colonel Morrice,
Sir John Digbj', and four others who had been in the
party of twelve.
" These must be delivered up without conditions,"
he continued. "The rest of you may return to your
homes, and apply to the Parhament for I'elease from
all prosecution. In this I will lend you my aid."
The leaders of the garrison debated this proposal,
and after a short time returned their answer.
" We acknowledge your clemency and courtesy,"
they said, "and would be glud to accept your terms
did they not involve a base desertion of some of our
fellows. We cannot do as you say, but will make
this offer. Give us six days, and let these six men
do what they can to dehver themselves, we to have
the privilege of assisting them. This much we ask
for our honor."
" Do you agree to surrender the castle and all
within it at the end of that time?" asked Lambert.
" We pledge ourselves to that."
" Then I accept your proposal. Six days' grace
shall bo allowed you."
Just what they proposed to do for the release of
their proecribed companions did not appear. The
castle was closely and strongly invested, and these
men were neither rats nor birds. IIow did they hope
to escape ?
The first day of the six passed and nothing was
done. A sti'ong party of the garrison had made its
appearance two or three times, as if resolved upon a
THE TAKING OV PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 257
Bally; but each time they retired, apparently not
liking the outlook. On the second day they were
bolder. They suddenly appeared at a different point
from that threatened the day before, and attacked
the besiegers with such spirit as to drive them from
their posts, both sides losing men. In the end the
sallying party was driven back, but two of the six —
Morrice being one — had broken through and made
their escape. The other four were forced to retii'e.
Two days now passed without a movement on the
part of the garrison. Four of the six men still re-
mained in the castle. The evening of the fourth
day came. The gloom of night gathered. Suddenly
a strong party from the garrison emerged from a
sally-port and rushed upon the lines of the besiegers
with such fire and energy that they were for a time
broken, and two more of the proscribed escaped.
The others were driven back.
The morning of the fifth day dawned. Four daj's
had gone, and four of the proscribed men were free.
How were the other two to gain their liberty? The
method so far pursued could scarcely be successful
again. The besiegers would be too heedfully on the
alert. Some of the garrison had lost their lives in
aiding the four to escape. It was too dangerous an
experiment to be repeated, with their lives assured
them if they remained in the castle. What was to
be done for the safety of the other two ? The matter
was thorouglily debated and a plan devised.
On the morning of the sixth day the besieged made
a great show of joy, calling from the walls that their
six friends had gone, and that they would be ready
II.— r 22*
258 HISTORICAL TALES.
to surrender the next day. This news was bonio to
Lambert, who did not believe a word of it, the escape
of the four men not having been observed. Mean-
while, the garrison proceeded to put in effect their
stratagem.
The castle was a large one, its rooms many and
Bpacious. Nor was it all in repair. Here and there
walls had fallen and not been rebuilt, and abundance
of waste stones strewed the ground in these locali-
ties. Seeking a place which was least likely to bo
visited, they walled up the two proscribed men,
building the wall in such a manner that air could
enter and that they might have some room for move-
ment. Giving them food enough to last for thirty
days, they closed the chamber, and left the two men
in their tomb-like retreat.
The sixth day came. The hour fixed arrived. The
gates were thrown open. Lambert and his men
marched in and took possession of the fortress. The
garrison was marshalled before him, and a strict
search made among them for the six men, whom he
fully expected to find. They were not there. The
castle was closely searched. They could not be
found. He was compelled to admit that the garrison
had told him the truth, and that the six had indeed
escaped.
For this Lambert did not seem in any sense sorry.
The men were brave. Their act had been one allow
able in war. He was secretly rather glad that they
had escaped, and treated the others courteously, per-
mitting them to leave the castle with their eifecta
and seek their homes, as he had promised. And
THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 259
80 ended the taking and retaking of Pontefraci
Castlo.
It was the last stronghold of the king in England,
and was not likely to be used again for that purpose.
But to prevent this, Lambert handled it in such
fashion that it was left a vast pile of ruins, unfit to
harbor a garrison. He then drew off his troops, not
having discovered the concealed men in this proceed-
ing. Ten da}s passed. Then the two flung down
their wall and emerged among the ruins. They found
the castle a place for bats, uninhabited by man, but
lost no time in seeking less suspicious quarters.
Of the six men, Morrice was afterwards taken and
executed; the others remained free. Sir John Digby
lived to become a favored member of the court of
Charles II. As for Sir Marmaduke Langdale, to
whose imprisonment Eainsborough owed his death,
he escaped from his prison in Nottingham Castle,
and made his way beyond the seas, not to loturn
until England again had a kiiig.
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL
FUGITIVE,
It was early September of 1651, the year that
tolled the knell of royalty in England. In all direc-
tions from the fatal field of Worcester panic-stricken
fugitives were flying ; in all directions blood-craving
victors were pursuing. Charles I. had lost his head
for his blind obstinacy, two years before. Charles II.,
crowned king by the Scotch, had made a gallant fight
for the throne. But Cromwell was his opponent, and
Cromwell carried victory on his banners. The young
king had invaded England, reached "Worcester, and
there felt the heavy hand of the Protector and his Iron-
sides. A fierce day's struggle, a defeat, a flight, and
kingship in England was at an end while Cromwell
lived ; the last scion of royalty was a flying fugitive.
At six o'clock in the evening of that fatal day,
Charles, the boy-king, discrowned by battle, was
flying through St. Martin's Gate from a city whose
streets were filled with the bleeding bodies of his late
supporters. Just outside the town he tried to rally
his men ; but in vain, no fight was left in their scared
hearts. Nothing remained but flight at panic speed,
for the bloodhounds of war were on his track, and
if caught by those stern Parliamentarians he mi^ht
260
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 261
be given the short shriving of his beheaded father.
Away wont the despairing prince with a few fol-
lowers, riding for life, flinging from liim as he rode
his blue ribbon and garter and all his princely orna-
ments, lest pursuers should know him by these
insignia of royalty. On for twelve hours Charles and
his companions galloped at racing speed, onward
through the whole night following that day of blood
and woe ; and at break of day on September 4 they
reached Whiteladies, a friendly house of refuge in
Severn's fertile valley.
The story of the after-adventures of the fugitive
prince is so replete with hair-breadth escapes, dis-
guises, refreshing instances of fidelity, and startling
incidents, as to render it one of the most romantic
talcs to be found in English histor3^ A thousand
pounds were set upon his head, j^et none, peasant or
peer, proved false to him. lie was sheltered alike
in cottage and hall ; more than a score of people
knew of his route, yet not a word of betrayal was
spoken, not a thought of betrayal was entertained;
and the agents of the Protector vainly scoured the
country in all directions for the princely fugitive,
who found himself surrounded b}^ a loyalty worthy
a better man, and was at last enabled to leave the
country in Cromwell's despite.
Let us follow the fugitive prince in his flight.
Reaching Whitoladies, he found a loyal friend in its
proprietor. No sooner was it known in the mansion
that the field of Worcester had been lost, and that
the flying prince had sought shelter within its walla,
than all was haste and excitement.
2G2 HISTORICAL TALES.
" You must not remain here," declared Mr, Gifford,
one of his companions. "The house is too open.
The pursuers will be here within the hour. Measures
for your safety must be taken at once."
"The first of which is disguise," said Charles.
His long hair was immediately cut off, his face ana
bands stained a dark hue, and the coarse and thread-
bare clothing of a peasant ])rovided to take the place
of his rich attire. Thus dressed and disguised, the
royal fugitive looked like anything but a king.
" But your features will betray j'ou," said the
cautious Gifford. " Many of these men know your
face. You must seek a safer place of refuge."
Hurried movements followed. The few friends
who had accompanied Charles took to the road again,
knowing that their presence would endanger him,
and hoping that their flight might lead the blood-
hounds of pursuit astray. They gone, the loj-al
master of Whiteladies sent for certain of his em-
ployees whom he could trust. These were six
brothers named Penderell, laborers and woodmen
in his service, Catholics, and devoted to the royal
family.
" This is the king," he said to William Penderell ;
" you must have a care of him, and preserve him as
you did me."
Thick woodland adjoined the mansion of "White-
ladies. -Into this the youthful prince was led by
Eichard Penderell, one of the brothers. It was now
broad day. Through the forest went the two seeming
peasants, to its farther side, where a broad highway
ran past. Here, peering through the bushes, they
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 263
saw a troop of horse ride b}', evidently not old
Boidicrs, more like the militia who made up part of
Cromwell's army.
These countrified warriors looked around them.
Should they enter the woods? Some of the Scottish
rogues, mayhap Charles Stuart, their royal leader,
himself, might bo there in hiding. But it had begun
to rain, and by good fortune the shower poured down
in torrents upon the woodland, while little rain fell
upon the heath beyond. To the countrymen, who
had but begun to learn the trade of soldiers, the
certainty of a dry skin was better that the forlorn
chance of a flying prince. They rode rapidly on to
escape a drenching, much to the relief of the Im-king
observers.
"The rogues are hunting me close," said the
prince, "and by our Lady, this waterfall isn't of
the plcasantest. Let us get back into the thick of
the woods."
Penderell led the vray to a dense glade, where ho
spread a blanket which he had brought with him
under one of the most thick-leaved trees, to protect
the prince from the soaked ground. Hither his sis-
ter, Mrs. Yates, brought a supplj- of food, consisting
of bread, butter, eggs, and milk. Charles looked at
her with grateful eyes.
" My good woman," he said, "can you bo faithful
to a distressed cavalier?"
"I will die sooner than betray you," was her
devoted answer.
Charles ate his rustic meal with a more hopeful
heart than ho had had since leaving Worcester's field.
264 HISTORICAL TALES.
The loyal devotion of these humble friends cheered
him up greatly.
As night came on the rain ceased. No sooner had
darkness settled upon the wood than the prince and
his guide started towards the Severn, it being his
purpose to make his way, if possible, into Wales, in
some of whose ports a vessel might be found to take
him abroad. Their route took them past a mill. It
was quite dark, yet they could make out the miller
by his white clothes, as he sat at the mill-door. The
flour-sprinkled fellow heard their footsteps in the
darkness, and called out, —
" "Who goes there ?"
"Neighbors going home," answered Eichard Pen-
derell.
" If you be neighbors, stand, or I will knock you
down," cried the suspicious miller, reaching behind
the door for his cudgel.
" Follow me," said Penderell, quietly, to the prince.
" I fancy master miller is not alone."
They ran swiftly along a lane and up a hill, open-
ing a gate at the top of it. The miller followed,
yelling out, " Eogues! rogues! Come on, lads ; catch
these runaways."
He was joined by several men who came from the
mill, and a sharp chase began along a deep and dirty
Jane, Charles and his guide running until they were
tired out. They had distanced their pursuers; no
sound of footsteps could be heard behind them.
" Let us leap the hedge, and lie behind it to see if
they are still on our track," said the prince.
This they did, and lay there for half an hour, lis*
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 205
toning intently for pursuers. Then, as it seemed
evident that the miller and his men had given up
the chase, they rose and walked on.
At a village near by lived an honest gentleman
named Woolfe, who had hiding places in his house
for priests. Day was at hand, and travelling dan-
gerous. Penderell proposed to go on and ask shelter
from this person for an English gentleman who
dared not travel by day.
" Go, but look that you do not betray my name,"
said the prince,
Penderell left his royal charge in a field, sheltered
under a hedge beside a great tree, and sought Mr.
Woolfe's house, to whose questions he replied that
the person seeking shelter was a fugitive from the
battle of Worcester.
" Then I cannot harbor him," was the good man's
reply. "It is too dangerous a business. I will not
venture my neck for any man, unless it be the king
himself."
" Then you will for this man, for you have hit tte
mark ; it is the king," replied the guide, quite for-
getting the injunction given him.
" Bring him, then, in God's name," said Mr. TToolfo.
"I will risk all I have to help him."
Charles was troubled when ho heard the story of
bis loose-tongucd guide. But there was no help foi
it now. The villager must be trusted. They sought
Mr. Woolfe's house by the rear entrance, the prince
receiving a warm but anxious welcome from the loyal
old gentleman.
" I am sorry you are here, for the place is peril-
H 23
266 HISTORICAL TALES.
ous," said tlie host. " There are two companies of
militia in the village who keep a guard on the ferry,
to stop any one from esca^^ing that way. As for
my hiding-places, they have all been discovered, and
it is not safe to put you in any of them. I can offer
you no shelter but in my barn, where you can lie
behind the corn and hay."
The prince was grateful even for this sorry shel-
ter, and spent all that day hidden in the hay, feast-
ing on some cold meat which his host had given
him. The next night he set out for Eichard Pen-
derell's house, Mr. Woolfe having told hma that it
was not safe to try the Severn, it being closely
guarded at all its fords and bridges. On their way
they came again near the mill. Not caring to be
questioned as before by the suspicious miller, they
diverged towards the river.
" Can you swim ?" asked Charles of his guide.
" Not I ; and the river is a scurvy one."
"I've a mind to tr}'- it," said the prince. "It's a
small stream at the best, and I may help you over."
They crossed some fields to the river-side, and
Charles entered the water, leaving his attendant on
the bank. He waded forward, and soon found that
the water came but little above his waist.
'' Give me your hand," he said, returning. " There's
no danger of drowning in this water,"
Leading his guide, he soon stood on the safe side
of that river the passage of which had given him
BO many anxious minutes.
Towards morning they reached the house of a Mr,
Whitgrave, a Catholic, whom the prince could trust.
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 267
Here he found in biding a Major Careless, a fugitive
officer from the defeated army, Charles revealed
himself to the major, and held a conference with
him, asking him what he had best do.
" It will be very dangerous for you to stay here ;
the hue and cry is up, and no place is safe from
searcii," said the major. " It is not you alone they
are after, but all of our side. There is a great wood
near by Boscobel house, but I would not like to ven-
ture that, either. The enemy will certainly search
there. My advice is that we climb into a great,
thick-leaved oak-tree that stands near the woods,
but in an open place, where we can see around us."
" Faith, I like your scheme, major," said Charles,
briskly. " It is thick enough to hide us, you think ?"
"Yes; it was lopped a few years ago, and has
grown out again very close and bushy. We will be
as safe there as behind a thick-set hedjre."
" So let it be, then," said the prince.
Obtaining some food from their host, — bread,
cheese, and small beer, enough for the da}', — the two
fugitives, Charles and Careless, climbed into what
has since been known as the " roj'^al oak," and re-
mained there the whole day, looking down in safety
on soldiers who were searching the wood for royal-
ist fugitives. From time to time, indeed, parties of
search passed under the very tree which bore such
royal fruit, and the prince and the major heard their
chat with no little amusement.
Charles, light-hearted by nature, and a mere boy
in years, — he had just passed twenty-one, — was rising
above the heavy sense of depjession which had
268 HISTORICAL TALES.
hitherto home him down. His native temperament
was beginning to declare itself, and he and the major,
couched like squirrels in their leafy covert, laughed
quietly to themselves at the baffled seachers, while
they ate their bread and cheese with fresh appetites.
When night had fallen they left the tree, and the
prince, parting with his late companion, sought a
neighboring house where he was promised shelter in
one of those hiding-places provided for proscribed
priests. Here he found Lord Wilraot, one of the
officers who had escaped with him from the fatal
field of Worcester, and who had left him at White-
ladies.
It is too much to tell in detail all the movements
that followed. The search for Prince Charles con-
tinued with unrelenting severity. Daily, noble and
plebeian officers of the defeated army were seized.
The country was being scoured, high and low. Fi'e-
quently the prince saw the forms or heard the voices
of those who sought him diligently. But " Will
Jones," the woodman, was not easily to be recognized
as Charles Sluart, the prince. He was dressed in
the shabbiest of weather-worn suits, his hair cut
short to his ears, his face embrowned, his head
covered with an old and greasy gray steeple hat, with
turned-up brims, his ungloved and stained hands
holding for cane a long and crooked thorn-stick.
Altogether it was a very unprincely individual who
roamed those peril-haunted shires of England.
The two fugitives— Prince Charles and Lord Wil-
mot — now turned their steps towards the seaport of
Bristol, hoping there to find means of passage to
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUQITIYE. 269
Prance, Their last place of refuge in Staffordshire
was at the house of Colonel Lane, of Bently, an
earnest royalist. Here Charles dropped his late name^
and assumed that of Will Jackson. lie threw off
his peasant's garb, put on the livery of a servant,
and set off on horseback with his seeming mistress,
Miss Jane Lane, sister of the colonel, who had sud-
denly become infected with the desire of visiting a
cousin at Abbotsleigh, near Bristol. The prince had
now become a lady's groom, but he proved an awk-
ward one, and had to be taught the duties of his
office.
" Will," said the colonel, as they were about to
start, " you must give my sister your hand to help
her to mount."
The new groom gave her the wrong hand. Old
Mrs. Lane, mother to the colonel, who saw the start-
ing, but knew not the secret, turned to her son, saying
satirically, —
" What a goodly horsemen my daughter has got
to ride before her !"
To ride before her it was, for, in the fashion of the
day, groom and mistress occupied one horse, the
groom in front, the mistress behind. Not two hours
had they ridden, before the horse cast a shoe. A
road-side village was at hand, and they stopped to
have the bare hoof shod. The seeming groom held
the horse's foot, while the smith hammered at the
nails. As they did so an amusing conversation took
place.
" What news have you ?" asked Charles.
"None worth the telling," answcrei the smith:
23*
270 HISTORICAL TALES.
*' nothing has happened since the boating of thosa
rogues, the Scots."
" Have any of the English, that joined hands with
the Scots, been taken ?" asked Charles.
" Some of thera, they tell me," answered the smith,
hammering sturdily at the shoe ; " but I do not hear
that that rogue, Charles Stuart, has been taken j^et."
"Faith," answered the prince, "if he should bo
taken, he deserves hanging more than all the rest,
for bringing the Scots upon English soil."
" You speak well, gossip, and like an honest man,"
rejoined the smith, heartily. " And there's your shoe,
fit for a week's travel on hard roads."
And so they parted, the king merrily telling his
mistress the joke, when safely out of reach of the
smith's ears.
There is another amusing story told of this journey.
Stopping at a house near Stratford-upon-Avon, " Will
Jackson" was sent to the kitchen, as the groom's
place. Here he found a buxom cook-maid, engaged
in preparing supper.
" Wind up the jack for me," said the maid to her
supposed fellow-servant.
Charles, nothing loath, proceeded to do so. But
he knew much less about handling a jack than a
sword, and awkwardly wound it up the wrong way.
The cook looked at him scornfully, and broke out in
angry tones, —
" What countrymen are you, that you know not
how to wind up a jack ?"
Charles answered her contritely, repressing the
merry twinkle in his eye.
THE ADVENTURES OP A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 271
" I am a poor tenant's son of Colonel Lane, in
StaiFordshire," ho said ; " we seldom have roast meat,
and when we have, we don't make use of a jack "
" That's not saying much for your Staffordshire
cooks, and less for your larders," replied the maid,
with a head-toss of superiority.
The house where this took place still stands, with
the old jack hanging beside the fireplace ; and those
who have seen it of late years do not wonder that
Charles was puzzled how to wind it up. It might
puzzle a wiser man.
There is another story in which the prince played
his part as a kitchen servant. It is said that the
soldiers got so close upon his track that they sought
the house in which he was, not leaving a room in it
uuvisited. Finally they made their way to the
kitchen, where was the man they sought, with a
servant-maid who knew him. Charles looked around
in nervous fear, llis pursuers had never been so
n<;ar him. Doubtless, for the moment, he gave up
the game as lost. But the loyal cook was mistress
of the situation. She struck her seeming fellow-
servant a smart rap with the basting- ladle, and called
out, shrewishly, —
" Now, then, go on with thy work ; what art thou
looking about for ?"
The soldiers laughed as Charles sprang up with a
sheepish aspect, and they turned away without a
thought that in this servant lad lay hidden the prince
they sought.
On September 13, ten days after the battle. Miss
Lane and her groom reached Abbotsleigh, where
272 HISTORICAL TALES.
they took refuge at the house of Mr. ISTorton, Colonel
Lane's cousin. To the great regret of the fugitive,
he learned here that there was no vessel in the port
of Bristol that would serve his purpose of flight.
He remained in the house for four days, under his
guise of a servant, but was given a chamber of his
own, on pretence of indisposition. He was just well
of an ague, said his mistress. He was, indeed, some-
what worn out with fatigue and anxiety, though of
a disposition that would not long let him endure
hunger or loneliness.
In fact, on the very morning after his arrival he
made an early toilette, and went to the buttery-hatch
for his breakfast. Here were several servants. Pope,
the butler, among them. Bread and butter seems to
have been the staple of the morning meal, though
the butler made it more palatable by a liberal addi-
tion of ale and sack. As they ate they were enter-
tained by a minute account of the battle of Worcester,
given by a country fellow who sat beside Charles at
table, and whom he concluded, from the accuracy of
his description, to have been one of Cromwell's
soldiers.
Charles asked him how he came to know so well
what took place, and was told in reply that he had
been in the king's regiment. On being questioned
more closely, it proved that he had really been in
Charles's own regiment of guards.
"What kind of man was he you call the king?"
asked Charles, with an assumed air of curiosity.
The fellow replied with an accurate description of
the dress worn by the prince during the battle, and
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 273
of the horse he rode. lie looked at Charles on con.
eluding.
" lie was at least three fingers taller than you," he
said.
The buttery was growing too hot for Will Jackson.
What if, in another look, this fellow should get a
nearer glimpse at the truth ? The disguised prince
made a hasty excuse for leaving the place, being, as
he says, " more afraid when I knew he was one of
our own soldiers, than when I took him for one of
the enemy's."
This alarm was soon followed by a greater one.
One of his companions came to him in a state of
intense affright.
" What shall we do ? " he cried. " I am afraid
Pope, the butler, knows you. He has said very
positively to me that it is j'ou, but I have denied
it."
" We are in a dangerous strait, indeed, " said Charles.
" There is nothing for it, as I see, but to trust the
man with our secret. Boldness, in cases like this,
is better than distrust. Send Pope to me."
The butler was accordingly sent, and Charles, with
a flattering show of candor, told him who he was,
and requested his silence and aid. lie had taUen
the right course, as it proved. Pope was of loyal
blood. He could not have found a more intelli-
gent and devoted adherent than the butler showed
himself during the remainder of his stay in that
house.
But the attentions shown the prince were compro-
mising, in consideration of his disguise as a groom ;
274 HISTORICAL TALES.
suspicions were likely to be aroused, and it was felt
necessary that lie should seek a new asylum. One
was found at Trent House, in the same county, the
residence of a fervent royalist named Colonel Wind-
ham, Charles remained here, and in this vicinity,
till the 6th of October, seeking in vain the means
of escape from one of the neighboring ports. The
coast proved to be too closely watched, however ; and
in the end soldiers began to arrive in the neighbor
hood, and the rumor spread that Colonel Windham's
house was suspected. There was nothing for it but
another flight, which, this time, brought him into
Wiltshii'e, where he took refuge at Hele House, the
residence of Mr. Hj'de.
Charles himself tells an interesting story of one of
his adventures while at Trent House. He, with some
companions, had ridden to a place called Burport,
where they were to wait for Lord Wilmot, who had
gone to Lyme, four miles farther, to look after a
possible vessel. As they came near Burport they
saw that the streets were full of red-coats, Cromwell's
soldiers, there being a whole regiment in the town.
"What shall we do?" asked Colonel Windham,
greatly startled at the sight.
" Do ? why face it out impudently, go to the best
hotel in the place, and take a room there," said
Charles. "It is the only safe thing to do. And
otherwise we would miss Lord Wilmot, which would
be inconvenient to both of us."
Windham gave in, and they rode boldly forward
to the chief inn of the place. The yard was filled
with soldiers. Charles, as the groom of the party.
THE ADVENTURES OP A llOTAL FUGITIVE. 275
alighted, took the horses, and purposely led them in
a blundering way through the midst of the soldiers
to the stable. Some of the red- coats angrily cursed
him for his rudeness, but he went serenely on, as
if soldiers were no more to him than flies.
Eeaching the stable, he took the bridles from the
horses, and called to the hostler to give them soma
oats.
" Sure," said the hostler, peering at him closely,
" I know your face."
This was none too pleasant a greeting for the dis-
guised prince, but he put on a serene countenance,
and asked the man whether he had always lived at
that place.
" No," said the hostler. « I was born in Exeter,
and was hostler in an inn there near Mr. Potter's, a
great merchant of that town."
" Then you must have seen me at Mr. Potter's,"
said Charles. " I lived with him over a year."
" That is it," answered the hostler. " I remember
you a boy there. Let us go drink a pot of beer on
it."
Charles excused himself, saying that he must go
look after his master's dinner, and he lost little timo
in getting out of that town, lest some one else might
have as inconvenient and less doubtful a memory.
While the prince was flying, his foes were pur-
suing. The fact that the royal army was scattered
was not enough for the politic mind of Cromwell.
Its leader was still at large, somewhere in England ;
while he remained free all was at risk. Those tur-
bulent Scotch might be again raised. A new Dun-
276 HISTORICAL TALES.
bar or Worcester might be fought, with different
fortune. The flying Churles Stuart must be held cap-
tive within the country, and made prisoner withia
a fortress as soon as possible. In consequence, the
coast was sedulously watched to prevent his escape,
and the country widely searched, the houses of
known royalists being particularly placed under sur-
veillance ; a large reward was offered for the arrest
of the fugitive ; the party of the Parliament was
everywhere on the alert for him; only the good
faith and sound judgment of his friends kept him
from the hands of his foes.
At Hele House, the fugitive was near the Sussex
coast, and his friends hoped that a passage to France
might be secured from some of its small ports. They
succeeded at length. On October 13, in early morn-
ing, the prince, with a few loyal companions, left his
last hiding-place. They took dogs with them, as if
they were off for a hunting excursion to the downs.
That night they spent at Hambledon, in Hamp-
shire. Colonel Gunter, one of the party, led the
way to the house of his brother-in-law, though with-
out notifying him of his purpose. The master of
the house was absent, but returned while the party
were at supper, and was surprised to find a group
of hilarious guests around his table. Colonel Gunter
was among them, however, and explained that he
had taken the privilege of kinship to use his house
as his own.
The worthy squire, who loved good cheer and good
society, was nothing loath to join this lively com-
pany, though in his first surprise to find his house
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 277
invaded a round Cavalier oath broke from his lips.
To his astonishment, he was taken to task for this
by a crop-haii'cd member of the company, who re-
proved him in true Puritan phrase for his profanit3^
" Whom have you here, Gunter ?" the squire asked
his brother-in-law. "This fellow is not of your sort.
I warrant me the canting chap is some round-headed
rogue's son."
" Not a bit of it," answered the colonel. '• He is
true Cavalier, though he does wear his hair some-
what of the shortest, and likes not oaths. He's one
of us, I promise you."
" Then here's your health, brother Eoundhead !"
exclaimed the host, heartily, draining a brimming
glass of ale to his unknown guest.
The prince, before the feast was over, grew gay
enough to prove that he was no Puritan, though he
retained sufficient caution in his cups not further to
arouse his worthy host's suspicions. The next day
they reached a small fishing-village, then known as
Brighthelmstone, now grown into the great town of
Brighton. Here lay the vessel which had been en-
gaged. The master of the craft, Anthony Tattersall
by name, with the merchant who had engaged his
vessel, sujjped with the party at the village inn. It
was a jovial meal. The prince, glad at the near
approach of safety, allowed himself some freedom
of speech. Captain Tattersall watched him closely
throughout the meal. After supper he drew hip
merchant friend aside, and said to him, —
" You have not dealt fairly with me in this busi-
ness. Tou have paid me a good price to carry over
24
2*/8 HISTORICAL TALES.
that gentleman ; I do not complain of that ; but vou
should have been more open. He is the king, as I
very well know,"
"You are very much mistaken, captain," protested
the merchant, nervously. " What has put such non-
sense into your pate ?"
" I am not mistaken," persisted the captain. " lie
took my ship in '48, with other fishing craft of this
port, when he commanded his father's fleet. I know
his face too well to be deceived. But don't be
troubled at that; I think I do my God and my
country good service in preserving the king; and
by the grace of God, I will venture my life and all
for him, and set him safely on shore, if I can, in
France."
Happily for Charles, he had found a friend instead
of a foe in this critical moment of his adventure.
He found another, for the mariner was not the only
one who knew his face. As he stood by the fire,
with bis palm resting on the back of a chair, the
inn-keeper came suddenly up and kissed his hand.
*'God bless 3'ou wheresoever you go!" he said,
fervently. " I do not doubt, before I die, to be a
lord, and my wife a lady."
Charles burst into a hearty laugh at this ambi-
tious remark of his host. He bad been twice dis-
covered within the hour, after a month and a half
of impunity. Yet he felt that he could put fuU
trust in these worthy men, and slept soundly that
last night on English soil.
At five o'clock of the next morning, he, with Lord
Wilmot, his constant companion, went on board the
THfi ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 279
little sixty-ton craft, which lay in Shorcham harbor
waiting the tide to put to sea. By daybreak they
were on the waves. The prince was resting in the
cabin, when in came Captain Tattersall, kissed his
hand, professed devotion to his interests, and sug-
gested a course for him to pursue.
His crew, he said, had been shipped for the Eng-
lish port of Poole. To head for France might cause
suspicion, lie advised Charles to represent himself
as a merchant who was in debt and afraid of arrest
in England, and who wished to reach France to col-
lect money due him at Eouen. If he would tell this
story to the sailors, and gain their good-will, it might
save future trouble.
Charles entered frcelj' into this conspiracy, went
on deck, talked affably with the crew, told them the
Btory concocted by the captain, and soon had them
BO fully on his side, that they joined him in begging
the captain to change his course and land his pas-
sengers in France. Captain Tattersall demurred
somewhat at this, but soon let himself be convinced,
and headed his ship for the Gallic coast.
The wind was fair, the weather fine. Land was
sighted before noon of the 16th. At one o'clock
the prince and Lord Wilmot were landed at Fecamp,
a small French port. They had distanced the blood-
hounds of the Parliament, and were safe on foreign
soil.
CROMWELL AND THE PARLIA^
MENT.
The Parliament of England had defeated and put
an end to the king ; it remained for Cromwell to
put an end to the Parliament. " The Eump," the
remnant of the old Parliament was derisively called.
AVhat was left of that great body contained little of
its honesty and integrity, much of its pride and in-
competency. The members remaining had become
infected with the wild notion that they were the
governing power in England, and instead of pre-
paring to disband themselves they introduced a bill
for the disbanding of the army. They had not
yet learned of what stuff Oliver Cromwell was
made.
A bill had been passed, it is true, for the dissolu-
tion of the Parliament, but in the discussion of how
the "New Eepresentative" was to be chosen it be-
came plainly evident that the members of the Eump
intended to form part of it, without the formality ol
re-election. A struggle for power seemed likely to
arise between the Parliament and the army. It
could have but one ending, with a man like Oliver
Cromwell at the head of the latter. The officers
demanded that Parliament should immediately dis-
280
OLIVER CROMWELL.
CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT. 281
eolve. The members resolutely refused. Cromwell
growled his comments.
"As for the members of this Parliament," he said,
" the army begins to take them in disgust."
There was ground for it, he continued, in their
Belfish greed, their interference with law and justice,
the scandalous lives of many of the members, and,
above all, their plain intention to keep themselves in
power.
"There is little to hope for from such men for a
settlement of the nation," he concluded.
The war with Holland precipitated the result.
This war acted as a barometer for the Parliament.
It was a naval combat. In the first meeting of the
two fleets the Dutch were defeated, and the mercury
of Parliamentarian pride rose. In the next combat
Van Tromp, the veteran Dutch admiral, drove Blake
with a shattered fleet into the Thames. Van Tromp
swept the Channel in triumph, Avith a broom at his
masthead. The hopes of the members went down to
zero. They agreed to disband in November. Crom-
well promised to reduce the army. But Blake put
to sea again, fought Van Tromp in a four days' run-
ning fight, and won the honors of the combat. Up
again went the mercury of Parliamentary hope and
pride. The members determined to continue in
power, and not only claimed the right to remain
members of the new Parliament, but even to revise
the returns of the elected members, and decide for
themselves if they would have them as fellows.
Tlio issue was now sharply drawn between army
and Parliament. The officers me< \nd demanded that
2i*
282 HISTORICAL TALES.
Parliament should at once dissolve, and let the
Council of State manage the new elections. A con-
ference was held between officers and members, at
Cromwell's house, on April 19, 1653. It ended in
nothing. The members were resolute.
" Our charge," said Haslerig, arrogantly, " cannot
be transferred to any one."
The conference adjourned till the next morning,
Sir Harry Yane engaging that no action should be
taken till it met again. Yet when it met the next
morning the leading members of Parliament were
absent, Yane among them. Their absence was sus-
picious. Were they pushing the bill through the
House in defiance of the army ?
Cromwell was present, — " in plain black clothes,
and gray worsted stockings," — a plain man, but one
not safe to trifle with. The officers waited a while for
the members. They did not come. Instead there
came word that they were in their seats in the House,
busily debating the bill that was to make them rulers
of the nation without consent of the people, hurrying
it rapidly through its several stages. If left alone
they would soon make it a law.
Then the man who had hurled Charles I. from hia
throne lost his patience. This, in his opinion, had
gone far enough. Since it had come to a question
whether a self-elected Parliament, or the army to
which England owed her freedom, should hold the
balance of power, Cromwell was not likely to hesi-
tate.
" It is contrary to common honesty 1" he broke out^
angrily.
CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT. 283
Leaving Wlaitchall, he set out for the House of
Parliament, bidding a company of musketeers to fol-
low him. He entered quietly, leaving his soldiers
outside. The House now contained no more than
fifty-three members. Sir Harry Vane was addressing
this fragment of a Parliament with a passionate
harangue in favor of the bill. Cromwell sat for
some time in silence, Ustening to his speech, his only
words being to his neighbor, St. John.
" I am come to do what grieves me to the heart,"
be said.
Yane pressed tne House to waive its usual forms
and pass the bill at once.
" The time has come," said Cromwell to Harrison,
whom he had beckoned over to him.
" Think well," answered Harrison ; " it is a danger-
ous work."
The man of fate subsided into silence again. A
quarter of an hour more passed. Then the question
was put " that this bill do now pass."
Cromwell rose, took off his hat, and spoke. His
words were strong. Beginning with commendation
of the Parliament for what it had done for the pub-
lic good, he went on to charge the present members
with acts of injustice, delays of justice, self-interest,
and similar faults, his tone rising higher as he spoke
until it had grown very hot and indignant.
"Your hour is come; the Lord hath done with
you," he added.
" It is a strange language, this," cried one of the
members, springing up hastily ; " unusual this within
the walls of Parliament. And from a trusted servant
284 HISTORICAL TALES.
too ; and one whom we have so highly honored ;
and one "
" Come, come," cried Cromwell, in the tone in which
he would have commanded his armj' to charge, " we
have had enough of this." He strode furiously into
the middle of the chamber, clapped on his hat, and
exclaimed, " I will put an end to your prating."
He continued speaking hotly and rapidly, " stamp-
ing the floor with his feet" in his rage, the words
rolling from him in a fury. Of these words we only
know those with which he ended.
" It is not fit that you should sit here any longer !
You should give place to better men ! You are no
Parliament !" came from him in harsh and broken
exclamations. " Call them in," he said, briefly, tc
Harrison.
At the word of command a troop of some thirty
musketeers marched into the chamber. Grim follows
they were, dogs of war, — the men of the Eump
could not face this argument ; it was force arrayed
against law, — or what called itself law, — wrong
against wrong, for neither army nor Parliament truly
represented the people, though just then the army
seemed its most rightful representative.
" I say you are no Parliament !" roared the lord-
general, hot with anger, " Some of jou are drunk-
ards." His eye fell on a bottle-loving member.
" Some of you are lewd livers ; living in open con-
tempt of God's commandments." His hot gaze
flashed on Henry Marten and Sir Peter Wentworth.
" Following your own greedy appetites and the devil's
commandments ; corrupt, unjust persons, scandalous
CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT. 285
to the profession of the gospel : how can you he a
Parliament for God's people? Depart, I say, and
let us have done with you. In the name of God —
gol"
These words were like bomb-shells exploded in the
chamber of Parliament. Such a scene had never
before and has never since been seen in the House of
Commons. The members were all on their feet, some
white with terror, some red with indignation. Vane
fearlessly faced the ii'ate general.
" Your action," he said, hotly, " is against all right
and all honor."
" Ah, Sir Harry Vane, Sir Harry Vane," retorted
Cromwell, bitterly, "you might have prevented all
this ; but you are a juggler, and have no common
honesty. The Lord deliver me from Sir Harry
Vane !"
The retort was a just one. Vane had attempted
to usurp the government. Cromwell turned to the
speaker, who obstinately clung to his seat, declaring
that he would not yield it except to force.
" Fetch him down !" roared the general.
" Sir, I will lend you a hand," said Harrison.
Speaker Lenthall left the chair. One man could
not resist an army. Thrc ugh the door glided, silent
as ghosts, the members of Parliament.
" It is you that have forced me to this," said
Cromwell, with a shade of regret in his voice. " I
have soui^ht the Lord night and day, that He would
rather slay mo than put upon me the doing of this
work."
He had, doubtless ; he was a man of deep piety and
286 HISTORICAL TALES.
intense bigotry; but the Lord's answei, it is to be
feared, came out of the depths of his own conscious-
ness. Men like Cromwell call upon God, but answer
for Him themselves.
" What shall be done with this bauble ?" said the
general, lifting the sacred mace, the sign-manual of
government by the representatives of the people.
" Take it away !" he finished, handing it to a mus-
keteer.
His flashing eyes followed the retiring members
until they all had left the House. Then the mus-
keteers filed out, followed by Cromwell and Harrison.
The door was locked, and the key and mace carried
away by Colonel Otley.
A few hours afterwards the Council of State, the
executive committee of Parliament, was similarly
dissolved by the lord-general, who, in person, bade its
members to depart.
" "We have heard," cried John Bradshaw, one of
its members, " what you have done this morning at
the House, and in some hours all England will hear
it. But you mistake, sir, if you think the Parlia-
ment dissolved. No power on earth can dissolve the
Parliament but itself, be sure of that."
The people did hear it, — and sustained Cromwell
in his action. Of the two sets of usurpers, the army
and a non -representative Parliament, they preferred
the former.
" We did not hear a dog bark at their going," said
Cromwell, afterwards.
It was not the first time in history that the army
had overturned representative government. In this
CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT. 287
case it was not done with the design of establishing
a despotism. Cromwell was honest in his purpose of
reforming the administration, and establishing a Par-
liamentary government. Eut he had to do with in-
tractable elements. He called a constituent conven-
tion, giving to it the duty of paving the way to a
constitutional Parliament. Instead of this, the con-
vention began the work of reforming the constitu-
tion, and proposed such radical changes that tbo
lord-general grew alarmed. Doubtless his musketeers
would have dealt with the convention as they had
done with the Rump Parliament, had it not fallen to
pieces through it own dissensions. It handed back
to Cromwell the power it had received from him.
He became the lord protector of the realm. The
revolutionary government had drifted, despite itself,
into a despotism. A despotism it was to remain
while Cromwell lived.
THE RELIEF OF LONDON-
DERRY,
Frightful was the state of Londonderry. " Ko
surrender" was the ultimatum of its inhabitants,
"blockade and starvation" the threat of the be-
siegers ; the town was surrounded, the river closed,
relief seemed hopeless, life, should the furious be-
siegers break in, equally hopeless. Far oflf, in the
harbor of Lough Foyle, could be seen the English
ships. Thirty vessels lay there, laden with men and
provisions, but they were able to come no nearer.
The inhabitants could see them, but the sight only
aggravated their misery. Plenty so near at hand I
Death and destitution in their midst! Frightful,
Indeed, was their extremity.
The Foyle, the river leading to the town, was
fringed with hostile forts and batteries, and its chan-
nel barricaded. Several boats laden with stone had
been sunk in the channel. A row of stakes was
driven into the bottom of the stream. A boom was
formed of trunks of fir-trees, strongly bound together,
and fastened by great cables to the shore. Eelief
from the fleet, with the river thus closed against it,
seemed impossible. Yet scarcely two diys' supplies
288
THE RELIEF OP LONDONDERRY, 289
were left in tho town, and without hasty relief star-
vation or massacre seemed the only alternatives.
Let us relate the occasion of this siege. James
II. had been driven from England, and William of
Orange was on the throne. In his eflbrt to recover
his kingdom, James sought Ireland, where the Cath-
olic peasantry were on his side. II is appearance was
the signal for fifty thousand peasants to rise in arms,
and for the Protestants to fly from threatened mas-
sacre. They knew their fate should they fall into
the hands of the half-savage peasants, mad with
years of misrule.
In the north, seven thousand English fugitives
fled to Londondei-ry, and took shelter behind the
weak wall, manned by a few old guns, and without
even a ditch for defence, which formed the only
barrier between them and their foes. Around this
town gathered twenty-five thousand besiegers, con-
fident of quick success. But the weakness of the
battlements was compensated for by the stoutness
of the hearts within. So fierce were the sallies of
the desperate seven thousand, so severe the loss of
the besiegers in their assaults, that the attempt to
carry the place by storm was given up, and a block-
ade substituted. From April till tne end of July
this continued, the condition of the besieged daily
growing worse, the food-supply daily growing less.
Such was the state of affairs at the date with which
we are specially concerned.
Inside the town, at that date, the destitution had
grown heart-rending. The fire of the enemy was
kept up more briskly than ever, but famine and dis-
II.— N t 2fi
290 HISTORICAL TALES.
ease killed more than cannon-balls. The soldiers of
the garrison were so weak from privation that they
could scarcely stand ; yet they repelled every attack,
and repaired every breach in the walls as fast as
made. The damage done by day was made good at
night. For the garrison there remained a small
supply of grain, which was given out by mouthfuls,
and there was besides a considerable store of salted
hides, which they gnawed for lack of better food.
The stock of animals had been reduced to nine
horses, and these so lean and gaunt that it seemed
useless to kill them for food.
The townsmen were obliged to feed on dogs and
rats, an occasional small fish caught in the river,
and similar sparse supplies. They died by hundreds.
Disease aided stai-vation in carrying them off. The
living were too few and too weak to bury the dead.
Bodies were left unburied, and a deadly and revolt-
ing stench filled the air. That there was secret dis-
content and plottings for surrender may well be
believed. But no such feeling dared display itself
openly. Stubborn resolution and vigorous defiance
continued the public tone. " Ko surrender" was the
general cry, even in that extremity of distress. And
to this voices added, in tones of deep significance,
" First the horses and hides ; then the prisoners ;
and then each other."
Such was the state of affairs on July 28, 1689.
Two days' very sparse rations alone remained for
the garrison. At the end of that time all must end.
Yet still in the distance could be seen the masts of
the dhips, holding out an unfulfilled promise of relief;
THE RELIEF ()P LONDONDERRY. 291
Btill hope was not quite dead in the hearts of the
besieged. Efforts had been made to send word to
the town from the fleet. One swimmer who at-
tempted to pass the boom was drowned. Another
was caught and hanged. On the 13th of July a
letter from the fleet, sewed up in a cloth button,
reached the commander of the garrison. It was
from Kirke, the general in command of the party
of relief, and promised speedy aid. But a fortnight
and more had passed since then, and still the fleet
lay inactive in Lough Foyle, nine miles away, visible
from the summit of the Cathedral, yet now tending
rather to aggravate the despair than to sustain the
hopes of the besieged.
The sunset hour of July 28 was reached. Ser-
vices had been held that afternoon in the Cathedral,
— services in which doubtless the help of God was
despairingly invoked, since that of man seemed in
vain. The heart-sick people left the doors, and
were about to disperse to their foodless homes, when
a loud cry of hope and gladness came from the look-
out in the tower above their heads.
"They are coming!" was the stirring cry. '-The
ships are coming up the river ! I can see their sails
plainly ! Relief is coming !"
How bounded the hearts of those that heard this
gladsome cry! The listeners dispersed, carrying
the glad news to every corner of the town. Others
came in hot haste, eager to hear further reports
from the lookout tower. The town, lately so c^uict
and depressed, was suddenly filled with activity.
Hope swelled every heart, new life ran in every vein;
292 HISTORICAL TALES.
the news was like a draught of wine that gave fresh
spirit to the most despairing soul.
And now other tidings came. There was a busy
stir in the camp of the besiegers. They were crowd-
ing to the river-banks. As far as the eye could see,
the stream was lined. The daring ships had a gaunt-
let of fire to run. Their attempt seemed hopeless,
indeed. The river was low. The channel which
they would have to follow ran near the left bank,
where numerous batteries had been planted. They
surely would never succeed. Yet still they came,
and still the lookout heralded their movements to
the excited multitude below.
The leading ship was the Mountjoy, a merchant-
vessel laden heavily with provisions. Its captain
was Micaiah Browning, a native of Londonderry.
Ho had long advised such an attempt, but the general
in command had delayed until positive orders came
from England that something must be done.
On hearing of this, Browning immediately volun-
teered. He was eager to succor his fellow-townsmen.
Andrew Douglas, captain of the Phoenix, a vessel
laden with meal from Scotland, was willing and anx-
ious to join in the enterprise. As an escort to these
two merchantmen came the Dartmouth, a thirty-six-
gun frigate, its commander John Leake, afterwards
an admii'al of renown.
Up the stream they came, the Dartmouth in the
lead, returning the fire of the forts with effect,
pushing steadily onward, with the merchantmen
closely in the rear. At length the point of peril was
reached. The boom extended across the stream,
TUE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY. 293
Bcumingly closing all further passage. But that
remained to be seen. The Mountjoy took the lead,
all its sails spread, a fresh breeze distending the
canvas, and rushed head on at the boom.
A few minutes of exciting suspense followed, then
the great barricade was struck, strained to its utmost,
and, with a rending sound, gave way. So great
was the shock that the Mountjoy rebounded and
stuck in the mud. A yell of triumph came from the
Irish who crowded the banks. They rushed to their
boats, eager to board the disabled vessel; but a
broadside from the Dartmouth sent them back in
disordered flight.
In a minute more the Phoenix, which had followed
close, sailed through the breach which the Mountjoy
had made, and was past the boom. Immediately
afterwards the Mountjoy began to move in her bed
of mud. The tide was rising. In a few minutes
she was afloat and under way again, safely passing
through the barrier of broken stakes and spars.
But her brave commander was no more. A shot
from one of the batteries bad struck and killed him,
when on the very verge of gaining the highest honor
that man could attain, — that of saving his native
town from the horrors of starvation or massacre.
While this was going on, the state of feeling of
the lean and hungry multitude within the town was
indescribable. Night had fallen before the ships
reached the boom. The lookout could no longer see
and report their movements. Intense was the
suspense. Minutes that seemed hours passed by.
Then, in the distance, the flash of guns could be
25*
294 HISTORICAL TALES.
Been The sound of artillery came from afar to tho
ears of the expectant citizens. But the hope which
this excited went down when the shout of triumph
rose from the besiegers as the Mountjoy grounded.
It was taken up and repeated from rank to rank to
the very walls of the city, and the hearts of the be-
sieged sank dismally. This cry surely meant failure.
The miserable people grew livid with fear. There
was unutterable anguish in their eyes, as they gazed
with despair into each other's pallid faces.
A half-hour more passed. The suspense continued.
Yet the shouts of triumph had ceased. Did it mean
repulse or victory ? " Victory I victory I" for now
a spectral vision of sails could be seen, drawing near
the town. They grew nearer and plainer; dark
hulls showed below them; the vessels were coming!
the town was saved !
AVild was the cry of glad greeting that went up
from thousands of throats, soul-inspiring the cheers
that came, softened by distance, back from the ships.
It was ten o'clock at night. The whole population
had gathered at the quay. In came the ships.
Loud and fervent were the cheers and welcoming
cries. In a few minutes more the vessels had touched
the wharves, well fed sailors and starved townsmen
were fraternizing, and the long months of misery
and woe were forgotten in the intense joy of that
supreme moment of relief
Many hands now made short work. Wasted and
weak as were the townsmen, hope gave them strength.
A screen of casks filled with earth was rapidly built
wp to protect the landing-place from the hostile bat«
THE RELIEF OP LONDONDEBRT. 295
tones on the other side of the river. Then the un-
loading began. The eyes of the starving inhabitants
distended with joy as they saw bairel after barrel
rolled ashore, until six thousand bushels of meal lay
on the wharf. Great cheeses came next, beef-casks,
flitches of bacon, kegs of butter, sacks of peas and
biscuit, until the quay was piled deep with provi-
sions.
One may imagine with what tears of joy the sol-
diers and people ate their midnight repast that
night. Not many hours before the ration to each
man of the gari'ison had been half a pound of tallow
and three-quarters of a pound of salted hide. Now
to each was served out three pounds of flour, two
pounds of beef, and a pint of peas. There was no
sleep for the remainder of the night, either within
or without the walls. The bonfires that blazed along
the whole circuit of the walls told the joy within the
town. The incessant roar of guns told the rage
without it. Peals of bells from the church-towers
answered the Irish cannon ; shouts of triumph from
the walls silenced the cries of anger from the batter-
ies. It was a conflict of joy and rage.
Three days more the batteries continued to roar.
But on the night of July 31 flames were seen to
issue from the Irish camp ; on the morning of Au-
gust 1 a line of scorched and smoking ruins re-
placed the lately-occupied huts, and along the Foyle
went a long column of pikes and standards, mark-
ing the retreat of the besieging army.
The retreat became a rout. The men of Ennis-
killen charged the retreating arm}^ at NewtowD
296 HISTORICAL TALES.
Butler, struggling through a bog to fall on double
their number, whom they drove in a panic before
them. The panic spread through the whole army.
Horse and foot, they fled. Not until they had reached
Dublin, then occupied by King James, did the re
treat stop, and confidence return to the baffled be-
siegers of Londonderry.
Thus ended the most memorable siege in the his-
tory of the British islands. It had lasted one hun-
dred and five days. Of the seven thousand men of
the garrison but about three thousand were left.
Of the besiegers probably more had fallen than the
whole number of the garrison.
To-day Londonderry is in large measure a monu-
ment to its great siege. The wall has been carefully
preserved, the summit of the ramparts forming a
pleasant walk, the bastions being turned into pretty
little gardens. Many of the old culverins, which
threw lead-covered bricks among the Irish ranks,
have been preserved, and may still be seen among
the leaves and flowers. The cathedral is filled with
relics and trophies, and over its altar may be ob-
served the French flag-staffs, taken by the garrison in
a desperate sally, the flags they once bore long since
reduced to dust. Two anniversaries are still kept, —
that of the day on which the gates were closed, that
of the day on which the siege was raised, — salutes,
processions, banquets, addresses, sermons signalizing
these two great events in the history of a city which
passed through so frightful a baptism of war, but haa
ever since been the abode of peace.
THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR,
In the great forest of Braemar, in the Highlands
of Scotland, was gathered a large party of huntci's,
chiefs, and clansmen, all dressed in the Highland cos-
tume, and surrounded by extensive preparations for
the comfort and enjoyment of all concerned. Sel-
dom, indeed, had so many great lords been gathered
for such an occasion. On the invitation of the Earl
of Mar, within whose domain the hunt was to take
place, there had come together the Marquises of
Huntly and Tulliebardine, the Earls of Nithsdale,
Marischal, Traquair, Errol, and several others, and
numerous viscounts, lords, and chiefs of clans, many
of the most important of the nobility and clan lead-
ers of the Highlands being present.
With these great lords were hosts of clansmen, all
attired in the picturesque dress of the Highlands,
and 80 numerous that the convocation had the ap-
pearance of a small army, the sport of hunting in
those days being often practised on a scale of mag-
nificence resembling war. The red deer of the
Highlands were the principal game, and the method
of hunting usually employed could not be conducted
without the aid of a largo body of men. Around
the broad extent of wild forest land and mountain
297
29S HISTORICAL TALES.
wilderness, which formed the abiding-place of these
animals, a circuit of hunters many miles in extent
was formed. This circuit was called the tinchel.
Upon a given signal, the hunters composing the
circle began to move inwards, rousing the deer from
their lairs, and driving them before them, with such
ether animals as the forest might contain.
Onward moved the hunters, the circle steadily
growing less, and the terrified beasts becoming more
crowded together, until at length they were driven
down some narrow defile, along whose course the
lords and gentlemen had been posted, lying in wait
for the coming of the deer, and ready to show their
marksmanship by shooting such of the bucks as were
in season.
The hunt with which we are at present concerned,
however, had other purposes than the killing of
deer. The latter ostensible object concealed more
secret designs, and to these we may confine our at-
tention. It was now near the end of August, 1715.
At the beginning of that month, the Earl of Mar, in
company with General Hamilton and Colonel Hay,
had embarked at Gravesend, on the Thames, all in
disguise and under assumed names. To keep their
secret the better, they had taken passage on a coal
eloop, agreeing to work their way like common sea-
men ; and in this humble guise they continued until
Newcastle was reached, where a vessel in which they
could proceed with more comfort was engaged.
From this craft they landed at the small port of
Elie, on the coast of Fife, a country then well filled
with Jacobites, or adherents to the cause of tho
THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAB. 299
Stuart princes. Such were the mystcrioua prelim-
inary stops towards the hunting-party in the forest
of Braemar.
In truth, the hunt was Httle more than a pretence.
"While the clansmen were out forming the tinchel, tho
lords were assembled in secret convocation, in whi";!!
the Earl of Mar eloquently counselled resistance to
the rule of King George, and the taking of arms in
the cause of James Francis Edward, son of the exiled
James II., and, as he argued, the on ly true heir to the
English throne. He told them that he had been
promised abundant aid in men and money from
France, and assured them that a rising in Scotland
would be followed by a general insurrection in Eng-
land against the Hanoverian dynasty. He is said
to have shown letters from the Stuart prince, the
Chevalier de St. George, as he was called, making the
earl his lieutenant-general and commander-in-chief
of the armies of Scotland.
How many red deer were killed on this occasion
no one can say. The noble guests of Mar had other
things to think of than of singling out fat bucks.
None of them opposed the earl in his arguments, and
in the end it was agreed that all should return home,
raise what forces they could by the 3d of September,
and meet again oti that day at Abojnie, in Aberdeen-
shire, where it would be settled how they were to take
the field.
Thus ended that celebrated hunt of Braemar, which
was destined to bring tears and blood to many a
household in Scotland, through loyal devotion to a
prince who was not worth the sacrifice, and at the
300 HISTORICAL TALES.
bidding of an earl who was considered by many as
too versatile in disposition to be fully trusted. An
anecdote is given in evidence of this opinion. The
castle of Braemar was, as a result of the hunt, so
overflowing with guests, that many of the gentlemen
of secondary importance could not be accommodated
with beds, but were forced to spend the night around
the kitchen fire, — a necessity then considered no sen
OU8 matter by the hardy Scotch. But such was not
the opinion of all present. An English footman, a
domestic of the earl, came pushing among the gentle-
men, complaining bitterly at having to sit up all night,
and saying that rather than put up with much of
this he would go back to his own country and turn
Whig. As to his Toryism, however, he comforted
himself with the idea that he served a lord who was
especially skilful in escaping danger.
" Let my lord alone," he said ; " if he finds it
necessary, he can turn cat-in-pan with any man in
England."
While these doings were in progress in the High-
lands, the Jacobites were no less active in the Low-
lands, and an event took place in the metropolis of
Scotland which showed that the spirit of disaffection
had penetrated within its walls. This was an attempt
to take the castle of Edinburgh by surprise, — an ex-
ploit parallel in its risky and daring character with
those told of the Douglas and other bold lords at an
earlier period.
The design of scaling this almost inaccessible strong-
hold was made by a Mr. Arthur, who had been an
ensign in the Scots' Guards and quartered in the
THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR. 301
castle, and was, therefore, familiar with its interior
arrangement. He found means to gain over, by cash
and promises, a sergeant and two privates, who agreed
that, M^hen on duty as sentinels on the walls over the
precipice to the north, tuey would draw up rope-lad-
ders, and fasten them by grappling-irons at their top
to the battlements of the castle. This done, it would
be easy for an armed party to scale the walls and
make themselves masters of the stronghold. Arthur's
plan did not end with the mere capture of the for-
tress. He had arranged a set of signals with the
Earl of Mar, consisting of a beacon displayed at a
fixed point on the castle walls, three rounds of artil-
lery, and a succession of fires flashing the news from
hill-top to hill-top. The earl, thus apprised of the
success of the adventurers, was to hasten south with
all the force he could bring, and take possession of
Edinburgh.
The scheme was well devised, and might have suc-
ceeded but for one of those unlucky chances which
have defeated so many well-laid plans. Agents in the
enterprise could be had in abundance. Fifty High-
landers were selected, picked men from Lord Drum-
mond's estates in Perthshire. To these were added
fifty others chosen from the Jacobites of Edinbur<^h.
Drummond, otherwise known as MacGregor, of Ea
haldie, was given the command. The scheme was one
of great moment. Its success would give the Earl of
Mar a large supply of money, arms, and ammunition,
deposited in the fortress, and control of the greater
part of Scotland, while affording a ready means of
communication with the English malcontents.
26 "
302 HISTORICAL TALES.
Unluckily for the conspirators, they had inoio
courage than prudence. Eighteen of the younger
men were, on the night fixed, amusing themselves
with drinking in a public-house, and talked with such
freedom that the hostess discovered their secret.
She told a friend that the party consisted of some
young gentlemen who were having their hair pow-
dered in order to go to an attack on the castle.
Arthur, the originator of the enterprise, also made
what proved to be a dangerous revelation. He en-
gaged his brother, a doctor, in the scheme. The
brother grew so nervous and low-spirited that his
wife, seeing that something was amiss with him, gave
him no rest until he bad revealed the secret. She,
perhaps to save her husband, perhaps from Whig
proclivities, instantly sent an anonj-mous letter to
Sir Adam Cockburn, lord justice-clerk of Edinburgh,
apprising him of the plot. He at once sent the in-
telligence to the castle. His messenger reached there
at a late hour, and had much difficulty in gaining
admittance. When he did so, the deputy-governor
saw fit to doubt the improbable tidings sent him.
The only precaution he took was to direct that the
rounds and patrols should be made with great care.
With this provision for the safety of the castle, ho
went to bed, doubtless with the comfortable feeling
that he had done all that could be expected of a
reasonable man in so improbable a case.
While this was going on, the storming-party had
collected at the church-yard of the West Kirk, and
from there proceeded to the chosen place at the foot
of the castle walls. There had been a serious failure,
THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR. 303
however, in their preparations. They had with thcra
a part of the rope-ladders on which their success
depended, but he who was to have been there with
the remainder — Charles Forbes, an Edinburgh mer-
chant, who had attended to their making — was not
present, and they awaited him in vain.
Without him nothing could be done ; but, impatient
at the delay, the party made their way with difficulty
up the steep cliflf, and at length reached the foot of
the castle wall. Here they found on duty one of the
sentinels whom they had bribed ; but he warned
them to make haste, saying that he was to be relieved
at twelve o'clock, and after that hour he could give
them no aid.
The affair was growing critical. The midnight
hour was fast approaching, and Forbes was still
absent. Drummond, the leader, had the sentinel to
draw up the ladder they had with them and fasten
it to the battlements, to see if it were long enough
for their purpose. He did so ; but it proved to bo
more than a fathom short.
And now happened an event fatal to their enter-
prise. The information sent the deputy-go vernoi,
and his direction that the patrols should be alert, bad
tlie effect of having them make the rounds earlier
than usual. They came at half-past eleven instead
of at twelve. The sentinel, hearing their approach-
ing steps, had but one thing to do for his own safety.
He cried out to the party below, with an oath, —
" Hero come the rounds I have been telling you of
this half-hour ; you have ruined both yourselves and
me ; ] can serve you no longer."
304 HISTORICAL TALES.
With these words, he loosened the grappling-irons
and flung down the ladders, and, with the natural
impulse to cover his guilty knowledge of the affair,
fired his musket, with a loud cry of "Enemies!"
This alarm cry forced the storming-party to fly
wilh all speed. The patrol saw them from the wall
and fired on them as they scrambled hastily down
Ihe rocks. One of them, an old man. Captain
McLean, rolled down the cliff and was much hurt.
He was taken prisoner by a party of the burgher
guard, whom the justice-clerk had sent to patrol the
outside of the walls. They took also three young
men, who protested that they were there by accident,
and had nothing to do with the attempt. The rest
of the party escaped. In their retreat they met
Charles Forbes, coming tardily up with the ladders
which, a quarter of an hour earlier, might have made
them masters of the castle, but which were now
simply an aggravation.
It does not seem that any one was punished for
this attempt, beyond the treacherous sergeant, who
was tried, found guilty, and hanged, and the deputy-
governor, who was deprived of his oflSce and im-
prisoned for some time. No proof could be obtained
against any one else.
As for the conspirators, indeed, it is probable that
the most of them found their way to the army of
the Earl of Mar, who was soon afterwards in the
field at the head of some twelve thousand armed men,
pronouncing himself the general of His Majesty
James III., — known to history as the "Old Pre-
tender."
THE HUNTING OP BRAEMAR. 305
What followed this outbreak it is not our purpose
to describe. It will suflSco to say that Mar was more
ekilful as a conspirator than as a general, that his
army was defeated by Argyle at Sheriffmuir, and
that, when Prince James landed in December, it was
to find his adherents fugitives and his cause in a
desperate state. Perceiving that success was past
hope, he made his way back to Prance in the fol-
lowing month, the Earl of Mar going with him, and
thus, as his English footman had predicted, escaping
the fate which was dealt out freely to those whom
he had been instrumental in drawing into the out-
break. Many of these paid with their lives for their
participation in the rebellion, but Mar lived to con-
tinue his plotting for a number of years afterwards,
though it cannot be said that his later plots were
more notable for success than the one we have
described.
u.--m «•
THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE
CHARLES,
It was early morning on the Hebrides, that
crowded group of rocky islands on the west coast
of Scotland where fish and anglers much do con
gregate. From one of these, South TJist by name,
a fishing-boat had put out at an early hour, and was
now, with a fresh breeze in its sail, making its way
swiftly over the ruffled waters of the Irish Channel.
Its occupants, in addition to the two watermen who
managed it, were three persons, — two women and a
man. To all outward appearance only one of these
was of any importance. This was a young lady of
bright and attractive face, dressed in a plain and
serviceable travelling-costume, but evidently of good
birth and training. Iler companions were a man
and a maid-servant, the latter of unusual height for
a woman, and with an embrowned and roughened
face that indicated exposure to severe hardships of
life and climate. The man was a thorough High-
lander, red-bearded, shock-haired, and of weather-
beaten aspect.
The boat had already made a considerable distance
from the shore when its occupants found themselves
in near vicinity to another small craft, which was
306
THE FLIGUT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 307
moving lazily in a line parallel to the island coast.
At a distance to right and left other boats wero
visible. The island waters seemed to bo patrolled.
As the fishing-boat came near, the craft just men-
tioned shifted its course and sailed towards it. It
was sufficiently near to show that it contained armed
men, one of them in uniform. A hail now camo
across the waters.
" "What boat is that ? "Whom have you on board ?"
"A lady ; on her way to Skye," answered the boat-
man.
" "Up helm, and lay yourself alongside of us. "We
must see who you are."
The fishermen obeyed. They had reason to know
that, just then, there was no other course to pursue.
In a few minutes the two boats were riding side by
side, lifting and falling lazily on the long Atlantic
swell. The lady looked up at the uniformed per-
sonage, who seemed an officer.
" My name is Flora McDonald," she said. " These
persons are my servants. My father is in command
of the McDonalds on South Uist. I have been visit-
ing at Clanranald, and am now on my way homo."
"Forgive me, Miss McDonald," said the officer,
courteously ; " but our orders arc precise ; no one can
leave the island without a pass."
"I know it," she replied, with dignity, "and have
provided myself. Here is my passport, signed by
my father."
The officer took and ran his eye over it quickly:
"Flora McDonald; with two servants, Betty Bru3e
and Malcolm Eae," ho read. Uis gaze moved rapidly
308 HISTORICAL TALES.
over the occupants of the boat, resting for a moment
on the bright and intelligent face of the young
lady.
"This seems all right, Miss McDonald," he said,
respectfully, returning her the paper. " You can
pass. Good-by, and a pleasant journey."
"Many thanks," she answered. "You should be
successful in catching the bird that is seeking to fly
from that island. Your net is spread wide enough."
"I hardly think our bird will get through the
meshes," he answered, laughingly.
In a few minutes more they were wide asunder.
A peculiar smile rested on the face of the lady, which
seemed reflected from the countenances of her at-
tendants, but not a word was said on the subject of
the recent incident.
Their reticence continued until the rocky shores
of the Isle of Skye were reached, and the boat was
put into one of the many inlets that break its ir-
regular contour. Silence, indeed, was maintained
until they had landed on a rocky shelf, and the boat
had pushed off on its return journey. Then Flora
McDonald spoke.
" So fur we are safe," she said. " But I confess 1
was frightfully scared when that patrol-boat stopped
us."
" You did not look so," said Betty Bruce, in a voice
of masculine depth.
"I did not dare to," she answered. "If I had
looked what I felt, we would never have passed. But
let us continue our jom-ney. We have no time to
spare."
THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 309
It -was a rocky and desolate spot on which they
stood, the rugged rock-shelves which came to the
water's edge gradually rising to high hills in the
distance. But as they advanced inland the appear-
ance of the island improved, and signs of human
habitation appeared. They had not gone far before
the huts of fishermen and others became visible,
planted in little clearings among the rocks, whose
inmates looked with eyes of curiosity on the stran-
gers. This was particularly the case when they
passed through a small village, at no great distance
inland. Of the three persons, it was the maid-ser-
vant, Betty Bruce, that attracted most attention, her
appearance giving rise to some degree of amusement.
Nor was this without reason. The woman was so
ungainly in appearance, and walked with so awkward
a stride, that the skirts which clung round her heels
seemed a decided incumbrance to her progress. Her
face, too, presented a roughness that gave hint of
possibilities of a beard. She kept unobtrusively
behind her mistress, her peculiar gait set the good-
wives of the village whispering and laughing as they
pointed her out.
For several miles the travellers proceeded, follow-
ing the general direction of the coast, and apparently
endeavoring to avoid all collections of human habi-
tations. Now and then, however, they met persons
in the road, who gazed at them with the same curi-
osity as those they had already passed.
The scenery before them grew finer as they ad-
vanced. Near nightfall they came near mountainous
elevations, abutting on the sea-shore in great clifl's
iilO HISTORICAL TALES.
of columnar basalt, a thousand feet and more in
height, over which leaped here and there waterfalit'
of great height and beauty. Their route now lay
along the base of these cliffs, on the narrow strip of
land between them and the sea.
Here they paused, just as the sun was shedding its
last rays upon the water. Seating themselves on
some protruding boulders, they entered into conver-
sation, the fair Flora's face presenting an expression
of doubt and trouble.
*' I do not like the looks of the people," she said.
" They watch you too closely. And we are still in
the country of Sir Alexander, a land filled with otir
enemies. If you were only a better imitation of a
woman."
*' Faith, I fear I'm but an awkward sample," an-
swered Betty, in a voice of man-like tone. '' I have
been doing my best, but "
"But the lion cannot change his skin," supph'ed
the lady. " This will not do. We must take other
measures. But our first duty is to find the shelter
fixed for to-night. It will not do to tarry here till it
grows dark."
They rose and proceeded, following Malcolm, who
acted as guide. The place was deserted, and Betty
stepped out with a stride of most unmaidenly length,
as if to gain relief from her late restraint. Her
manner now would have revealed the secret to any
shrewd obsei'ver. The ungainly maid-servant was
evidently a man in disguise.
We cannot follow their journey closely. It will
Buflico to say that the awkwardness of the assumed
THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 311
Betty gave rise to suspicion on more than one ocea-
«ion in the next day or two. It became evident that,
if the secret of the disguised personage was not to
be discovered, they must cease their wanderings;
some shelter must be provided, and a safer means of
progress be devised.
A shelter was obtained, — one that promised
security. In the base of the basaltic cliffs of which
we have spoken many caverns had been excavated
by the winter surges of the sea. In one of these,
near the village of Portree, and concealed from too
easy observation, the travellers found refuge. Food
was obtained by Malcolm from the neighboring
settlement, and some degree of comfort provided for.
Leaving her disguised companion in this shelter, with
Malcolm for company. Flora went on. She had
devised a plan of procedure not without risk, but
which seemed necessary. It was too perilous to con-
tinue as they had done during the few past days.
Leaving our travellers thus situated, we will go
back in time to consider the events which led to this
journey in disguise. It was now July, the year being
1746. On the 16th of April of the same year a fierce
battle had been fought on CuUoden moor between
the English army under the Duke of Cumberland
and the host of Highlanders led by Charles Edward
Stuart, the " Young Pretender." Fierce had been
the fray, terrible the bloodshed, fatal the defeat of
the Highland clans. Ecatcn and broken, they had
fled in all directions for safety, hotly pursued by
their victorious foes.
Prince Charles had fought bravely on the field;
312 HISTORICAL TALES.
and, after the fatal disaster, had fled — having with
him only a few Irish officers whose good faith he
trusted — to Gortuleg, the residence of Lord Lovat.
If he hoped for shelter there, he found it not. He
was overcome with distress ; Lord Lovat, with fear
and embarrassment. No aid was to be had from
Lovat, and, obtaining some slight refreshment, the
prince rode on.
He obtained his next rest and repast at Invergarry,
the castle of the laird of Glengarry, and continued
his journey into the west Highlands, where he found
shelter in a village called Glenbeisdale, near where
he had landed on his expedition for the conquest of
England. For nearly a year he had been in Scotland,
pursuing a career of mingled success and defeat, and
was now back at his original landing-place, a hope-
less fugitive. Here some of the leaders of his late
army communicated with him. They had a thousand
men still together, and vowed that they would not
give up hope while there were cattle in the High-
lands or meal in the Lowlands. But Prince Charles
refused to deal with such a forlorn hope. He would
seek France, he said, and return with a powerful
reinforcement. AVith this answer he left the main-
land, sailing for Long Island, in the Hebrides, where
he hoped to find a French vessel.
And now dangers, disappointments, and hardships
surrounded the fugitive. The rebellion was at an
end ; retribution was in its full tide. The Highlands
were being scoured, the remnants of the defeated
army scattered or massacred, the adherents of the
Pretender seized, and Charles himself was sought
THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 313
for with unremitting activity. The islands in par-
ticular were closely searched, as it was believed that
he had fled to their shelter. His peril was extreme.
No vessel was to be had. Storms, contrary winds,
various disappointments attended him. He sought
one hiding-place after another in Long Island and
those adjoining, exposed to severe hardships, and
frequently having to fly from one place of shelter to
another. In the end he reached the island of South
Uist, where he found a faithful friend in Clanranald,
one of his late adherents. Here he was lodged in a
ruined forester's hut, situated near the summit of tho
wild mountain called Corradale. Even this remote
and almost inaccessible shelter grew dangerous.
The island was suspected, and a force of not less than
two thousand men landed on it, with orders to search
the interior with the closest scrutiny, while small
vvar-vessels, cutters, armed boats, and the like sur-
rounded the island, rendering escape by water almost
hopeless. It was in this critical state of aftairs that
the devotion of a woman came to the rescue of tho
imperilled Prince. Flora McDonald was visiting the
family of Clanranald. She wished to return to her
home in Skye. At her suggestion the chief provided
her with the attendants whom we have already
described, her awkward maid-servant Betty Bruce
being no less a personage than the wandering prince.
The daring and devoted lady was step-daughter to a
chief of Sir Alexander McDonald's clan, who was on
tho king's side, and in command of a section of the
party of search. From him Flora obtained a jjass-
port for herseli' and two seivants, and was thua
o 27
314 HISTORICAL TALES.
enabled to pass in safety through the cordon of
investiug boats. No one suspected the humble-
looking Betty Bruce as being a flj^ng prince. And
60 it was that the bird had passed through the net
of the fowlers, and found shelter in the island of
Skye.
And now we must return to the fugitives, whom
we left concealed in a basaltic cavern on the rocky
coast of Skye. The keen-witted Flora had devised
a new and bold plan for the safety of her charge, no
less a one than that of trusting the Lady Margaret
McDonald, wife of Sir Alexander, with her danger-
ous secret. This seemed like penetrating the very
stronghold of the foe ; but the women of the
Highlands had — most of them — a secret leaning to
Jacobitism, and Flora felt that she could trust her
high-born relative.
She did so, telling Lady Margaret her story. The
lady heard it with intense alarm. What to do she
did not know. She would not betray the prince, but
her husband was absent, her house filled with militia
officers, and shelter within its walls impossible. In
this dilemma she suggested that Flora should con-
duct the disguised prince to the house of McDonald
of Kingsburgh, her husband's steward, a brave and
intelligent man, in whom she could fully trust.
Eeturning to the cavern, the courageous girl did
as suggested, and had the good fortune to bring her
charge through in safety, though more than once
suspicion was raised. At Kingsburgh the connec-
tion of Flora McDonald with the unfortunate prince
ended. Her wit and shrewdness had saved him from
THE FLIGHT OP PRINCE CHARLES. 015
Inevitable capture. He was now out of the imme-
diate range of search of his enemies, and must hence-
forth trust to his own devices.
From Kingsburgh the fugitive sought the island
of Easa, led by a guide supplied by McDonald, and
wearing the dress of a servant. The laird of Easa
had taken part in the rebellion, and his domain had
been plundered in consequence. Food was scarce,
and Charles suffered great distress. He next fol-
lowed his seeming master to the land of the laird
of MacKinnon, but, finding himself still in peril, felt
compelled to leave the islands, and once more landed
on the Scottish mainland at Loch Nevis.
Here his peril was as imminent as it had been at
South Uist. It was the country of Lochiel, Glen-
garry, and other Jacobite chiefs, and was filled with
soldiers, diligently seeking the leaders of the insur-
rection. Charles and his guides found themselves
surrounded by foes. A complete line of sentinels,
who crossed each other upon their posts, inclosed the
district in which he had sought refuge, and escape
seemed impossible. The countr}- was rough, bushy,
and broken ; and he and his companions were forced
to hide in defiles and woodland shelters, where they
dared not light a fire, and from which they could see
distant soldiers and hear the calls of the sentinels.
For two days they remained thus cooped up, not
knowing at what minute they might be taken, and
almost hopeless of escape. Fortunately, they dis-
covered a deep and dark ravine that led down from
the mountains through the hne of sentries. The
posts of two of these reached to the edges of tho
516 HISTORICAL TALES.
ravine, on opposite sides. Down this gloomy and
rough defile crept noiselessly the fugitives, hearing
the tread of the sentinels above their heads as they
passed the point of danger. No alarm was given,
and the hostile line was safely passed. Once more
the fugitive prince had escaped.
And now for a considerable time Charles wandered
through the rough Highland mountains, his clothes
in rags, often without food and shelter, and not
daring to kindle a fire; vainly hoping to find a
French vessel hovering off the coast, and at length
reaching the mountains of Strathglass. Here ho,
with Glenaladale, his companion at that time, sought
shelter in a cavern, only to find it the lurking-place
of a gang of robbers, or rather of outlaws, who had
taken part in the rebellion, and were here in hiding.
There were seven of these, who lived on sheep and
cattle raided in the suri-ounding country.
These men looked on the ragged suppliants of their
good-will at first as fugitives of their own stamp.
But they quickly recognized, in the most tattered of
the wanderers, that " Bonnie Charhe" for whom they
had risked their lives upon the battle-field, and for
whom they still felt a passionate devotion. They
hailed his appearance among them with gladness,
and expressed themselves as his ardent and faithful
servants in life and death.
In this den of robbers the unfortunate prince was
soon made more comfortable than he had been since
his flight from Culloden. Their faith was unques-
tionable, their activity in his service unremitting.
Food was abundant, and, in addition, they volun-
THE FLIGHT OP PRINCE CHARLES. 317
teered to provide him with decent clothing, and
tidings of the movements of the enemy. The first
was accomplished somewhat ferociously. Two of the
outlaws met the servant of an officer, on his way to
Fort Augustus with his master's baggage This poor
fellow they killed, and thus provided their guest with
a good stock of clothing. Another of them, in dis-
guise, made his way into Fort Augustus. Here he
learned much about the movements of the troops,
and, eager to provide the prince with something
choice in the way of food, brought him back a pen-
nyworth of gingerbread, — a valuable luxury to his
simple soul.
For three weeks Charles remained with these hum-
ble but devoted friends. It was not easy to break
away from their enthusiastic loyalty.
" Stay with us," they said ; " the mountains of gold
which the government has set upon your head may
induce some gentleman to betray you, for he can go
to a distant country and live upon the price of his
dishonor. But to us there exists no such temptation.
"We can speak no language but our own, we can live
nowhere but in this country, where, were we to
injure a hair of _>our head, the very mountains would
fall down to crush us to death. Do not leave us,
then. You will nowhere be so safe as with us."
This advice was hardly to Charles's taste. He pre
ferred coui't-lifo in France to cave-life in Scotland,
and did not cease his efforts to escape. His pur-
poses were aided by an instance of enthusiastic
devotion. A young man named McKenzie, son of
an Edinburgh goldsmith, and a fugitive officer from
27*
3 IS HISTORICAL TALES.
the defeated army, happened to resemble the prince
closely in face and person. He was attacked by a
party of soldiers, defended himself bravely, and when
mortally wounded, cried out, " Ah, villains, you have
slain your prince !"
His generous design proved successful. His head
was cut off, and sent to London as that of the
princely fugitive, which it resembled so closely that
it was some time before the mistake was discovered.
This error proved of the utmost advantage to the
prince. The search was greatly relaxed, and ho
found it safe to leave the shelter of his cave, and
seek some of his late adherents, of whose move-
ments he had been kept informed. He therefore
bade farewell to the faithful outlaws, with the ex-
ception of two, who accompanied him as guides and
guards.
Safety was not yet assured. It was with much
difficulty, and at great risk, that he succeeded in
meeting his lurking adherents, Lochicl and Cluny
McPherson, who were hiding in Badenoch. Here
was an extensive forest, the property of Cluny, ex-
teudinfiT over the side of a mountain, called Benalder.
In a deep thicket of this forest was a well-concealed
hut, called the Cage. In this the fugitives took up
their residence, and lived there in some degree of
comfort and safety, the game of the forest and its
waters supplying them with abundant food.
Word was soon after brought to Charles that two
French frigates had an-ived at Lochnanuagh, their
purpose being to carry him and other fugitives to
France. The ne fvs of their arrival spread rapidly
THE FLIGHT OP PRINCE CHARLES. 319
through the district, which held many fugitives from
Culloden, and on the 20th of September Charles and
Lochiel, with nearly one hundred others of his party,
embarked on these friendly vessels, and set sail for
Franco. Cluny McPhcrson refused to go. He re-
mained concealed in his own country for several
years, and served as the agent by which Charles kept
up a correspondence with the Highlanders.
On September 29 the fugitive prince landed near
Morlaix, in Brittany, having been absent from France
thirteen months, five of which had been months of
the most perilous and precarious series of escapes
and adventures ever recorded of a princely fugitive
in history or romance. During these months of
flight and concealment several hundred persons had
been aware of his movements, but none, high or low,
noble or outlaw, had a thought of betraying hia
secret. Among them all, the devoted Flora McDon-
ald stands first, and her name has become historically
famous through her invaluable services to the
prince.
TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH
OF NELSON.
From the main peak of the flag-ship Victory hung
out Admiral Nelson's famous signal, "England ex-
pects every man to do his duty!" an inspiring appeal,
which has been the motto of English warriors since
that day. The fleet under the command of the great
admiral was drawing slowly in upon the powerful
naval array of France, which lay awaiting him off
the rocky shore of Cape Trafalgar. It was the morn-
ing of October 21, 1805, the dawn of the greatest
day in the naval history of Great Britain.
Let us rapidly trace the events which led up to
this scene, — the prologue to the drama about to be
played. The year 1805 was one of threatening peril
to England. Napoleon was then in the ambitious
youth of his power, full of dreams of universal em-
pire, his mind set on an invasion of the pestilent
Httle island across the channel which should rival
the " Invincible Armada" in power and far surpass
it in performance.
Gigantic had been his preparations. Holland and
Belgium were his, their coast-line added to that of
France. In a hundred harbors all was activity,
munitions being collected, and flat-bottomed boats
built, in readiness to carry an invading army to
320
a>^
TRAPALOAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON. 321
England's shores. The landing of William the Con-
queror in 1066 was to bo repeated in 1805. The land
forces were encamped at Boulogne. Hero the arma-
ment was to meet. Meanwhile, the allied fleets of
Fx'ance and Spain were to patrol tho Channel, ono
I)art of them to keep Nelson at bay, the other part
to escort the flotilla bearing the invading army.
"While Napoleon was thus busy, his enemies were
not idle. The war-ships of England hovered near
the French ports, watching all movements, doing
what damage they could. Lord Nelson keenly ob-
served the hostile fleet. To throw him off the track,
two French naval squadrons set sail for the West
Indies, as if to attack the British islands there. Nel-
son followed. Suddenly turning, the decoying squad-
rons came back under a press of sail, joined the
Spanish fleet, and sailed for England. Nelson had
not returned, but a strong fleet remained, under Sir
Robert Calder, which was handled in such fashion as
to drive the hostile ships back to the harbor of Cadiz.
Such was the state of affairs when Nelson again
reached England. Full of the spirit of battle, he
hoisted his flag on the battle-ship Yictory, and set
sail in search of his foes. There were twenty-seven
line-of-battle ships and four frigates under his com-
mand. The French fleet, under Admiral Yilleneuve,
njmiber thirty-three sail of the line and seven frig-
ates. Napoleon, dissatisfied with the disinclination
of his fleet to meet that of England, and confident
in its strength, issued positive orders, and Ville-
neuve sailed out of the harbor of Cadiz, and took
position in two crescent-shaped lines off Cape Trafal-
322 HISTORICAL TALES.
gar. As soon as Nelson saw him he came on with
the eagerness of a lion in sight of its prey, his fleet
likewise in two lines, his signal flags fluttering with
the inspiring order, " England expects every man to
do his duty."
The wind was from the west, blowing in light
Dreezes ; a long, heavy swell ruffled the sea. Down
came the great ships, Collingwood, in the Eoyal
Sovereign, commanding the lee-line ; Nelson, in the
Victory, leading the weather division. One order
Nelson had given, which breathes the inflexible
spirit of the man. "His admu'als and captains,
knowing his object to be that of a close and decisive
action, would supply any deficiency of signals, and
act accordingly. In case signals cannot be seen or
clearly understood, no captain can do wrong if he
places his ship alongside that of an enemy."
Nelson wore that day his admiral's frock-coat,
bearing on the breast four stars, the emblems of the
orders with which he had been invested. His ofiicers
beheld these ornaments with apprehension. There
were riflemen on the French ships. Ho was offering
himself as a mark for their aim. Yet none dare
suf'-ffest that he should remove or cover tbe stars.
" In honor I gained them, and in honor I will die
with them," he had said on a previous occasion.
The long swell set in to the bay of Cadiz. The
English ships moved with it, all sail set, a light
southwest wind filling their canvas. Before them
lay the French ships, with the morning sun on their
Bails, presenting a stately and beautiful appearance.
On came the Euglish fleet, like a flock of giant
TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH bF NELSON. 323
birds swooping low across the ocean. Like a white
floclc at rest awaited the French three-deckers. Col-
lingwood's line was the first to come into action,
Nelson steering more to the north, that the flight of
the enemy to Cadiz, in case of their defeat, should
be prevented. Straight for the centre of the foe-
man's Hne steered the Eoyal Sovereign, taking her
station side by side with the Santa Anna, which she
engaged at the muzzle of her guns.
" ^^^lat would Nelson give to be here I" exclaimed
Collingwood. in delight.
" See how that noble fellow, Collingwood, carries
his ship into action !" responded Nelson from the deck
of the Victory.
It was not long before the two fleets were in hot
action, the British ships following Collingwood's lead
in coming to close quarters with the enemy. As the
Victory approached, the French ships opened with
broadsides upon her, in hopes of disabling her before
she could close with them. Not a shot was returned,
though men were falling on her decks until fifty lay
dead or wounded, and her main-top-mast, with all
her studding-sails and booms, had been shot away.
"This is too warm work, Hai'dv, to last," said
Nelson, with a smile, as a splinter tore the buckle
from the captain's shoe.
Twelve o'clock came and passed. The Victory
was now well in. Firing from both sides as she
advanced, she ran in side by side with the Redoubt-
able, of the French fleet, both ships pouring broad-
sides into each other. On the opposite side of the
Redoubtable came up the English ship Tcmeraire,
324 HISTORICAL TALES.
while another ship of the enemy lay on the opposite
Bide of the latter.
The four ships lay head to head and side to side,
as close as if they had been moored together, the
muzzles of their guns almost touching. So close
were they that the middle- and lower-deck guns of
the Victory had to be depressed and fired with light
charges, lest their balls should pierce through the foe
and injure the Temeraire. And lest the Eedoubtable
should take fire from the lower-deck guns, whose
muzzles touched her side when they were run out,
the fireman of each gun stood ready with a bucket
of water to dash into the hole made by the shot.
While the starboard guns of the Victory were thus
employed, her larboard guns were in full play upon
the Bucentaure and the huge Santissima Trinidad.
This warm work was repeated through the entire
fleet. Never had been closer and hotter action.
The fight had reached its hottest when there came
a tragical event that rendered the victory at Traf-
algar, glorious as it was, a loss to England. The Ee-
doubtable, after her first broadside, had closed her
lower-deck ports, lest the English should board her
through them. She did not fire another great gun
during the action. But her tops, like those of her
consorts, were filled with riflemen, whose balls swept
the decks of the assailing ships. One of these, fired
from the mizzen-top of the Eedoubtable, not fifteen
yards from where Nelson stood, struck him on the
left shoulder, piercing the epaulette. It was about
quarter after one, in the heat of the action. He fell
upon his face.
TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON. 325
'■ They have done for me, at last, Hardy," he said,
as his captain ran to his assistance.
•' I hope not I" cried Hardy.
" Yes," he replied ; " mj- backbone is shot through."
A thorough sailor to the last, he saw, as they were
carrying him below, that the tiller ropes which had
been shot away were not replaced, and ordered that
this should be immediately attended to. Then, that
he might not be seen by the crew, he spread his
handkerchief over his face and his stars. But for
his needless risk in revealing them before, he might
have lived.
The cockpit was crowded with the wounded and
dying men. Over their bodies he was cai-ricd, and
laid upon a pallet in the midshipmen's berth. The
wound was mortal. A brief examination showed
this. He had known it from the first, and said to
the surgeon, —
"Leave me, and give your services to those for
whom there is some hope. You can do nothing for
me."
Such was the fact. All that could be done was to
fan him, and relieve his intense thirst with lemonade.
On dec-k the fight continued with undiminished fury.
The English star was in the ascendant. Ship after
ship of the enemy struck, the cheers of the crew of
the Victory heralding each sun-ender, while every
cheer brought a smile of joy to the face of the dying
veteran.
" Will no one bring Hardy to me ?" he repeatedly
cried. " He must be killed ! He is surely dead !"
In truth, the captain dared not leave the deck.
28
326 HISTORICAL TALES.
More than an hour elapsed before he was able to
come down. He grasped in silence the hand of the
dying admiral.
" Well, Hardy, how goes the day with us ?" asked
Nelson, eagerly.
" Yery well," was the answer. " Ten ships have
struck; but five of the van have tacked, and show
an intention to bear down upon the Victory. I have
called two or three of our fresh ships around, and
have no doubt of giving them a drubbing."
"I hope none of our ships have struck," said
Nelson.
" There is no fear of that," answered Hardy.
Then came a moment's silence, and then Nelson
spoke of himself.
" I am a dead man, Hardy," he said. " I am going
fast ; it will be all over with me soon. Come nearer
to me. Let my dear Lady Hamilton have my hair
and all other things belonging to me."
" I hope it is not so bad as that," said Hardy, with
much emotion. " Dr. Beatty must yet hold out some
hope of life."
"Oh, no, that is impossible," said Nelson. "My
back is shot through : Beatty will tell you so."
Captain Hardy grasped his hand again, the tears
standing in his eyes, and then hurried on deck to
hide the emotion he could scarcely repress.
Life slowly left the frame of the dying hero : every
minute he was nearer death. Sensation vanished
below his breast. He made the surgeon test and
acknowledge this.
" You know I am gone," he said. " I know it. 1
TEAPALGAR AND THE DEATH OP NELSON. 327
feel something rising in my breast which tells me
so."
" Is your pain great ?" asked Beatty.
*' So gi-eat, that I wish I were dead. Yet," he con-
tinued, in lower tones. " one would like to live a littlo
longer, too."
A few moments of silence passed ; then he said in
the same low tone, —
" What would become of my poor Lady Hamilton
if she knew my situation ?"
Fifteen minutes elapsed before Captain Hardy re-
turned. On doing so, he warmly grasped Nelson's
hand, and in tones of joy congratuUited him on the
victory which he had come to announce.
"How many of the enemy are taken, I cannot
say," he remarked ; " the smoke hides them ; but we
hare not less than fourteen or fifteen."
" That's well," cried Nelson, " but I bargained for
twent}'. Anchor, Hardy, anchor I" he commanded,
in a stronger voice.
" "Will not Admiral Collingwood take charge of the
fleet ?" hinted Hardy.
"Not while I live. Hardy," answered Nelson,
with an effort to lift himself in his bed. " Do you
anchor."
Hardy started to obey this last order of his beloved
commander. In a low tone Nelson called him back.
" Don't throw me overboard, Hai'dy," he pleaded.
" Take me home that I may be buried by my parents,
unless the king shall order otherwise. And tako
care of my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy ; take care
of poor Lady Hamilton. Kiss me. Hardy."
328 HISTORICAL TALES
The weeping captain knelt and kissed him.
« Now I am satisfied," said the dying hero. " Thank
God, I have done my duty."
Hardy stood and looked down in sad silence upon
him, then again knelt and kissed him on the fore-
liead,
" Who is that ?" asked Nelson.
" It is I, Hardy," was the reply.
" God bless you, Hardy," came in tones just abovo
a whisper.
Hardy turned and left. He could bear no more.
He had looked his last on his old commander.
" I wish I had not left the deck," said Nelson ; " for
I see I shall soon be gone."
It was true ; life was fast ebbing.
« Doctor," he said to the chaplain, " I have not been
a great sinner." He was silent a moment, and then
continued, " Eemember that I leave Lady Hamilton
and ray daughter Horatio as a legacy to my country."
Words now came with difficulty.
" Thank God, I have done my duty," he said, re-
peating these words again and again. They were
his last words. He died at half-past four, three and
a quarter hours after he had been wounded.
Meanwhile, Nelson's prediction had been realized :
twenty French ships had struck their flags. The
T ictory of Trafalgar was complete ; Napoleon's hope
of invading England was at an end. Nelson, djnng,
had saved his country by destroying the fleet of her
foes. Never had a sun set in greater glory than did
the life of this hero of the navy of Great Britain,
the ruler of the waves.
THE MASSACRE OF AN ARMY,
The sentinels on the ramparts of Jelalabad, a for.
tifiedpost held by the British in Afghanistan, looking
out over the plain that extended northward and
westward from the town, saw a singular-looking
person approaching. He rode a pony that seemed
so jaded with travel that it could scarcely lift a foot
to continue, its head drooping low as it dragged
slowly onward. The traveller seemed in as evil
plight as his horse. His head was bent forward
upon his breast, the rein had fallen from his nerve-
less grasp, and he swayed in the saddle as if he could
barely retain his seat. As he came nearer, and lifted
his face for a moment, he was seen to be frightfully
pale and haggard, with the horror of an untold
tragedy in his bloodshot eyes. Who was he ? An
Englishman, evidently, perhaps a messenger from the
army at Cabul. The officers of the fort, notified of
his approach, ordered that the gates should be opened.
In a short time more man and horse were within the
walls of the town.
So pitiable and woe-begone a spectacle none there
had ever beheld. The man seemed almost a corpse
on horseback. He had fairly to be lifted from his
saddle, and borne inward to a place of shelter and
28* 329
330 HISTORICAL TALES.
repose, while the animal was scarcely able to make
its way to the stable to which it was led. As the
traveller rested, eager questions ran through the
garrison. Who was he? How came he in such a
condition ? What had he to tell of the army in the
field? Did his coming in this sad plight portend
some dark disaster ?
This curiosity was shared by the officer in com-
mand of the fort. Giving his worn-out guest no long
time to recover, he plied him with inquiries.
"You are exhausted," he said. "I dislike to dis
turb you, but I beg leave to ask you a few ques-
tions."
" Go on, sir ; I can answer," said the traveller, in a
weary tone.
"Do you bring a message from General Elphin-
Btone, — from the army ?"
"I bring no message. There is no army, — or,
rather, I am the army," was the enigmatical reply.
" You the army ? I do not understand you."
" I represent the army. The others are gone, —
dead, massacred, prisoners, — man, woman, and child.
I, Doctor Brydon, am the army, — all that remains
of it."
The commander heard him in astonishment and
horror. General Elphinstone had seventeen thou-
eand soldiers and camp-followers in his camp at
Cabul. " Did Dr. Brydon mean to say "
" They are all gone," was the feeble reply. " I am
left; all the others are slain. You may well look
frightened, sir ; you would be heart-sick with horror
had you gone through my experience. I have seen
THE MASSACRE OP AN ARMY. 331
an army slaughtered before my eyes, and am here
alone to tell it."
It was true ; the army had vanished ; an event had
happened almost without precedent in the history of
the world, unless we instance the burying of the
army of Cambyses in the African desert. When Dr.
Brydon was sufficiently rested and refreshed he told
his story. It is the story we have here to repeat.
In the summer of 1841 the British army under
General Elphinstone lay in cantonments near the
city of Cabul, the capital of Afghanistan, in a position
far from safe or wellchoscn. Thoy were a mile and
a half from the citadel, — the Bala Hissar, — with a
river between. Every corner of their cantonments
was commanded by hills or Afghan forts. Even
their provisions were beyond their reach, in case of
attack, being stored in a fort at some distance from
the cantonments. They were in the heart of a
hostile population. General Elphinstone, trusting
too fully in the puppet of a khan who hud been set
up by British bayonets, had carelessly kept his com-
mand in a weak and untenable position.
The general was old and in bad health ; by no
means the man for the emergenc3\ He was con-
trolled by bad advisers, who thought only of return-
ing to India, and discouraged the strengthening of
the fortress. The officers lost heart on seeing the
supineuess of their leader. The men were weary of
incessant watching, annoyed by the insults of the
natives, discouraged by frequent reports of the death
of comrades, who had been picked off by roving
enemies. The ladies alone retained confidence, occu-
332 HISTORICAL TALES.
pying themselves in the culture of their gardens,
which, in the delightful summer climate of that
situation, rewarded their labors with an abundance
of flowers.
As time went on the situation grew rapidly worse.
Akbar Khan, the leading spirit among the hostile
Afghans, came down from the north and occupied
the Khoord Cabul Pass, — the only way back to
Hindustan. Ammunition was failing, food was de-
creasing, the enemy were growing daily stronger
and more aggressive. Affairs had come to such a
pass that but one of two things remained to do, — to
leave the cantonments and seek shelter in the citadel
till help should arrive, or to endeavor to march back
to India.
On the 23d of December the garrison was alarmed
by a frightful example of boldness and ferocity in
the enemy. Sir William Macnaughten, the English
envoy, who had left the works to treat with the
Afghan chiefs, was seized by Akbar Khan and mur-
dered on the spot, his head, with its green spectacles,
being held up in derision to the soldiers within the
works.
The British were now "advised" by the Afghans
to go back to India. There was, in truth, nothing
else to do. They were starving where they were.
If they should fight their way to the citadel, they
would be besieged there without food. They must
go, whatever the risk or hardships. On the 6th of
January the fatal march began, — a march of four
thousand five hundred soldiers and twelve thousand
camp-followers, besides women and children, through
THE MASSACRE OP AN ARMY. 333
a mountainous country, filled with savage foes, and
in severe winter weather.
The first day's march took them but five miles
from the works, the evacuation taking place so
slowly that it was two o'clock in the morning before
the last of the force came up. It had been a march
of frightful conditions. Attacked by the Afghans
on every side, hundreds of the fugitives perished in
those first five dreadful miles. As the advance body
waited in the snow for those in the rear to join them,
the glare of flames from the burning cantonments
told that the evacuation had been completed, and
that the whole multitude was now at the mercy of
its savage foes. It was evident that they had a
frightful gantlet to run through the fire of the
enemy and the winter's chilling winds. The snow
through which they had slowly toiled was reddened
with blood all the way back to Cabul. Baggage
was abandoned, and men and women alike pushed
forward for their lives, some of them, in the haste
of flight, but half-clad, few sufiiciently protected
\rora the severe cold.
The succeeding days were days of massacre and
horror. The fierce hill-tribes swarmed around the
troops, attacking them in front, flank, and rear,
pouring in their fire from every point of vantage,
slaying them in hundreds, in thousands, as they
moved hopelessly on. The despairing men fought
bravely. Many of the foe suffered for their temerity.
Eut they Avere like prairie- wolves around the dying
bison ; the retreating force lay helpless in their hands ;
two new foes took the place of every one thut fell.
334 HISTORICAL TALES.
Each day's horrors surpassed those of the last.
The camp-followers died in hundreds from cold and
starvation, their frost-bitten feet refusing to support
them. Crawling in among the rugged rocks that
bordered the road, they lay there helplessly await-
ing death. The soldiers fell in hundreds. It grew
worse as they entered the contracted mountain-pass
through which their road led. Here the ferocious
foe swarmed among the rocks, and poured death
from the heights upon the helpless fugitives. It
was impossible to dislodge them. Natural breast-
works commanded every foot of that terrible road.
The hardy Afghan mountaineers climbed with the
agility of goats over the hill-sides, occupying hun-
dreds of points which the soldiers could not reach.
It was a carnival of slaughter. Nothing remained
for the helpless fugitives but to push forward with
all speed through that frightful mountain-pass and
gain as soon as possible the open ground beyond.
Few gained it. On the fourth day from Cabul
there were but two hundred and seventy soldiers
left. The fifth day found the seventeen thousand
fugitives reduced to five thousand. A day more,
and these five thousand were nearly all slain. Only
twenty men remained of the great body of fugitives
which had left Cabul less than a week before. This
handful of survivors was still relentlessly pursued.
A barrier detained them for a deadly interval under
the fire of the foe, and eight of the twenty died in
seeking to cross it. The j)ass was traversed, but the
army was gone. A dozen worn-out fugitives were
all that remained alive.
THE MASSACRE OP AN ARMY. 335
On they struggled towards Jelalabad, death fol-
lowing them still. They reached the last town on
their road ; but six of them had fallen. These six
were starving. They had not tas-ted food for daj-a.
Some peasants offered them bread. They devoui-ed
it like famished wolves. But as they did so the in-
habitants of the town seized their arms and assailed
them. Two of them were cut down. The others
fled, but were hotly pursued. Three of the four
were overtaken and slain within four miles of Jela-
labad. Dr. Brydon alone remained, and gained the
fort alone, the sole survivor, as he believed and re-
ported, of the seventeen thousand fugitives. The
Afghan chiefs had boasted that they would allow
only one man to live, to warn the British to meddle
no more with Afghanistan. Their boast seemed lit-
erally fulfilled. Only one man had traversed in
safety that "valley of the shadow of death."
Fortunately, there were more living than Dr. Bry-
don was aware of. Akbar Khan had offered to
save the ladies and children if the married and
wounded officers were delivered into his hands. This
was done. General Elphinstone was among the
prisoners, and died in captivity, a relief to himself
and his friends from the severe account to which the
government would have been obliged to call him.
Now for the sequel to this story of suffering and
slaughter. The invasion of Afghanistan by the
English had been for the purpose of protecting the
Indian frontier. A prince, Shah Soojah, friendly to
England, was placed on the throne. This prince was
repudiated by the Afghan tribes, and to their bitter
336 HISTORICAL TALES.
and savage hostility was due the result which wc
have briefly described. It was a result with which
the British authorities were not likely to remain
satisfied. The news of the massacre sent a thrill of
horror through the civilized world. Eetribution was
the sole thought in British circles in India. A strong
force was at once collected to punish the Afghans
and rescue the prisoners. Under General Pollock it
fought its way through the Khyher Pass and reached
Jelalabad. Thence it advanced to Cabul, the soldiers,
infuriated by the sight of the bleaching skeletons
that thickly lined the roadway, assailing the Afghans
with a ferocity equal to their own. Wherever armed
Afghans were met death was their portion. No-
where could they stand against the maddened Eng-
lish troops. Filled with terror, they fled for safety
to the mountains, the invading force having terribly
revenged their slaughtered countrymen.
It next remained to rescue the prisoners. They
had been carried about from fort to fort, suffering
many hardships and discomforts, but not being other-
wise maltreated. They were given up to the British,
after the recapture of Cabul, with the hope that
this would satisfy these terrible avengers. It did so.
The fortifications of Cabul were destroyed, and the
British army was withdrawn from the country.
England had paid bitterly for the mistake of occiipy-
ing it. The bones of a slaughtered army paved the
road that led to the Afghan capital.
THE END.
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