Supper was served that evening at Whitehall with more than customary state and splendour—for King Philip was present.
The Queen was royally attired in robes of purple velvet, and men noted that, to-night, she wore her famous diamonds.
Beside her sat King Philip in magnificent apparel, and wearing the Collar of the Order of the Golden Fleece.
Few guests were present, conspicuous among them being the Queen's half-sister, the Lady Elizabeth, lately restored to Court favour; next to her sat De Noailles, the French Ambassador, with whom the Princess kept up a lively conversation.
Don Renard and the Lords Paget, Pembroke, Arundel, and Clinton were there, all in splendid attire.
The hall was hung with the beautiful arras collected by King Henry the Eighth, and a soft pleasant light diffused from silver lamps fed with perfumed oil. Foreign minstrels provided sweet music, to which the guests seemed to pay little heed, for to-night the Queen was in unusually good spirits, and the Court, taking its cue from her, jested and laughed freely.
Later on, supper being ended, the Court (now largely augmented in numbers) met in the gorgeous salon which was adorned by some famous pictures of Titian, brought hither, perhaps, by Philip, whose father, Charles V, was the great patron of the painter.
On the walls also hung portraits by Holbein and many works of the Flemish and Italian schools.
The furniture of the room was of costly nature, being chiefly of ebony, richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Here the light was given by hundreds of wax candles, set in silver sconces, and it shone upon the fairest dames which England had to show to the proud Castilian nobles who grouped around the King.
Here, also, great Churchmen were present—among whom the Cardinal stood pre-eminent in his scarlet robes.
Presently the Cardinal found his way to the side of Queen Mary, who welcomed him with a smile, though it was a faint and weary one. For Mary was growing feeble in health and broken in spirits, though, to-night, she had shown herself more like the Mary Tudor of former days.
Alas, poor Queen!
Disappointed of her fondest hopes, childless and neglected by her husband, who would not pity her?
In the Court to-night she could but see how the young gallants gathered round the rising star—the Lady Elizabeth.
It was mainly by Philip's influence that she had recalled the hope of the Reformation Party to Court, and she saw, with bitter pain, that the Spanish King was strangely attentive to her young rival. Had Stephen Gardiner's advice been followed, Elizabeth would long ere now been swept from her path.
Ah! had she erred? thought the Queen in her inmost heart.
For this young and gay Princess was next in succession to the Throne, according to the will of their father, King Henry.
And so all her work might be undone, and the fondest, dearest hopes of her heart frustrated!
As these thoughts darkened her soul she saw Pole approaching her, and his very presence brought new life to her heart.
He knelt and kissed the Queen's hand, and when he rose Mary beckoned him to a seat beside her, and they fell into a close and confidential conversation.
The night was wearing on, the Queen was growing weary, yet she said in reply to a request from him—
Yes, to-night, after Chapel, in my boudoir; and so they separated.
The King had left the salon.
A Court courier had arrived from Brussels, and together with Don Renard he had withdrawn to his own rooms.
There they hastily examined the messenger's portfolio, and that business being transacted the Ambassador entered upon other matters.
King Philip was a hard master! Great statesmen and famous warriors knew that it behoved them to walk warily in their dealings with him. Eminent service and a long discharge of duty would not save them from the prison cell, and even the block, if they thwarted their imperious master.
Don Renard knew this full well.
At this moment he was the King's most trusted servant—none knew England and the English as he did, and Philip placed great reliance on his astute counsels. To-night he felt the extreme difficulty of the course he was pursuing.
He knew that the King was violently offended by Ralph's attack upon a Royal officer; that, moreover, he had a suspicion that this was a Protestant plot and that the offender himself was a kind of "Hot Gospeller!"
He must walk very warily to-night.
He had a communication from the Council of the City of London to lay before the King.
The citizens have debated the conditions of the loan your Majesty did them the honour to ask of them, said Don Renard.
Yes, said Philip, somewhat eagerly, "and I trust they raise no difficulty."
These purse-proud burgesses are not like the money-lenders of Madrid or Amsterdam, they are not satisfied with the securities we offer, said the Ambassador.
The King frowned, as he replied—
The money must be procured; our expedition hangs fire, and the English troops are badly equipped. You must see to it, and that quickly.
The expedition is not popular in the City, said Renard, "we must do something to placate these stubborn islanders."
Yes, I know, replied the King petulantly; "but what can we do?"
Will your Majesty pardon me if I suggest something? replied the Ambassador, and in obedience to Philip's nod of assent, he continued, "That young man, Ralph Jefferay, who was condemned to-day in the Court of the Star Chamber, is accounted a hero in London."
And why? asked Philip impatiently, the frown on his face deepening; "is it not because he is a heretic?"
Nay, your Majesty, I know not whether he is of the 'New Learning' or not, replied Don Renard. "But the real reason goes far deeper than that: he is known to be a young man of splendid daring and of intrepid courage," he continued.
The King was not appeased.
Go on, he said, "I see you have something further to tell me; I listen."
Oh, sire, cried the Ambassador, "pardon me if I err through zeal in your service. There is a deed on record, just lately performed, which raised the admiration of the Londoners."
Then as briefly as possible Don Renard told the stirring tale of the rescue on the Thames, hiding for the moment his own connection with it. He told it well, bringing out vividly all the strong points.
The King was a cold-blooded man, yet he was something of a soldier, and a deed of arms like this moved him.
And the man they rescued, who was he, you have not told me his name? said he.
It was my stepson, Don Diego, sire, was the reply.
Ah! I see, I see, said the King.
Then after a moments thought he continued—
I will see the Queen on his behalf, and I will ask that the pillory and the mutilation be not undergone by the condemned man. Yet, Renard, he is a seditious man, and, I doubt not, a heretic. The sentence as to the fine and the imprisonment must stand.
That will not render the Queen nor your Majesty popular in the City; it will not expedite our loan nor induce young Englishmen to come forward to fight our battles, replied Renard. "Pardon me once more, sire, if I make a suggestion to you. We are calling for an English contingent of eight thousand men: Lord Clinton tells me that men are coming forward very slowly.
"These twin brothers, William and Ralph Jefferay, are of gentle birth and they are born soldiers. They have an intended brother-in-law, a young nobleman named Geoffrey de Fynes. All the three are willing to take arms in your Majesty's cause and to fight under your banner. This is my proposition, sire, that you ask the Queen to extend her gracious pardon to Ralph Jefferay, on the condition that the three young men I have named take service in Lord Clinton's contingent.""
"The frown cleared from the King's brow, he even smiled as he said—
You plead well, Don Renard, you would have made a great lawyer; well, be it as you wish, I will ask her to do us this service.
To-night, sire? said the Ambassador.
Nay, to-morrow, replied the King; "I must not urge State matters on the Queen at this late hour."
But, sire, to-morrow will be too late, the Star Chamber acts promptly, and to-morrow at ten o'clock Ralph Jefferay will stand in pillory at Tyburn! replied Renard.
The King flushed and looked somewhat angered; he was not accustomed to be thus urged.
It was at this moment that an usher craved admission into the chamber, he brought a message from the Queen.
Would the King grant her a few minutes interview forthwith in her boudoir?
Tell her Majesty that I will wait upon her immediately, he said to the usher.
Then to the Ambassador he said—
There is your answer, Don Renard—Heaven fights for you!
Yes, sire, thank God! replied Renard fervently.
Meanwhile the cause the Ambassador had at heart had progressed elsewhere.
Mary was always strictly attentive to her religious duties, and, at the accustomed hour, she had gone to Vespers in the Chapel Royal, many of the courtiers accompanying her thither.
At the conclusion of the short service she retired to her boudoir, dismissing her Court for the night.
The Cardinal still knelt in the Chapel, until an usher came to summon him to the Queen's presence. He rose and followed him.
The Queen had laid aside some of her heavy State robes, and her diamonds no longer glistened on her head and neck. She was clad in a rich suit of black velvet, her favourite attire.
As the Cardinal entered she knelt before him.
Your blessing, father, she said.
Then she rose, and in his turn the Prelate knelt and kissed her hand.
She motioned him to a seat.
Behind her stood two ladies-in-waiting. Pointing to them the Queen said—
Shall my ladies leave us? It shall be as you wish.
Pole hesitated for a moment.
He had a difficult and delicate cause to plead, he felt that he might be pitting the Queen against her husband if the Ambassador, on his part, failed to influence Philip.
It may be advisable, your Majesty, he said, and thereupon the Queen motioned to the ladies to withdraw.
They were alone, and Reginald lifted up his heart to God for Divine guidance.
Madam, he said, "the hour grows late and you are weary, I will be very brief in what I have to say."
Nay, said the Queen, "nay, my Lord Cardinal and good cousin, the hour matters not and your voice brings comfort to my soul! Speak all that your heart bids you say, I listen."
Then the Cardinal addressed himself to his task.
I come, madam, on a matter of life and death, on behalf of one who was tried and condemned in the Court of the Star Chamber to-day—by name Ralph Jefferay. The youth was found guilty of 'conspiracy,' yet am I sure that, though he may be guilty on this charge in a strictly legal sense, yet is he absolutely innocent morally; so loyal to your royal person is he at heart, that when the cruel sentence was pronounced, he cried out in loud tones—'God save the Queen!' The poor youth's offence is one of assault and nothing more, let me tell you briefly the circumstances of the case.
Then the Cardinal rapidly recounted the episode of the Chiddingly woods.
Mark, Madam, I beseech you, that no blood was shed, though the Pursuivant threatened him with dire punishment, being at the moment absolutely at his mercy.
The Queen listened attentively, but she made no observation.
Pole's heart sank within him, he felt that he had not yet convinced his noble auditor's judgment, nor had he deeply moved her feelings.
Was it possible that the King had forestalled him, representing the matter as a heretical plot and Ralph as a wild incendiary—a "Hot Gospeller," in fact?
Once more the Cardinal's soul appealed to Heaven for help, nor did he appeal in vain!
In warm and earnest language he set forth the brothers' exploit on the Thames and their narrow escape from a violent death.
Oh, Madam, he cried, "as I looked upon his pale, scarred, but noble face this day in the Star Chamber, a deep sense of pity took possession of me. He had atoned for his offence! It could not be that one so young, so brave, so nobly daring should suffer a felon's doom, and I besought Heaven to have mercy on him."
The sound of a gentle sob reached his ear, and he looked on the Queen's sad face.
Yes, she was deeply moved at last!
Stay, my Lord Cardinal, she said in a low voice, "I have heard enough. God spared that young man's life—shall we be less merciful?"
Then it was that she sent for Philip, and in a few minutes he was at the door, the Ambassador, at his request, accompanying him.
With Castilian courtesy Philip knelt and kissed the Queen's hand, then, rising, he repeated the salute on her forehead.
The Queen's face flushed with pleasure, for she dearly loved her husband—alas, he was all that she had to love in this world!
Then she marked the presence of the Ambassador, and extended her hand towards him as he knelt humbly to kiss it.
The Cardinal stood aside, he had made lowly obeisance to the King as he entered.
Your Majesty sent for me, I await your gracious pleasure, said Philip in low tones.
I crave your pardon if I have disturbed State business, said Mary apologetically, glancing at the Spanish Ambassador, "but I need your advice this night, although the hour grows late."
Philip bowed gracefully as he said—
I am always at your Majesty's service.
I will state the matter in as few words as possible, replied the Queen. "His eminence, our good cousin, has pleaded for a Royal pardon in the case of one Ralph Jefferay—condemned to-day in the Star Chamber as a conspirator. He has given me good reason to believe that the youth is innocent of the alleged offence, he attributes his assault upon our Pursuivant in the woods of Chiddingly to the hot blood of youth, and to no lack of loyalty to us. This is the youth of whom your Majesty spoke to me yesterday, and I now ask your advice and consent, ere I grant his Eminence's petition."
A smile sat on Philips face as he replied—
I, too, your Majesty, have heard somewhat more of this youth since he was the subject of our conversation, and when your usher arrived just now, our Ambassador, Don Renard here, was urging me to seek your Royal pardon for him. I do so, on the condition (may it please your Majesty) that the two brothers take service in the English contingent now being raised under Lord Clinton to fight under my banner against France. His Excellency undertakes that the young men accept this condition, therefore I sue for your Majesty's pardon.
We grant it joyfully, replied the Queen, "and we leave the matter confidently in the hands of the Cardinal and the Ambassador, who will, doubtless, see that all due formalities are observed."
Then Don Renard stepped forward and bowed profoundly.
Have I your Majesties' permission to speak? he said.
Then at his Sovereigns' nod of assent, he continued—
The matter is so urgent that I have here a blank form of Royal Pardon; it needs but the Queen's signature.
Thereupon he knelt at Mary's feet and presented the paper.
Mary took it to a side-table, signed it and gave the precious document into Don Renard's hands.
The long interview was ended.
The two petitioners (the Cardinal and the Ambassador) knelt before the Royal pair, kissed hands and departed.
In the courtyard of Whitehall the Ambassadors people were awaiting him with a carriage, into which the Statesman and the Churchman entered.
To the Fleet prison, Don Renard said to his coachman. "It is midnight," he said to the Cardinal as they drove through the silent and deserted streets, "yet I think we are in good time; I sent word to the Governor of the prison, ere I came to Court, asking him to await our arrival to-night and to notify to his prisoner, Ralph Jefferay, of our intentions."
And I, replied the Cardinal, "have told Sir John Jefferay that to-night I hoped to bring him good news. We shall do better, we shall bring him his nephew!"
A few minutes later the carriage drew up at the frowning gates of the Fleet prison.
A few words with the warders sufficed, the gates opened and the Cardinal and the Ambassador entered the prison and followed the warder to the Governor's lodging. The Fleet was the most gloomy prison in London, but the Governor's lodging offered a violent contrast to its dismal surroundings.
In days long past it had formed a part of the Town house of a great noble, and the fine hall into which the two visitors were ushered was a relic of its past magnificence.
The walls were wainscoted with dark oak, richly carved, and a bright fire lit up an open hearth ornamented by a chimney-piece sculptured with many a quaint device. On a table in the centre of the hall wax candles in heavy silver candlesticks shed forth a warm and pleasing light; the table was laden with refreshments.
As the distinguished guests entered the hall the Governor (Sir Thomas Middylton) hastened forward to greet them, bowing repeatedly.
But to his courteous entreaty that his visitors would honour him by resting awhile and taking refreshment, the Ambassador replied—
Ah, Sir Thomas, how gladly would we avail ourselves of your courtesy, but we have yet much to do this night, and, I grieve to say, it must be done quickly. We come to you from Whitehall: the Queen has been graciously pleased to extend her royal pardon to your prisoner Ralph Jefferay, and we bring to you an order for his deliverance to us, signed by her Majesty.
Therewith Don Renard handed the precious document to the Governor, who read it with grave deference. He then touched a gong, and, as a warder appeared, he bade him fetch the prisoner Ralph Jefferay.
In a few minutes Ralph was brought into the hall in the charge of two warders, and the Governor instantly addressed him.
Mr. Ralph Jefferay, he said, "her Majesty, the Queen, has been pleased to grant you a full and free pardon; you are no longer in my custody, and I am happy to deliver you into the hands of your friends who have come hither to convey you hence."
Ralph stood as one amazed and overwhelmed.
He had been forewarned that on the next day he would stand in the pillory, that the common hangman would do his cruel office of mutilation, and lo! here was pardon, freedom, joy and rejoicing!
The bright light of the hall had somewhat dazzled him: he had not perceived that behind the Governor stood his deliverers. As they stepped forward to greet him he recognized the Cardinal, whom he had last seen in the Star Chamber, and he fell at his feet and sought to kiss his hand.
Rise, my son, said the Cardinal in kindly tones; "we thank God for His mercy to you, and the Queen for her goodness. And here is one," he continued, "to whom you owe much more than to me; for while I wrought with the Queen on your behalf, his Excellency the Ambassador besought the consent of King Philip."
Then Don Renard affectionately embraced him, kissing him upon both cheeks.
And while Ralph stood speechless with joy the Ambassador exclaimed—
Mr. Governor, you will pardon our hasty departure, I am sure, for we must hie to Gray's Inn, where eager hearts await us.
Sir Thomas bowed in reply, and himself led the way to the great gate of the prison, where their carriage awaited them.
Gray's Inn at last!
And there the Treasurer, the sweet sister, the much-loved brother received from the hands of the liberators the released and pardoned prisoner, as "one risen from the dead."
Ah, what joy and rejoicing, what radiant happiness were theirs that night, as they knelt together to thank Heaven for its mercies!
The night was departing, the day was at hand, yet the men of the party gathered together round the hearth for a brief consultation after Susan had left them.
Don Renard comes hither at mid-day, said Sir John, "and he brings with him Lord Clinton, who happens to be in London. I fear that this portends that the conditions upon which Ralph obtained his freedom are to be fulfilled at once.
"I heard to-day that King Philip has commenced his campaign against the French King, and the English contingent are assembling at Dover. I would Geoffrey de Fynes were here; his man-servant has arrived with the news that his master's departure from Lewes was delayed, but that he would follow him in a few hours. Perhaps we assumed his consent to join you two boys too readily; but we shall soon know—he may be here to breakfast.""
"Have no fear on that score, dear uncle, replied Ralph; "he will tell you himself, as he has often told me, that he longs to see military service."
Then a final "good-night" was said, and the men betook themselves to rest.
When William and Ralph entered the breakfast room at a somewhat later hour than usual, they were overjoyed to see Geoffrey de Fynes already at table; he had ridden up to London that day. Very hearty were the greetings which passed between the young men. How much they had to tell each other!
De Fynes was the eldest of the trio, being twenty years of age. He was of moderate height, his strong limbs were finely proportioned, his clear-cut features exhibited all the manly grace which seemed to be hereditary in the noble family of the Dacres, of which he was the sole male representative. He had not heard the great news that he was to accompany the brothers to France. He was of a race of warriors, and now the passionate longings of his heart were to be fulfilled!
God save the Queen! he cried, as he leapt from his seat and flung his cap in the air.
Then he grasped the brothers' hands and shook them heartily; they would be his "brothers-in-arms" now, and ere long, please God, they would be united by a yet closer tie!
That last thought was very opportune, for at that moment Susan entered the room and the lovers fondly embraced.
I heard your voice as I was waiting on Sir John in the library, and I hastened thither, she said. "Now tell me, I pray you, the cause of all this uproarious joy?"
Geoffrey hung his head; he had come to London to ask for Susan's hand in marriage, and now he was rejoicing at the news that he was "off to the wars"!
Susan's womanly heart divined his trouble, and she hastened to dissipate it with caressing words.
God wills it, dear Geoffrey, she said; "I would not have it otherwise; for think! at this very hour our beloved Ralph might have been standing in the pillory at Tyburn. Oh, let us thank God for His mercy!"
Quickly an hour flew by, and at mid-day the expected visitors arrived and the young people were summoned to the library, where Don Renard and Lord Clinton awaited them, holding converse, meanwhile, with Sir John Jefferay.
The Ambassador introduced them severally to Lord Clinton, and the veteran soldier narrowly scanned his young recruits. He was still in the prime of life, though he had seen much service, as the scars on his rough and rugged face plainly showed.
Evidently the General was pleased with the appearance of the young men, of whom Don Renard had told him much. He took especial note of Geoffrey.
Your father and I, he said, "were at Court together, and we had the honour of forming part of the escort which accompanied Queen Ann of Cleves from Canterbury to London. I am glad to meet the son of Lord Dacres."
Then he talked to each of them individually, as one who was anxious to make their personal acquaintance, and perhaps to form some opinion of their capacities and inclinations.
The English contingent, he informed them, consisted of eight thousand men, of whom an advance body would leave Dover for Calais under his command to-morrow.
For the present he offered them, with the King's permission, commissions in the Arquebusiers, with posts on his own staff. If this met their views it would be necessary for them to join their regiment this very night: the notice was short, but the case was urgent; were they ready?
The young men eagerly gave willing consent, and so the matter was decided, and the visitors rose to depart.
I have much to do to-day, Sir John, said Lord Clinton, "and so, I doubt not, will be the case with these young gentlemen. I pray you pardon so short a visit and so hurried a departure."
Don Renard took an affectionate leave of his two protégés, and the momentous interview was over.
Intense activity prevailed at Gray's Inn that day.
There were many preparations to be made, many farewells to be said and counsels to be given.
It was late in the evening that the young soldiers, each accompanied by a trusty serving-man, mounted their horses for Dover, where they were to embark with the troops for Calais.
War had been declared with all due form and ceremony between England and France, and King Philip was now eager to return to the Continent.
He had obtained from Mary all the assistance she could wring from reluctant England.
For though the Queen entered with all her heart and soul into his projects, as became the daughter of Catharine of Aragon, English people felt that this was no quarrel of theirs, and they remembered that when the "Spanish match" was hotly debated, a provision had been made in the royal contract "that England should not be made a party to Philips Continental wars."
During the four months that he had been in England the King had exerted himself strenuously to overcome this reluctance, and he had so far succeeded that a well-equipped contingent of eight thousand stalwart Englishmen had joined his army.
Lords Pembroke, Clinton and Gray were in chief command of their countrymen, and many a gallant young high-born Englishman had joined the force, eager to gain military renown.
Such was the feeling, undoubtedly, that influenced the three sons of the Earl of Northumberland to accompany it, and similar hopes beat high in the breasts of the two Jefferays and Geoffrey de Fynes.
The King took his last adieu of Mary at the old palace of Greenwich; he was never to see the fond, forsaken woman again!
Poor Mary, who would not pity her?
Philip hastened to Brussels, where the great army was assembling which was to invade France and bring King Henry the Second to his knees.
It was a motley army, consisting altogether of thirty-five thousand foot and twelve thousand horse, besides a strong train of artillery.
The flower of the infantry was drawn from Spain, Spanish warriors of great experience, and bearing a reputation second to none in the world.
The English force was entirely made up of foot soldiers, the cavalry of the army being mercenary troops from Germany, known as "Schwartzreiters."
These "reiters" were the most dreaded troops of the age. Dark, swarthy men, of whom Brant?me speaks as "noirs comme de beaux diables," each carrying five or six pistolets in his belt, with swords and, sometimes, a short arquebus.
Truly a formidable armament!
These were augmented by a fine corps of Burgundian lances, and a great number of noble Castilian youths, eager to fight for the honour of Spain under the eye of their King.
The whole army was under the command of Emanuel Philibert, Duke of Savoy, a youthful warrior of but twenty-nine years of age, yet possessing already a great reputation as a clever, dashing soldier.
This was the man whom Philip (probably for reasons of State) was strongly supporting in his suit for the hand of the Princess Elizabeth of England—an alliance which that astute lady firmly declined.
Besides the Duke of Savoy there were other illustrious soldiers in command of Philip's army—the Counts Egmont, Horn, Mansfeld being of the number.
Egmont was the hero of the army, as he was destined to become the darling of his nation!
Handsome beyond the usual share of mortals, young, ambitious, "sans peur et sans reproche," he was the "preux chevalier" of Europe.
Alas! that he was destined to die a felon's death in the market-place of Brussels, with his illustrious brother-in-arms, Count Horn.
Such was the army, such were its leaders. For miles and miles tents in many thousands shone in the sunlight, in the pleasant month of August, on the heights above the ancient town of St. Quentin. At the foot of the great camp a morass and the River Somme intervened between it and the beleaguered city.
Well might the hearts of Englishmen beat high as they beheld the river and thought of Agincourt and Crécy! Such thoughts filled the hearts of four horsemen grouped together on the highest plateau whereon stood the English camp.
It was the 9th of August, and the day was breaking, flooding the scene before them with rosy light. The pennons surmounting the snow-white tents of the Spanish camps fluttered lightly in the breeze, which was scarcely enough to unfurl the heavily emblazoned standards of the great chiefs present.
There were the ensigns of Eric and Henry, Dukes of Brunswick, of the gigantic Lewes of Brederode, of Almoral, Count of Egmont and of Count Horn.
Look, boys, cried Lord Clinton to Geoffrey, William and Ralph, whom he had made his aides-de-camp. "Look well, the town is awake right early to-day, and Coligni's men are mustering heavily around the great gates. They are about to attempt a sortie, unless I am deceived.
You, Geoffrey, will remain here on watch with me; but you, Ralph, ride at top speed to the Duke's tent and give the alarm; and you, William, to Count Egmont. Haste, haste! he cried, "the sortie has begun!"
It was a wondrous scene.
Out from the town poured the Dauphin's regiment under the command of the brave but rash Teligni, and in a few minutes the object of the sortie became evident. Close to the walls, between them and the Somme, stood many houses of the humbler sort, and an avenue of thick plane-trees grew beside them.
In a few minutes the houses were enveloped in flames, and the soldiers were levelling the trees to the ground with axes.
These would form an obvious shelter to an attacking force, and their destruction was a necessity.
Meanwhile the Admiral (Coligni) was lining the ramparts with arquebusiers, to protect the forces on sortie.
The English camp was the first to receive the alarm and to come into action, as Lord Clinton saw to his great joy.
On all sides they were hurrying up, and presently from their serried ranks a heavy musketry fire poured forth. The distance was great, for the Somme and the morass lay between them and their foe, and this Lord Clinton instantly perceived.
Ride, boy, to Count Brederode, and bid him bring up some field-pieces, he cried hotly to William, who dashed off on his errand.
Now the French arquebusiers began a heavy fusillade on the advancing besiegers, and soon a thick veil of smoke hid the town of St. Quentin from view.
Little harm was being done by the hot musketry fire, and Lord Clinton soon saw that the object of the garrison would be attained.
Oh, Brederode, Brederode! when will your guns speak? he cried, as he heard the enemy's trumpets sound the recall.
Suddenly a roar of artillery rent the air, and the brave foe began to retreat slowly and sullenly. Many a gallant man lay dead outside the walls, stricken by that fierce fire; but their work was done—the Admiral's object was gained.
The town of St. Quentin, though rich and prosperous, was protected only by ancient fortifications, long since "out of date," and in ruinous condition.
The garrison consisted of but one thousand men, and these were miserably armed; there was practically no artillery.
When the gallant Admiral had thrown himself into the town he found but one culverin on the ramparts, and for that one no ammunition had been provided!
The town was not provisioned for a siege—a month's rations for the troops was all that Coligni could find in St. Quentin.
Then the Admiral took a desperate step which nothing but the cruel exigencies of war could justify.
All the aged and infirm, all the sick and helpless, were ordered to leave the city, and seven hundred individuals were thus expelled, most of them to perish from want and misery!
The women were shut up in the cathedral and the churches, "lest their terror and their tears should unman the troops." Coligni himself was the very life and soul of the defence; foremost in every danger, sharing all hardships, and cheering all despairing hearts, he was prepared to die under the ruins of the town—he would never surrender to the foe!
Meanwhile, a great French army, numbering eighteen thousand foot and six thousand horse, was approaching to the relief of St. Quentin under the Constable Montmorency.
It was mainly composed of German mercenary troops, but the chivalry of France were represented there in splendid array, proud to fight under such leaders as Montmorency, the Prince of Condé, the Duke de Nevers, Daudelot (the brother of the Admiral), and many another illustrious chief.
The relief army had encamped on the banks of the Somme at La Fère and Ham; the Admiral sent messengers to Montmorency imploring instant succour.
The next day, August 8th, Daudelot strove to break through the lines of the besiegers at the head of two thousand men, and he failed miserably!
Most of his men perished in the morass, his guides mistaking the paths, and thus bringing them into contact with the outposts of the besiegers.
Their leader, under the cover of night, succeeded in making good his retreat to La Fère, at the head of a mere straggling group of beaten men!
That same night a different scene took place in the great military tent of Lord Clinton: he was entertaining the Lords Pembroke and Gray, and many of the leaders of the Spanish army were there.
The night was chilly, and a fine rain was falling. Around the camp fire sat warriors of world-wide fame, and the English aides-de-camp, watchful for the comforts of their lord's guests, marked each word that fell from their lips.
Especially did Almoral, Count Egmont, call forth their fervent admiration.
He is like a young war-god, whispered Ralph to William. "Never saw I so glorious a specimen of the genus homo. Oh, to follow such a leader as that into the hot din of battle!"
Listen to what he is saying, replied his brother in a low voice; "methinks our chance of such an honour will soon come." For Almoral was relating how that very night his reiters had captured a messenger sent by Coligni to Montmorency.
He had short shrift, I suppose! said Brederode, with a hoarse laugh.
By my faith, no! replied Egmont. "When I had read his message, I sent him on his way to the French Constable, and bade him deliver it duly. For this was the message—
'Par l'amour de Dieu, des sècours, ou nous allons perir.'
You did well, Egmont, said Philibert of Savoy, "for I know the fiery old Constable well, and this message will sting him to frenzy.
"Ah! would that to-morrow were the day of battle; for, mark you, we stand in a strange position of peril. In front of us is St. Quentin, which we dare not abandon. Northward lies the French army, while from the south Guise is hurrying up with his victorious army from Italy. We may be caught between three fires unless we can destroy this French army and capture St. Quentin before Guise can arrive. And if we can do this, as by the help of Heaven we shall, there lies no other fortified city between us and Paris, and Guise may arrive to find us in possession of that noble city.""
"The guests rose with one consent and cheered lustily. They drew their swords and clashed them overhead with fierce joy!
Yes, whispered Ralph to William again, "we shall fight to-morrow, and may you and I be in the thick of the strife!"
Saturday, August 9th, broke hazily; St. Quentin was enveloped in a thick mist which arose from the swampy plain surrounding it.
At early dawn Montmorency put his whole army in motion; he would relieve St. Quentin, or perish!
His first effort was attended with surprising success. Intervening low hills hid the advance of his troops from the Spaniards, and thus he was able to secure possession of a windmill which commanded a ford over the Somme, which led to the Spanish camp.
The mill was held by a small force of the enemy, but Montmorency quickly captured it and placed there a strong garrison under the Prince of Condé. The main body pressed across the ford, and the artillery opened a heavy fire on the Spanish camp, to the infinite surprise of the Spaniards.
It was as though their foe had dropped from the clouds. So near was the range that the Duke of Savoy's tent was levelled to the ground, and Philibert had barely time to escape, carrying his armour in his hand! He took refuge in the quarters of the commander of the cavalry, Count Egmont.
This brief success seemed to Montmorency to be the presage of victory, and Daudelot was sent with a strong force to cross the river and the morass, and so bring succour to the besieged town. Meanwhile the French army would keep the Spaniards in check.
Soon the arquebusiers, in their heavy armour, were plunging horribly in the quagmires of the morass, and by this time the Spanish artillery was dealing death among them.
Moreover, boats were required, and only four could be found; and these, heavily laden with soldiers and the munitions of war, crossed and recrossed the river slowly and with great difficulty. Two, overladen with their burdens, sank in the deep waters, and the shouts and screams of the drowning men added to the horrors of the scene.
Eventually Daudelot, with five hundred men, reached the gates of St. Quentin; all the rest perished miserably. Montmorency now gave the order to retreat; a strong reinforcement (though at great loss) had been thrown into the city, and so far his object was effected.
Meanwhile, a brief council of war was held in Egmont's tent, in which the fiery vehemence of the Count carried everything before it.
The Duke of Savoy urged caution.
The French army was so situated that the Spanish infantry, on which he placed his chief confidence, could not act effectually against it.
But the cavalry officers carried the day.
Shall we let so rich a prize escape? cried Egmont, with wild enthusiasm. "Heaven has placed within our power the destruction of the flower of the French army, a Prince of the blood royal, and the great Constable Montmorency. Capture them, and St. Quentin will be ours to-morrow; and, by the grace of God, Paris will follow!"
And, as he spoke, the auburn locks which fell over his shoulders shook like a lion's mane; his eyes flashed fire, his burning eloquence was irresistible!
From the English quarters, where every man was drawn up in battle array, Lord Clinton watched the progress of the battle and the movements of the contending armies, ready at any moment to take part therein.
He marked the Spanish cavalry drawing together in one dense mass in Egmont's quarters. By his side stood his young aides-de-camp.
It will be a cavalry battle, I fear, he cried, "and England will have no share in the glory of the day!"
The young men around him, full of martial fire and thirsting for conflict and victory, groaned audibly in dismay.
Then Clinton turned suddenly to his faithful three, whom he had learned to love.
Ah! I see how it is, he cried, "and you shall have the chance of glory you thirst for! Ride, all three of you, to Egmont, and tell him that the English force will follow swiftly on in the rear of his cavalry, in case he need support. Tell him I make him a gift of your three swords, if he can find place for you, and Heaven send you back to me in safety, and forgive me if I err!"
Oh, thanks, my Lord, a thousand thanks! cried the three with one voice, and in another moment they were thundering forth to the spot where Egmont's emblazoned standard fluttered heavily in the breeze.
They were just in time; a minute longer and they had been too late!
The sun had burst forth suddenly from a dark bank of clouds; it shone vividly on Count Egmont as he sat on his great Flemish war-horse, splendidly armed, in front of his eight thousand cavalry.
Availing themselves of the privilege attached to aides-de-camp, the three Englishmen traversed the plain in front of the grim line of the cavalry, motionless, but eagerly awaiting the signal to charge.
Reaching Egmont's side, De Fynes, as the eldest, bared his head and cried—
A message, my Lord Count, from Lord Clinton! and he repeated the message word for word.
Egmont had noted these three young Englishmen as they hung upon his words in Lord Clinton's tent on the previous night, and he knew the value of good English swords!
So he smiled as he said—
Lord Clinton offers your services as my 'aides' to-day; be it so—fall in behind me.
They bowed their gratitude, then drew their swords and joined the ranks of the noble youths who followed the banner of Egmont and did him special and personal service.
Oh, how happy they were!
No fear, no misgiving beclouded their martial souls at that supreme moment!
Suddenly Egmont waved his sword aloft, and the clarions' shrill notes gave the eagerly looked for signal to charge, and with a wild "Hurrah!" the serried squadrons thundered down the slopes.
Meanwhile conflicting counsels destroyed the confidence of the French army, hesitation and dismay beset them. The keen eye of Condé had watched the dark masses of Spanish cavalry gathering together on the hills ready to descend like an avalanche on the retreating enemy. De Montmorency's artillery dragged heavily through the swampy ground in the rear, and he would not abandon it.
In vain Condé sent swift and urgent messages to him, pointing out the danger of delay.
It was too late, the Spaniards were upon them! The retreating army stayed its course and boldly faced the coming storm.
Egmont with two thousand horse charged on their left flank; the other side was assaulted by the Dukes Eric and Henry of Brunswick, while Mansfeld burst on their front.
The French army wavered under the tremendous shock, while the camp followers, pedlers and sutlers took to instant flight, and thus spread dismay through the entire army.
The Spanish cavalry carried everything before it; the rout was sudden and final!
The Duc de Nevers made a despairing effort to restore the battle at the head of five hundred dragoons; but the "black devils," as the Frenchmen called the "Schwartzreiters," cut them to pieces, and the Duc barely escaped at the head of a mere handful of men to La Fère, and with him was the Prince of Condé.
For a time the French infantry presented a bold front; the Gascons, the flower of the army, threw themselves into squares, and the fierce cavalry rode round their solid masses, bristling with steel, unable to find an entrance.
At this moment the Duke of Savoy, with his artillery, came on the field of action, and their deadly fire sealed the fate of the foe.
Yet the noble chivalry of France refused to be thus scattered and beaten; they gathered together in groups, fighting desperately to the last—brave souls to whom death was preferable to surrender!
Many men threw down their arms on that field of blood, many fled helplessly before the remorseless reiters, the strong overturning the weak and trampling down the wounded.
Blood flowed like water, death was on every side, and above all other sounds were the wild neighing of the war-horses and the fierce curses of their riders.
The fight and the pursuit of the fugitives had lasted four hours; the shades of evening were falling as the victors returned to the field to take up their quarters for the night and to secure their unhappy prisoners, for whom heavy ransoms would have to be paid to their captors.
France had not suffered such a defeat since Agincourt; the bravest and noblest of her sons had fallen on that field of blood!
Montmorency was a prisoner.
A shot from a schwartzreiter had fractured his thigh as he was throwing himself into the hottest part of the battle, determined to perish.
Covered with mire and blood, unrecognizable in the fierce mêlée, he would have died where he fell, at the hands of the fierce foe.
But over his fallen body stood three gallant swordsmen, whose determined attitude warned all men off. And as the fiery stream of battle flowed onwards, they lifted up the fallen Constable tenderly, and bore him to a place of safety.
Yet were they not to do this deed of mercy unmolested. A swarthy reiter followed them, observing that the fallen man was of high rank.
I claim this man as my prisoner, and I hold to ransom; mine was the shot that brought him down, said he fiercely.
Make your claim good to King Philip, we shall not resist it; the ransom may be yours, but at present the body is ours, answered De Fynes boldly.
And De Montmorency lived to pay so great a ransom (10,000 ducats), that his captor was able to buy a fortress on the Rhine and a title of nobility!
But the Constable's fame as a soldier was lost for ever, and the evening of his days was spent in obscurity.
That night the three English youths, unwounded and unscathed, reported themselves to their commander, Lord Clinton. Ah, what a happy meeting was that! And though the English contingent took no leading part in the battle, yet their presence before the town prevented Coligni from succeeding in an attempted sortie from St. Quentin—they did good service.
A vast amount of spoil fell into the hands of the victors: among it were eighty standards and all the artillery save two pieces.
The prisoners numbered six thousand men, of whom six hundred were gentlemen of position.
Of De Montmorency's fine army of twenty-two thousand men all were slain or captured, save five thousand. Among the slain were some of the noblest of the sons of France, notably Jean de Bourbon, Count d'Enghien, a prince of the blood.
On the side of the Spaniards less than a thousand fell, among them being Count Brederode (who perished in the morass, smothered in his armour) and Counts Spiegelbourg and Waldeck.
On the next day King Philip himself rode into the camp; he had left Brussels and was at Cambrai when the battle took place. He was received with all the honours of war—with unbounded enthusiasm!
The unhappy prisoners were paraded before him in long procession, and the captured standards were placed at his feet—the camp was delirious with joy.
A council of war was forthwith held to decide on future operations.
With fiery zeal Egmont and Gonzaga urged that an immediate march on Paris should be made.
Send me on with the cavalry, sire, and I promise you that in four days you shall sup in Paris! cried Egmont.
But Philip was as cautious as his renowned father, Charles the Fifth, was adventurous.
When the news of the battle reached the abdicated Emperor, his first inquiry was "whether Philip was in Paris."
There were many difficulties to be surmounted ere that glorious consummation could be reached, and Philip laid them before the council.
"St. Quentin must first be taken! Between them and Paris there existed many a strong fortress, and wide rivers which must be crossed. Moreover, Paris would not surrender lightly—its citizens could man the walls with forty thousand men at least. Again, Condé and Nevers, with the relics of the broken army, must be reckoned with. Ere long Guise would come to their support.""
"So the King argued, and the council reluctantly agreed that all their efforts should now be concentrated on the capture of St. Quentin.
Before the council broke up King Philip called Egmont to him, and taking the collar of the Golden Fleece from his own person, placed it upon the neck of the Count as the real hero of the day!
All Spain ratified the King's deed; "Egmont and St. Quentin" became the rallying cry of the nation, and the fame of the brave Hollander reached the farthest limits of the mighty empire over which Philip ruled.
With royal generosity Philip bestowed rich rewards on the chieftains assembled in council that day. To Savoy princely rank and high office near his person, and to all others guerdons according to their rank.
There was a great meeting in Egmont's tent that night. Thither came the English lords—Pembroke, Gray, and Clinton—and at the banquet-table sat Spanish and Flemish nobles of high degree, many of them bearing the traces of battle upon them, yet all were jubilant and triumphant.
Behind the great chiefs stood their aides-de-camp, according to Spanish custom, and among these young warriors were Geoffrey, Ralph, and William.
Ere the revelry had grown to its height and had become uproarious, Egmont's eye fell upon the three English youths and, with the generosity of his noble nature, he called them before him, inquired their name, and shook each by the hand.
You rode well to-day, my gallant young soldiers, and I saw you deal many a lusty blow for the honour of Spain and the Netherlands, he said. "I marked how you stood by the fallen Constable, and though two Spaniards, as I hear, claim the honour of his capture, you certainly rescued his body. You will not forget the day of St. Quentin: I will give you something whereby to remember it."
Then he called his major-domo to him, and taking a huge gold goblet into his hand, he cried—
Fill this goblet with golden ducats.
It was soon done, for King Philip had given him five thousand that day.
Take it, boys, and divide the money among you and toss for the cup! Well do you deserve it. England may be proud of her sons if they are all such as you!
What wonder that Almoral, Count Egmont, was the hero, the darling, almost the demi-god of those who served under his banner.
This was the bright and glittering side of war. Alas! how little men recked of the desolation, death, despair and destruction it caused! How little thought they in Egmont's tent that night of the unburied dead whose cold bodies lay on the blood-stained battlefield of St. Quentin! How little of the broken hearts, the shattered hopes, the desolate homes in the fair regions of sunny France when the news of that fatal day should be borne to the humiliated but proud nation!
The next day the Spanish camp resounded with the preparations for the renewed siege of St. Quentin. Fresh batteries were thrown up on all sides on which the artillery, captured from the French, was planted, and, ere many hours had passed, a furious cannonade burst forth upon the crumbling fortifications of the doomed city. Mines were planted, and galleries excavated almost to the very centre of St. Quentin.
Yet no thought of surrender occupied the valiant heart of Admiral Coligni!
It was at this point that his heroism and devotion to duty reached its height. He knew that the hopes of France depended upon the city being held till succour came, till the conquering army under Guise could arrive!
The able-bodied men of his garrison numbered but eight hundred, and these were half-starved and well-nigh worn out by incessant exertion.
By night, by day, sleepless yet indefatigable, the gallant Admiral shared the dangers and the labours of his men; cheering, exhorting, praising every desperate deed of valour and immediately rewarding it, the Admiral was the very life and soul of the defence!
Help came to him unexpectedly.
De Nevers, with the relics of the shattered army, still lingered in the neighbourhood, and he managed to throw one hundred and fifty arquebusiers into the town, though thrice that number perished in the attempt.
Coligni formed countermines, and in subterranean regions fierce combats took place between the besieged and the besiegers,—men fought like demons!
Yet he knew that the last provisions were being consumed, that huge breaches were being made in the crumbling walls which St. Remy, the renowned French engineer, strove to repair, under cover of night, with desperate energy. Huge timbers were dragged to the top of the tottering ramparts, and under their shelter the arquebusiers kept up a perpetual fire on the Spaniards.
Thus the siege went on till August 27. In vain did Coligni scan the horizon from the top of the cathedral tower—Guise came not!
A most furious cannonade from the Spanish batteries on the night of the twenty-sixth had resulted in the making of eleven great breaches in the ramparts, and the Duke of Savoy saw that the time had come for a general assault upon the city.
Early in the morning he put his whole force under arms, assigning to the English contingent the honour of leading the assault.
Coligni saw that the decisive hour was at hand. He filled the breaches with his troops, taking charge of the most dangerous one himself, while his brother Daudelot took another almost equally critical.
The spirit of the defenders was magnificent, each man felt that the end was near, and they were prepared to die under the ruins of the city; none thought of surrender, no white flag was unfurled!
Savoy preluded the general assault by a furious cannonade, and it was not till the afternoon that the signal was given by the shrill voices of the trumpets for the great onslaught.
Then the English rushed forward, closely followed by Spaniards, Germans, and Flemish in generous rivalry. King Philip beheld the wondrous scene from a neighbouring hill, and his troops, knowing that they were fighting under the eye of their Sovereign, were inspired with heroic zeal.
It was a titanic struggle!
For a whole hour the gaunt and famished Frenchmen held their foes in check, and at length the Spaniards were driven off—not a single breach had been carried.
Savoy gave his men a brief breathing time, then the clarions pealed forth their wild notes again, and the fierce strife burst forth anew.
The Duc's keen eye had noted a weak point in the defence.
A strong tower on the ramparts had been left with few defenders, in reliance upon its apparent invulnerability. On this point Savoy hurled the English contingent, and in one great rush it was carried and the invaders poured into the city.
In vain had Coligni rushed to its defence, fighting desperately, hand-to-hand, with the assailants. He was overpowered and, with his heroic brother Daudelot, was taken prisoner.
Immediately he was led through one of the excavated passages by his captor, Francisco Diaz, to the exterior of the city and into the presence of King Philip, who gave Diaz ten thousand ducats.
Then a fierce onslaught by the whole army swept all resistance before it, and in half-an-hour the city was captured!
Philip entered the city in complete armour, a page carrying his helmet; and a roar of savage triumph went up from his troops as they beheld their King. He had never been present at the storming of a city before, and the sights that met his eye moved even his stony heart to pity.
The wild schwartzreiters spared neither age nor sex. As the Frenchmen retreated to the market-place, where their final slaughter took place, the troops entered the well-built houses of the citizens, slaying every living soul within them and loading themselves with rich plunder, some obtaining two or three thousand ducats apiece. In pure recklessness they set the houses on fire, and soon the whole city was ablaze.
Philip gave immediate orders that the fires should be quenched, and that all who surrendered should be admitted to pardon.
Crowds of women and children threw themselves at his feet with loud cries for mercy, and he ordered them to be escorted out of the city.
But the cruel storm of savage lust and thirst for blood had passed beyond human control.
As the flames spread to the cathedral and the churches, the women who had taken refuge within the sacred walls came pouring forth, panic-stricken with fear. Many of them were richly dressed, some even wore jewels, perhaps thinking them safer in their possession than if they had been left in the doomed town.
Upon these helpless women the wild Germans rushed with savage cries, their ornaments and even their rich garments were torn from them, and the mad reiters slashed their faces with their daggers and knives.
An infernal din filled the air, screams of anguish, cries for mercy, mingled with the demoniac shouts and curses of the conquerors.
Under the walls of the venerable cathedral stood a company of English soldiers; they had been sent by Philip to perform a curious duty.
In that building, dedicated to his honour, were stored up the relics of St. Quentin, and Philip had ordered that the venerated bones of the Saint should be conveyed to the camp with all honour, and that a mass should be sung before them.
And this while the blazing streets were full of the dead and dying, while helpless children and hapless maidens were being dismembered, while blood ran in torrents on every side.
Alas, that the royal pity should thus be extended to the dead and denied to the living!
Among the English group stood Lord Clinton's three aides-de-camp, gazing on the scene with sullen anger. Many a helpless babe and terror-stricken mother had they rescued in obedience to Philip's own command.
Suddenly a young Frenchwoman, richly dressed, rushed towards them followed by a mounted reiter. Ere she could reach the place of safety the trooper overtook her, and with one cruel sweep of his sword lopped off her right arm. She fell to her feet and the soldier lifted his sword again, with the evident intent of depriving her of both her arms. But ere he could accomplish his fell purpose Ralph sprang forward with a shout.
Devil, fiend and assassin! he cried, as he ran his sharp rapier through the reiter's sword-arm.
The German's weapon dropped from his right hand, and with his left he strove to draw a pistol from his holster, as he turned fiercely upon his assailant. But pain and anguish overcame him, and he reeled from his saddle.
The deed had been seen by his comrades, and, in an instant, a troop of them faced the English, who had leapt to Ralph's side, with wild cries of vengeance. They had dragged their wounded comrade into their midst, now they drew their huge pistols from their holsters and, advancing on the English, their leader cried, as he pointed to Ralph—
Deliver that man up to us or we will slay you all!
It was at this critical moment that the great door of the cathedral was thrown open and a white-robed procession of priests issued from it; they were bearing forth the relics of St. Quentin in obedience to the King's command. And on the southern side of the place the King, in his flashing Milanese armour, and mounted on his war-horse, advanced to meet them, greeting the sacred relics with bowed head.
His royal presence quelled the tumult; all weapons were lowered till the King should have passed on his way. But the King's keen eye had noted that something unusual had happened—that the English and the Germans were confronting each other in deadly hostility.
He beckoned Count Mansfeld to his side, the reiter chieftain had been riding behind him. Pointing to the two groups of soldiers, he said—
Something has gone amiss. Your brave reiters, Count, are getting out of hand. Stay here with fifty of my guards, inquire into the case and report it to me this night.
Mansfeld bowed low in acquiescence, and the King rode slowly off in the rear of the priestly procession. The instant the King was gone the Count turned sternly on the offenders as the fifty guards drew up behind him.
The old Count was the sternest disciplinarian in the Spanish army, and all men knew it. None but he could bring an enraged, riotous reiter to order.
Come hither, Friedrich, he said in cold tones of command to the leader of the German troop. "Tell me briefly, what means this?"
Yon Englishman, said Friedrich, "ran his poniard through Gustav's arm, and we were about to avenge him."
And wherefore did he that? said Mansfeld.
The reiter captain hesitated, and the Count's face grew sternly fierce.
Was that the cause? he said, pointing to where the body of the woman lay.
She had gone into a swoon, and beside her lay her severed arm.
I see, said the Count, with increased severity; "and the Englishman avenged her; was not that so?"
The reiter captain still remained silent.
Yet you knew of the King's command that mercy should be shown to all women and children.
Then he turned to his escort.
Take that wounded man, he said, pointing to the schwartzreiter, now craven with fear and crying for mercy, "hang him from yon turret forthwith in token that the King's order must be obeyed!"
The order was instantly obeyed.
The night was coming down upon the unhappy city and no deed of justice, no royal order could quell the thirst for blood, for rapine and pillage which possessed the mad soldiery who held St. Quentin in their power that night. The powers of evil took full possession of the fallen town—it was given over to sack and pillage.
The chieftains had retired to the camp to celebrate their victory with banquets, the King was holding high service over the relics of St. Quentin, the army was left in possession of the city. It was burning in every part, and houses were falling with thunderous sound.
Yet the soldiers dashed through flame and smoke like demons, in eager search for booty. The cellars were plundered, the garrets were searched, nothing escaped the greed and brutality of the plunderers.
The streets were strewn with the bodies and dismembered limbs of the vanquished, and famished dogs were ravenously gnawing human flesh.
Such women as had escaped had been again driven by Philip's order into the cathedral, and there were left to perish by famine!
Yet, while sin and crime lifted their heads high and unabashed, there were three delinquents who met condign punishment, and their case was a singular one.
Three Germans made their way into the vestry of the cathedral, and they emerged thence clothed in gorgeous copes and chasubles. Mounting their horses outside the cathedral, they rode gaily about the burning town, their strange attire attracting laughter and derision from their comrades.
By some strange fatality this escapade came to the ears of Philip, perhaps the royal chaplain informed him of it.
The offenders were instantly sought for and arrested. Philip ordered all of the three to be hanged! His sensitive soul could not endure this outrage upon religion, though for three days and three dreadful nights he had allowed the pillage of the city to continue.
On the morning of the fourth day all soldiers were ordered into camp. The desolated city was left in peace—it was the peace of the dead!
So fell St. Quentin!
The week which followed the fall of St. Quentin was a period of strenuous exertion on the part of the conquerors.
The dead were buried, the city was cleansed of its many impurities, and the devastating fires which had threatened the destruction of the whole town were at length subdued.
Of all the religious edifices in the city the cathedral alone remained unconsumed by the devouring element. Philip had himself superintended the efforts made for its preservation; streets were pulled down, strong buildings were blown up by gunpowder, and at length the noble building stood in grand isolation, but safe from fire.
A strong Spanish garrison was placed in possession of St. Quentin; the remainder of the army was under orders to prepare for instant and active service.
The neighbouring towns of Picardy, Catelet, Ham, and Chanley were to be besieged forthwith, and the camp was full of zeal and animation—for surely fresh spoils awaited the soldiers of Philip, and bright visions of glory and honour filled the minds of the chieftains. In the English camp alone these feelings held no sway. The war had never been popular with them—they felt that they were fighting the battles of King Philip, and not those of their own country.
And now that the main object of the expedition had been won, and the chief town in Picardy captured, the English contingent were eager to return home.
In the evening of a fine September day Lord Clinton's three aides-de-camp were reposing in their tent after a day's active exertion.
That day a courier had brought them letters from England, and the young men were eagerly discussing home news.
Susan had written to each of them, for she had much to tell.
The fires of Smithfield had burst forth anew, to the horror of the people and the grief of all good men. That very day three victims had perished, and the Queen's guards had scarce prevented the London people from attempting forcible rescue.
One condemned man had been pardoned by the Cardinal Archbishop, and many were said to have been freed by him after brief examination and apparent but doubtful submission.
Rumours were afloat in London, Susan said, that the Cardinal had fallen out of favour at Rome, and that the Pope (Paul IV) had deprived him of his legatine commission and had recalled him to Rome. The Archbishop was in bad health, and on this plea the Queen had refused to give him permission to leave the country.
These things brought great unhappiness to the Queen, and added to them was the increasing malignity of her disorder—she was evidently sinking into the grave—and there was none to pity her!
Alas, poor Queen, wrote Susan, "unloved by her people, deserted by her husband, worried by the Pope, and conscious, above all, that she had failed in the one object of her life, and that her successor, the Princess Elizabeth, would undo all her work for the 'conversion' of England."
Yet Susan had some good news to tell them.
"Sir John was in excellent health, and he had lately received news from their beloved father that he and their dear Vicar were well, and were determined to return to England on the day when the Princess should be declared Queen. Oh, when will you three dear boys come home?"" she wrote. ""How I long for that day, how I picture ourselves at the beloved home in Sussex, the sweet old house at Chiddingly!
"I close my eyes, and my mind pictures to me the green woods and the noble sweep of the Sussex downs. I seem to hear the cawing of the rooks in the tall trees and the singing of the birds in the shrubberies. Oh, I grow mad with deep longing! God send you home quickly, safe and sound.
The boys listened to these words with bated breath—perhaps with moistened eyes—for Susan's passionate love for her Sussex home expressed their own deep longings.
Here comes Lord Clinton, said Geoffrey suddenly, as he saw their lord's well-known figure approaching the tent.
They rose to receive him; then, as he took a seat, after some pleasant words of greeting, William spoke—
We are happy to see you, my Lord; we are anxious to know if our marching orders have been given.
It is on that very point that I am come to see you. I have my marching orders, but I am not sure that I shall take you with me.
The young "aides" started with surprise; but ere they could seek an explanation of his words Lord Clinton proceeded to say—
"I wish to hold a brief consultation with you. Count Mansfeld has just brought me some sinister news. He tells me that his reiters have discovered that it was Ralph's poniard which disabled the man who was afterwards hung from the cathedral turret, and they have sworn to avenge his death. He has sent them a message that he will sharply punish the perpetrators of any such an attempt, but Mansfeld tells me that his men are in a dangerous humour, and he wished me to warn you to keep to the limits of your own camp, and that even within those limits Ralph should never wander alone.""
"The young soldiers smiled disdainfully.
Our swords can guard our heads, my Lord, we have no fear! said Geoffrey.
Yes, I know that, cried Clinton, "but I want to make assurance doubly sure.
"Now, listen. By to-day's courier the King has received some disquieting news. Guise is collecting a great army under King Henry's orders, and Philip has a suspicion that Calais is to be the object of his attack. From his spies at the French Court he hears that the Bishop of Acqs, the French envoy to England, has just returned home, and that he passed through Calais en route. He reports that the town is practically defenceless; the garrison is small, the fortifications are in a state of ruin.
" "The King is sending swift messengers to Queen Mary to urge her to remedy this condition of things, but he wishes to obtain proof that the Bishop's statements are true. I have offered him your services, if you are willing to undertake the duty. What say you? Your mission will be a secret one, and it will be attended with many dangers both by land and sea; but it will bring you much honour if you succeed. From Calais you would proceed direct to Dover, and so to London to lay your report before the Queen.""
"The boys listened with glistening eyes; this was the Heaven-sent fulfilment of their dearest hopes! With one voice they cried—
We accept!
I knew that you would do so, replied Clinton, "and I go to ask the King to give you a letter to be presented to Lord Wentworth, the Governor of Calais. Make your preparations with all possible secrecy—you will start to-night under cover of darkness. Your route will be to Brussels, and thence to Antwerp, where you will embark on a King's ship for Calais.
I will provide you with three strong horses; at Brussels you will change these for three others, which you will leave at Antwerp. There is no moon to-night, happily; you must start at eight o'clock, and I will be here to give you money and your last instructions. Now I go to the King; commence your preparations at once; I return to you in an hour's time, and therewith Lord Clinton left them.
What joy he left behind him! The three boys flung their caps in the air, they shook each other by the hand, they would have given hearty cheers but for the remembrance that secrecy had now become their watchword.
Their preparations would be few, but even for these they required the help of their three faithful serving lads, strong Chiddingly lads of approved courage, who loved their young masters better than their lives.
Oh, that we might take the lads with us, cried Ralph. "I will follow Lord Clinton and seek his permission," he added.
That you may not do, said Geoffrey firmly; "do you not remember that you are not to leave the tent alone? If you go we must accompany you.
But stay; is there not a better way? If Lord Clinton consent, the three lads can ride on our horses, though they are somewhat sorry nags; we will lay the matter before him when he returns at eight o'clock. Meanwhile, they can help us furbish our weapons and prepare our travelling packs, they can feed the horses and have them ready to set forth, we need not tell them more than is necessary, that we have to ride forth on the King's business to-night will suffice.
So it was decided.
The lads occupied an adjoining tent; they were at this moment awaiting their masters' summons to prepare their simple evening meal. They were called in, and speedily all things were proceeding according to Geoffrey's suggestions.
The shades of night were deepening as they sat down to supper, it was a quarter to eight o'clock. The camp fires were being lit, and the soldiers of the English contingent were gathering around them in merry groups.
It was eight o'clock and the young Englishmen had supped, all their preparations were complete.
The flap of the tent lifted silently, and two cloaked figures entered, their features hidden in the folds of their outer garments. These they now cast aside, and by the dim light which illumined the tent the "aides" recognized Lord Clinton, and with him the King!
Instantly the young men knelt on one knee before him and kissed his hand.
Philip gazed intently upon their countenances: he knew them fairly well, but it seemed as if he wished to reassure himself. Then in a low, cold, but distinct voice he said to Lord Clinton—
They will do; we have met under many different circumstances, and I know them to be brave men.
Your Majesty is right, replied Lord Clinton, "they will do their duty or die in endeavouring to fulfil it."
Then Philip addressed the Englishmen.
Their mission required secrecy, speed, courage and endurance. They were to make close inspection of the fortifications, guns, material of war, and the garrison of Calais with Lord Wentworth's help, to whom he had written. This letter, which he now gave them, must never fall into the hands of the enemy, to whom it would reveal all his suspicions and plans. He delivered this letter into the hands of Monsieur de Fynes, as the eldest of the three. If danger befell them it were better that the two younger men should perish, so long as the bearer of the letter escaped. If he fell into the hands of the foe let him see that the letter was destroyed at all hazards. The perilous part of their journey would be the portion of it which lay in French territory, but twelve hours hard riding would carry them into Flanders, after which there would be little danger, yet let them never remit their precautions.
The King then handed to each man a heavy purse of gold wherewith to defray expenses, the surplus, if any, would be their own.
I hear the sound of your horses outside the tent, said the King; "have I made all explicit, is there any question you would like to ask?"
The young men looked at each other. Then Geoffrey spoke—
Your Majesty may rely on our carrying out your gracious commands, or we shall perish in the attempt. We have but one thing to suggest, and that is that our three faithful servants may accompany us; they can ride our own horses and they will be of great service to us.
The King and Lord Clinton conversed in low tones, then Clinton announced their decision.
His Majesty agrees to your request, he said; "we think it will attract less observation and suspicion if three gentlemen be accompanied by their serving men than if they travelled alone: it is a wise suggestion on your part."
Then the King and Lord Clinton arose from their seats and prepared to depart. The King extended his hand, which the young men again knelt to kiss, and he bade them farewell. Lord Clinton shook hands warmly with them.
Adieu! mes braves gens, he said: "God grant you a safe and successful journey. We shall next meet in London, I trust. Farewell, farewell." And so they left the tent.
The young men stood in silence for a moment, then Geoffrey spoke—
The King has laid a heavy trust upon us, he said, "and therein has conferred on us great honour, for we shall now be doing service to our own dear country as well as to his. Let us ask a greater King than Philip, even our Heavenly Father, to bless our enterprise."
With one impulse the young men knelt, and for a few minutes held silent converse with God. Ere they left the tent William spoke.
In this matter, my brothers, we need a leader whom we swear to obey in all things. I propose that Geoffrey be our captain.
Nay, urged Geoffrey; but ere he could proceed further Ralph intervened.
I consent, and that most heartily, he said.
Geoffrey grasped the hands of his two comrades and said—
Let it be as you wish, my brothers, and my first word of command is to horse! to horse!
It was a lovely night, the stars shone brilliantly in the autumnal sky, a light refreshing breeze had sprung up.
Outside the tent six horses stood awaiting their riders. Three of these were held by Lord Clinton's grooms; they were great Flemish war-horses of a renowned breed, beside which the three English horses, held by the Sussex lads, looked small and insignificant. Yet these latter were wiry and strong; happily they were in excellent condition and fit for the long journey before them.
Before they mounted their horses the Englishmen closely inspected every part of the harness, to assure themselves that nothing was amiss. The lads' horses were examined with equal care, and the weapons of their riders underwent Geoffrey's keen scrutiny. Every man was armed with a brace of pistolets and with poniard and dagger. The inspection was over, and, at the word of command, the six men swung into their saddles.
Slowly through the camp, said Geoffrey in a low voice.
As they moved forward a camp follower, apparently the worse for drink, lurched heavily against one of the lads' horses and caught at his stirrup to steady himself.
Where away, comrade? he hiccuped to the lad, who in reply slashed at the impudent villain with his whip.
Geoffrey's quick ear had caught the sound of a voice, and he instantly reined up his horse.
Stop that man, he cried; but it was too late, he had darted out of sight in the darkness.
The party went on, the three young masters riding abreast, the lads following closely behind. They wound their way carefully through the camp, now thronged with soldiers, sutlers and followers of all kinds.
It was a striking sight. Huge fires burned high at regular intervals, and around them all the revelry of a camp in time of war was beginning.
At ten o'clock a gun would be fired and all fires would be put out, all strangers turned out of camp, and stillness would come down where pandemonium had so lately held sway.
The passing of the travellers through the camp excited no observation nor surprise. Armed couriers were frequently sent out to the outlying posts and the neighbouring towns. These latter were falling daily into the possession of the conquering army.
So the party rode forward unmolestedly and slowly till the confines of the camp were reached. Before them lay the broad trackway which led to Brussels. It was a rough, rugged road, but it was sufficiently plain to follow, even in the semi-darkness of the night. The late contending armies had passed along it recently, and all wayside inns and even private houses had been ruthlessly plundered and, in most cases, burnt. The despoiled inhabitants, the peasantry, the woodsmen, the charcoal burners, and a host of others had fled into the woods for safety. Desperate and starving, the men had formed themselves into marauding bands, and many a fair chateau, many a quiet, peaceful farm-house and village hamlet had been plundered by them in turn.
Each night the reddened sky told of some dreadful fire, and for the moment the law was powerless. Woe to the unarmed traveller, woe to the wounded straggler who limped behind his regiment if they fell into the hands of a furious peasantry!
This was one of the dangers which Philip had in his mind when he told the young men that their chief peril would be as they passed through French territory.
Halt! cried Geoffrey, as the party entered upon the military road, and all drew rein and gathered around him. "It is right, my lads," said he, "that you should know whither we ride to-night, and, as you will share whatever perils may befall us, whither we go. We ride on the King's business to Brussels, that is our first halting-place. Before us lies a long journey, perhaps of ten or twelve hours in duration, through the enemy's country. Be wary, be watchful, see that your pistols are ready for service and your swords loose in their sheaths. We ride at a hand-gallop, not too fast lest we distress our horses too soon. You, Robin, will be our advance-guard, and you will ride a hundred yards ahead of us. You, Hal, will ride a hundred yards behind us, and you, Tom, will keep close to our rear, we may need you as a messenger. A shrill whistle will be the signal that we all unite in one body, that danger is near. The advance-guard will ever be on the alert to see that the road is clear, that no obstacles be placed in our way by the 'gueux' who haunt these devastated regions. The rear-guard will see, above all things, that we are not followed by foes. Now have I made all things clear?"
Aye, aye, sir, cried the men.
Then let us ride on, in God's name, said Geoffrey.
Robin galloped forward, the four men followed in close order, the rear-guard took up his allotted position. The lights from the camp illumined the country in the rear, and for a long time the hum of the warlike multitude filled the air.
Thus half-an-hour passed; they were galloping at a fairly easy pace along the rough road, and the great Flemish horses were warming to their work, sometimes neighing gaily as they tossed their heavy manes in the air.
Not a sound now broke the solemn silence of the night, save the beating of the horses' hoofs on the hard road.
They passed through hamlets once full of happy and industrious peasantry, now scenes of black ruin and dire desolation.
Sometimes starving dogs would follow them with a fierce howl, and it became necessary to beat off the poor animals with the whip. Sometimes a solitary shout, or the shrill scream of a woman's voice reached their ears, and the young men would have halted out of pure compassion. But it might not be!
On, on! cried Geoffrey; "we may not draw rein for man nor woman, for foe nor friend, till we have done the King's business."
The signs of the works of the Prince of Darkness were often visible, and the sky in a dozen places reflected the red glare of lurid flames.
Once they came very near to a scene of fierce conflict—men were besieging a strong stone mill and the valiant miller was making a hard fight for his life and homestead.
Ralph was strongly moved at this sight, all his keen soldierly instincts arose in his soul, and he laid his hand on Geoffrey's arm as he cried—
Oh! may we not make one gallant charge on that murderous mob? we should scatter them as chaff before the wind. Oh! Geoffrey, give leave, I prithee!
And lose the King's letter, perhaps. Nay, my brave boy, it must not be, answered Geoffrey, as they galloped on.
On, on into the darkness they rode, their gallant horses neither faltering nor failing. As they rode a shrill cry as of some stricken creature in its last agony burst upon their ears; they could not avoid this case of distress, it lay in their very road.
A group of men could be dimly discerned at the roadside. They had heeded not the approach of a single horseman as Robin swept past them, but as the central group came thundering on the men leapt into the adjoining wood.
Halt! cried Geoffrey, and he blew his signal to the advance-guard.
A man was evidently bound to a tree; at his feet was a half-extinguished fire.
Seizing a firebrand and swinging it into flame, the lad Tom (who had dismounted) held it close to the prisoner's face, then cut his bonds with his dagger. The man was a Jewish peddler, and his mutilated hands showed the cause of his cries of anguish, three of his fingers had been roughly cut away.
Speak, man! cried Geoffrey; "tell us quickly your case, for we may not tarry."
Then the peddler told them, in hurried words, that he had fallen into the hands of robbers, and that they were torturing him until he should tell them where he had concealed his pack.
And where is your pack? said Geoffrey.
The man hesitated, he cast a suspicious eye on Geoffrey.
Put aside your fear, man, said Geoffrey; "we are Englishmen on service for King Philip, and we are in hot haste."
At Busigney, my lord, said the peddler, regaining confidence.
Geoffrey consulted with his comrades for a few moments. They would pass Busigney shortly on their route, they could not leave the man to perish; a decision was soon reached.
We will take you to Busigney, said Geoffrey; "mount behind me, my horse is strong and will carry two as well as one."
Heaven bless you, my lord, replied the man, and by the help of the lad Tom he was soon seated behind Geoffrey.
Forward! cried Geoffrey, "we have lost valuable time and we must make up for it," and the whole party galloped on at increased speed.
But ere they had gone far the lad in the rear overtook them at a hot pace.
There is a strong body of cavalry coming up behind us, and in a few moments they will over-take us—they are riding furiously.
Geoffrey called all his party together, still riding onward.
Which is it, boys, he cried, "fight or flight? The first may be fatal to our mission, the second may fail."
Then the peddler spake—
If I may venture my advice, gentlemen, you will neither fight nor fly, at least until you know who these men are. A hundred yards ahead there is a deep dell overhung with trees. Under their shelter you may let this band of cavalry pass on, after you have seen them you may take better counsel as to your action.
Right! cried Geoffrey; and in a few moments they reached, under the peddler's direction, the place of temporary safety.
They had not long to wait. In two or three minutes a band of from twenty to thirty schwartzreiters came thundering on.
How did they know of our journey? whispered Ralph.
Remember the drunken camp follower ere we left the camp? replied Geoffrey. "I knew he was a spy."
They had not been perceived in the thick shades of the trees—but what now? It was equally dangerous to advance or retire.
It was at this dread and critical moment that a wonderful intervention came. There arose in the stillness of the night a great sound like the shock of battle or the fall of an avalanche.
Oh, God! it is the barricade! cried the peddler; "I passed it half-an-hour ago."
What barricade? said Geoffrey eagerly.
The 'gueux' have filled the road with huge stones, gathered from the quarry hard by, it is their favourite trap to catch night travellers, and the reiters have fallen into it.
And a moment more we should have fallen into it, cried Geoffrey.
No, said the peddler, "for I was about to tell you of it. But, hark! the 'gueux' are attacking the fallen reiters."
Come, cried Geoffrey, "we must see what is passing; keep close together, make no noise. If any reiter escapes from the mêlée cut him down with your swords, or we shall be discovered."
The "gueux" possessed guns and fowling-pieces, and now they were pouring in a desultory fire upon the confused mass of fallen men around the barricade. There seemed to be hundreds of wild figures gathering to the scene of conflict, and fresh bodies of them were pouring from the woods.
Then a hand-to-hand fight ensued, so fierce in character that it was a combat of fiends rather than of men. No quarter was asked or given, it was a fight to the death.
Soon it was evident that the reiters were being overpowered, notwithstanding their superiority in equipment and discipline. Their foes were twenty to one, and many of the Germans were lying in a helpless mass of men and horses amid the great quarry stones. Their battle-cries grew feebler and feebler; Geoffrey saw that the end would soon come.
But what then? thought Geoffrey anxiously.
The "gueux" would be as dangerous to them as to the reiters, they would make no distinction between English and Germans, all fought alike for their detested enemy King Philip.
Once again the peddler intervened, as he sat behind Geoffrey.
My lord, my lord, he said in an agitated voice, "we must be gone, or we shall likewise perish."
We cannot pass the gueux, said Geoffrey, "and I cannot return to the camp; what third course is there?"
Here is the entrance into the woods.
My lord, said the man, "you saved my life, will you trust yours to me? I know every pathway of these woods, I can take you by a safe road to Busigney if you will take me as your guide; the bypath enters the woods just below here, and once at Busigney you are on the main road again."
For a minute Geoffrey consulted with his comrades, then he turned to the peddler.
You seem to be an honest man, we will trust you, he said. "Lead on, we accept your services as guide."
The party retraced their steps for about a hundred yards.
Here is the entrance into the woods, said the peddler, as a leafy avenue dimly disclosed itself on the left side of the road.
They turned into it, and now they were gently and noiselessly traversing the woods by a smoothly turfed trackway.
To the right, cried the peddler, as they came to a crossway, and Geoffrey perceived that they were now riding in a parallel track to the road they had quitted.
The roar of battle had quieted down, but the wind brought to their ears the exultant shouts of the gueux, the victors in the deadly strife.
From time to time some dark body would rush across the track or dive into the forest, once indeed a musket-shot was fired at them randomly. These were marauders hastening to the scene of conflict, eager to participate in the spoils.
We must ride quicker, said Geoffrey; "soon the gueux will know of our presence and we shall be pursued."
Beware, said the peddler in reply, "sometimes there are fallen trees across the track. We rejoin the main road in a few minutes."
Geoffrey saw the wisdom of this advice, and they rode stealthily forward.
Presently they emerged into a clearing and, to their joy, saw the great military road in front of them. Once upon it they put their horses to their fullest speed, there were no further barricades to dread, the peddler told them.
In half-an-hour they were in the little town of Busigney, a town held to be neutral by both the contending armies, for it was the patrimony of Mary the Duchess of Burgundy, now the Regent of the Netherlands for Philip. In a few minutes they had drawn up in front of a little hotel, "L'Eperon d'Or," and the peddler, dismounting, entered the house. He quickly returned, accompanied by the "maitre d'hotel."
Here, my lord, he said to Geoffrey, "you can refresh your horses and yourselves also, if you need it, yet I urge you to remember that your foes are near, therefore you may not tarry long."
We owe you a thousand thanks, said Geoffrey. "Will you not take refreshment with us?"
Nay, my lord, it is well-nigh midnight, and I must seek a chirurgeon this night to set my wounded hand in order.
Ah! I had forgotten your grievous hurt, said Geoffrey. "You are a brave and gallant man, Mr. Peddler, may I not add a little golden salve to the remedy?" and he produced his purse.
Nay, nay, my lord, said the man quickly, "you have already given me my reward, it was a life for a life!"
And forthwith he left them.
The horsemen needed but little time wherein to refresh themselves and their horses. The aubergiste, at Geoffrey's command, brought forth his best wine for the gentlemen, and his ostlers produced corn and water for the horses. In half-an-hour the order to remount was given, and soon the party was trotting quietly through the cobbled streets of Busigney.
Their next halting-place would be Mons; in two hours' time they would be out of French territory.
Clear of the town they put their horses to a hand-gallop, and once more the devastation of war became evident. All was ruin and desolation in this once fertile region, there seemed to be nothing left by the cruel marauding hands of men!
The villages and hamlets still smouldered, and the air was reeking with pungent smoke; but there were no inhabitants, all had fled from the neighbourhood of the great military highway.
Yet Geoffrey and his companions relaxed nothing of their keen vigilance. Robin rode ahead and Hal in the rear as before.
On, on, through the night!
The stars shone brilliantly, not a cloud flecked the sky. Ill-omened blotches of red light on the horizon marked where the gueux were still at their evil work, but even these grew fewer as the small hours of the morning passed and the travellers were reaching Flemish territory.
All at once the advance-guard dropped back upon them. He reported that a crowd of men were approaching; they were not in military order, but they were occupying the whole road.
Geoffrey signalled to the rear-guard to join them, and a rapid consultation ensued. Finally, Geoffrey ordered the three lads to fall in behind the gentlemen; then with drawn swords all advanced at slow pace towards the oncoming mob. Many of these men carried pine-knot torches, and by their flickering and lurid light it could be seen that they were rudely armed peasantry—scythes, pitchforks and huge clubs were their chief weapons, and these they waved aloft with wild cries of defiance. The three young soldiers felt a true pity for these homeless and houseless men, and Geoffrey resolved to win his way through them by expostulation, if it were possible.
Reining up his steed he waited till the gueux were close at hand, then he thundered out—
Halt there, if you value your lives!
The men uttered derisive cries—yet they halted.
Why do you obstruct the King's highway? make way, or you will rue the day when you strove to stop six heavily-armed men.
Their leader stepped to the front.
You are six in number, are you, he cried, "and we are ten to one against you! Dismount from your horses, give them up to us and we will let you pass," he continued.
Fools! cried Geoffrey angrily; "do you think to frighten soldiers with your base threats? Yet I know that you are poor and starving, and I would not willingly put you to the sword. Hear me! On the word of a gentleman I promise you that if you make way for us I will scatter five gold pieces among you. Now answer me, and that quickly!"
For a moment the men drew together to consider the offer. But the very mention of "gold pieces" aroused their base passions and cupidity; perhaps they thought that fear dictated the generous offer. Then the leader cried out—
We will have your gold and your horses too; dismount and we promise you your lives.
Geoffrey turned rapidly to his men.
Two abreast, he cried; "are you ready? Charge!"
Then they dug their spurs into their horses' flanks and, like a thunderbolt, they hurled themselves into the midst of the seething mob, with a wild British cheer! Cutting, slashing, hewing, stabbing, the six trained and disciplined soldiers passed through their foes as if they had been but wax dolls or stuffed effigies. In less than a minute they had won their way, and the path through which they had passed was strewn with the dead and dying.
Then Geoffrey cried "Halt!"
The gueux were a hundred yards behind them, and they showed no inclination to pursue.
Is any man hurt? cried Geoffrey to his party.
Two lads answered—
Only a little blood-letting, sir.
Then in God's name let us ride forward, cried Geoffrey: "we have punished those poor wretches sufficiently; but they would have it, Heaven pity them!"
On, on once more into the night.
The morn was breaking, streaks of grey light quivered in the sky and the stars were losing their brilliance. They were approaching the confines of Flanders, and as the dawn deepened into day the watch-towers of Maubeuge came in sight. It was a frontier town, and in times of peace its barriers would have been kept by an armed force, not to be passed till all dues and customs had been paid, and all questions fully answered.
As the armed party appeared in view the shrill voice of a trumpet rang out, and men were to be seen hurrying to their places of observation. But the sight of six men in uniform, fully armed, seemed to render all formalities unnecessary, and no resistance to their passage was made as the party rode through the town making no halt in it.
The sun was rising in great splendour; it shone upon a scene that cheered the hearts of the horsemen. All was bright and peaceful, the fields were yellow with corn and the reapers were everywhere at work.
Oh, blessed peace! said William to Ralph; "who would not sigh for the time when wars should be no more, when men shall 'beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks'!"
They rode more gently now, for their gallant steeds were beginning to flag. At mid-day the towers and spires of Mons came into sight and the splendid tracery of the glorious Cathedral of St. Wandru, as it displayed itself against a sky of opal blue, filled them with admiration.
Reaching the Grande Place, they halted in front of the H?tel de la Couronne, and the weary travellers dismounted. They, as well as their horses, needed repose, and Geoffrey decreed a respite of three hours.
All too soon Geoffrey aroused his comrades, who had both dined and slept after they had seen carefully that the needs of their horses had received attention.
To horse, to horse, cried Geoffrey: "we must be in Brussels ere nightfall."
Once more they were in the saddle, and the bells of the cathedral tolled the hour of three as they rode across the bridge of the river Trouille, fresh and reinvigorated. Their horses had been well cared for, and they seemed to share the exhilaration of their riders.
On through the pleasant plains of Flanders, through Jubise, Nivelles, Brise-le-Compte, and many another small town. They sang, they talked to their horses and caressed them, and the noble animals responded to their efforts as they cantered forwards.
Yet night was falling ere the noble town of Brussels was reached; the sweet-toned bells of the great Cathedral, St. Gudule, were chiming, and presently they announced the hour—it was eight o'clock.
The party halted in the Grande Place under the shadow of the splendid H?tel de Ville, and Geoffrey quickly found a comfortable hotel where they could stable their horses and refresh themselves.
Then he wended his way to the burgomaster's house, that he might lodge his demand for six fresh horses "for the King's service." He encountered no difficulties, and this business being accomplished he rejoined his companions at the H?tel de Flandres.
The horses were ordered for midnight, when they would begin the last stage of their long ride; they would reach Antwerp by daybreak, if all went well. They had four hours for rest and refreshment, yet, when they had dined, and ere they snatched an hour's sleep, the gentlemen of the party strolled for a brief space in the Grande Place. It was full of gaily-dressed citizens; and great lanterns, suspended on poles at intervals, cast a bright light upon the animated scene.
Here were gallant young Spanish officers, belonging to the garrison of the city, attracting the eyes of all beholders by the glitter of their uniforms and the easy hauteur with which they moved among the people.
There were civic dignitaries in rich flowing robes, escorting their wives and daughters to an entertainment which was being given that night by Margaret, Duchess of Parma, the King's half-sister. She was paying a brief visit to the city, where she had spent her childhood; she was soon to become the Regent of the Netherlands.
There were groups of monks in the many-coloured robes of their Orders, Black Dominicans, White Augustinians and Brown Benedictines.
All sorts and conditions of men were there, and the young Englishmen watched them with keen interest. So novel a scene had they never witnessed, nor so lovely a house as the "Maison du Roi," which blazed with light in all its windows on the eastern side of the Place.
Ah, what a house that was! Richly sculptured, ornamented with armorial bearings, which glittered with crimson and gold; so splendid that it was sometimes called "The Golden House." It was in front of that very house that, eleven years later, twenty-five Flemish nobles passed to their doom on the scaffold—it was in the spring of 1568. Two months later Counts Egmont and Horn were led forth from that gorgeous abode to perish under the headsman's axe.
There was no prophetic vision to foretell these dread things; and that night, as the young Englishmen gazed upon it in all its sumptuous beauty, the wildest imagination would not have dreamt of so tragic a thing.
The eyes of the young men lingered on these scenes of fascination, and, for a time, they lost the feeling of weariness and fatigue.
Come, boys, cried Geoffrey, as he laid his hands on their shoulders, "this will not do! The clocks are chiming for the ninth hour, and at twelve we have to be in the saddle."
So they retraced their steps to the H?tel de Flandres and soon "fell on sleep," perhaps to dream of gallant courtiers, stout burghers, of civic dignitaries and the fair ladies of the wondrous city of Brussels.
The hour of midnight had come, and in the spacious stable-yard of the hotel six fine Flemish horses, fully harnessed for military service, awaited their riders. Nor had they long to wait.
Scarce had the sound of the chiming bells died down than the six horsemen made their appearance. Again was a minute examination made of every part of the equipment, again the men renewed the priming of their pistols and shook their sword-belts into position.
Are you all ready? cried Geoffrey, when all was finished. And in response to the "Aye, aye, sir," of the men, the word of command came—
Then mount; we ride in pairs till we are clear of the city, then as before: Robin in front and Hal behind.
Quietly they rode through the dimly-lit streets and passed over the river Senne into the open country. They were on a good road now (the ancient Roman "street"), which led straight away to Antwerp, through Mechlin, where they would make their first halt.
They were splendidly mounted and their horses broke into an easy canter, tossing their long manes and snorting, as if with joy. Through verdant plains, through teeming cornfields, through villages and small towns, onwards they galloped till the lights of Mechlin came in sight. Presently they were riding gently through the ancient town, and the carillon in the lofty belfry of St. Rombaut rang out the hour of two as they drew rein in the Grande Place.
The city watchmen gathered round them, eager to do them service as soon as Geoffrey had informed them that he rode on the King's business. Corn and water were quickly found for the horses, wine from some secret store for the men (the hotels were fast locked for the night), for all of which things Geoffrey paid with free hand. Thus half-an-hour was spent, then the horsemen remounted their steeds and they cantered gaily out of the town.
Heigh ho, for Antwerp, our last stage! cried Geoffrey, as they rode out into the darkness.
So fresh were their horses that they rode now at full gallop, and the country seemed to fly by them. A grey light was tingeing the eastern horizon as they drew near Antwerp, the dawn had begun as they rode up to the watch-towers of the fortified town.
Their approach had been signalled by trumpet blasts, and a strong body of town-guards awaited them. The horsemen drew up as the captain of the guard approached them, and to him Geoffrey handed his papers as he said—
On the King's service!
Everything was en règle, and in a few moments the great gates were opened and the party entered Antwerp and proceeded direct to the Quai.
Antwerp was waking up, and already crowds of men were making their way to the great dockyard of the city. Sailors of many nationalities were proceeding to their ships, which lay at anchor on the broad waters of the noble river Scheldt.
Lord Clinton had provided Geoffrey with a "King's mandate" addressed to the dock-master, and the party soon found their way to that functionary's official residence.
Herr Van Luhys, the worthy dock-master, had not yet opened his doors to the outside world, and the sleepy watchman gazed with dismay at the six horsemen who, dismounted, stood at the door asking for immediate audience. It was not till Geoffrey had slipped a doubloon into the man's hand that he consented to awake his master and to convey a message to him.
But the words "On the King's Service" soon brought the dock-master into the hall, where the three Englishmen awaited him. Geoffrey handed the King's mandate to him, at the sight of which document Herr Van Luhys bowed low and asked his early visitors to be seated, while he read the mandate.
The effect was immediate.
I am the King's servant and loyal subject, he said: "his commands shall be obeyed. I am bidden to find you immediate means of reaching Calais, and to see that your horses are returned to the Burgomaster of Brussels. By Heaven's good providence the Santa Trinadad, a swift King's ship, is in the harbour, and she sails in an hour's time. I will send word to the captain at once, that six gentlemen are coming on board his ship, and that he is to await your presence before he lifts anchor. Meanwhile, gentlemen, you will break your fast with me, I trust, if you will do me so great an honour."
Geoffrey bowed courteously, and very thankfully accepted the dock-master's offers of service and breakfast. They were weary, and their long ride had made them hungry: an hour could not be spent more profitably than at Herr Van der Luhys's breakfast table.
Their horses were sent under the care of grooms, hastily summoned, to the stables, and men-servants began in hot haste to prepare a meal for the dock-master's guests.
A great table stood in the centre of the hall: soon it was covered with a fair white cloth, and fish, flesh and fowl were produced and set out as if by magic. The honest Dutchman's larder was evidently well stocked and his cellar was equally good, for in a trice curious bottles of spirits and tall flasks, full of wine, were brought forth.
Van Luhys sat at table with his guests, and when the claims of hunger had been somewhat appeased he plied them with questions. He would fain know all about the battle and siege of St. Quentin; what were the King's plans of campaign; where was the Duke of Guise's army; where was De Nevers; what great reward was to be given to their noble compatriot Count Egmont, and many other like things! And so an hour rapidly passed, so quickly indeed that a message from the Captain of the Santa Trinadad came to them almost as a surprise.
The tide was falling, the gentlemen should come aboard as quickly as possible.
Geoffrey would have made his adieux, but the hospitable Van Luhys insisted on seeing his guests safely on board the ship; moreover, he wished to introduce them to his honourable friend Captain Don Gonzaga.
So the party rose from table and made their way through the docks, now become a scene of great activity. No town in Europe possessed a finer harbour than Antwerp, and its vast fortifications were maintained with zealous care: a garrison of five thousand Spaniards defended them.
A walk of a few minutes brought them to the water-side, where the war-ship floated at anchor. She was a noble vessel, carrying forty-five guns, though many of them were of small calibre. Her decks were crowded with sailors, among whom Geoffrey noted fifty men-at-arms, wearing glittering cuirasses and morions and armed with arquebuses and swords. Many sailors had gone aloft, awaiting the signal to unfurl the sails and fling out the royal standard of Spain.
As the party stepped on board, headed by the dock-master, Captain Gonzaga advanced to meet them. He was a young Castilian noble of purest blood and long descent, and his manners, though courteous, were tinged with a certain hauteur.
To what happy circumstances am I to attribute the honour of the company of these gentlemen? he said, with a ceremonious bow towards them.
I have the 'King's mandate,' honourable Captain, to see that they are conveyed to Calais with no delay, said Herr Van der Luhys.
I would fain see the 'mandate,' replied Don Gonzaga.
The dock-master bridled up somewhat.
It is addressed to me, he said, "but I have it with me and you are welcome to see it;" and therewith he handed the document to the punctilious Captain, who hastily perused it.
As he read the names of the three gentlemen therein set forth, he started as he saw that of Geoffrey de Fynes, and his manner of bearing underwent a sudden change.
Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Geoffrey de Fynes? he inquired.
Geoffrey bowed slightly in reply.
Of Herstmonceux in the County of Sussex? inquired the Captain.
My father was Baron Dacres of Herstmonceux, said Geoffrey.
I welcome you on board my ship, said Don Gonzaga warmly, as he held out his hand, which Geoffrey took courteously. "My father was the Spanish Ambassador at the Court of King Henry the Eighth," continued the Captain, "and your father, Baron Dacres, was his bosom friend; I venture to hope that a like bond may unite their sons! Now come to my cabin, gentlemen, for in a few minutes we start for Calais."
Then they bade farewell to the worthy Herr Van der Luhys and followed Gonzaga to his cabin. It was the "state room" of the ship, luxuriously furnished.
Make this cabin your own, gentlemen, while you do me the honour of remaining on the Santa Trinadad, said the Captain. "And now I must hasten on deck," he continued; "we are just moving out," and with a bow he left them.
It was not long before the Englishmen ascended to the deck, eager to see the country through which they were passing. The sun was shining brightly on the broad, deep waters of the Scheldt as the noble ship slowly threaded its way out of the crowded port of Antwerp. Soon the majestic city faded out of sight, and on each side of the river a flat and somewhat desolate landscape extended itself.
There were broad meadows, reclaimed from the sea, on which great droves of oxen were pastured; there were innumerable wind-mills and quaint Dutch farm-houses. Occasionally a village came in sight with a metal-sheathed spire rising from its midst. Soon Flushing was reached, the pilot was dropped and the vessel was in the open sea, under full sail.
At mid-day dinner was served in the great mess-room, and Don Gonzaga introduced his guests to the officers of the ship.
Spain was the rival with England for the sovereignty of the sea, and, as a rule, there was little love lost between the sailors of the two nations. But now, taking their cue from their young Captain, the Spanish officers vied in showing hospitality to their English guests. As the banquet, for it really deserved the name, came to a close and the four young men were left alone, Gonzaga turned to Geoffrey, who sat on his right hand, and said—
Shall I tell you how my father first met Lord Dacres? He often told the tale to me.
And on Geoffrey's eager acquiescence, he proceeded to say—
"It was in the spring of 1538, and my father was summoned to a banquet at the King's Palace at Greenwich. As he crossed Blackheath on foot, accompanied by a small band of servants, he was attacked by a strong body of highwaymen. A desperate fight ensued, and one by one all my fathers servants fell, and he alone was left, fighting desperately for his life with his back against a stone wall. The assassins knew him, and perhaps they were anxious to take him alive and so claim a great ransom. Or perhaps his skill with the rapier saved him, for he was thought to be the finest swordsman of Spain. His foes called on him to surrender, but they called in vain, though he was sorely wounded—a Gonzaga dies but never surrenders! A few minutes more and the tragedy would have been complete, for my father was growing faint with loss of blood. But the noise of the strife was heard afar, and suddenly help came. With a shout of 'Dacres to the rescue,' six stout Sussex men attacked the highwaymen in the rear, and they took to flight. Then your noble father, Lord Dacres, bound up Gonzaga's wounds, and his men bore him to Greenwich Palace. His wounds were not serious, and in a few weeks' time he had quite recovered from them. And that was the beginning of a firm friendship between our fathers, only too soon to end by the tragic event which all good men will ever deplore.""
"Geoffrey was deeply moved as he grasped Don Gonzaga's proffered hand and shook it warmly.
I was but a babe, he said, "when my father perished at Tyburn, but I love his revered memory, and my one hope in life, above all others, is to see his honour vindicated!"
May that day soon come! said Gonzaga.
Then the four young men returned to the deck, and at the request of the Englishmen the Captain took them all over the war-ship, and afterwards put the crew and the men-at-arms through a smart drill, in which the wonderful efficiency of the men excited the Englishmen's admiration.
The voyage was drawing to an end. Ostend and Dunkirk had been passed, and as evening fell Calais came in sight.
At eight o'clock the ship dropped her anchor in front of the town, firing a salute in honour of the flag of St. George, which floated on the bastion. Then a boat was lowered, and, ere taking their departure, the Englishmen took an affectionate farewell of their new friend.
We shall meet again, said Gonzaga.
At Herstmonceux, I hope, replied Geoffrey, as they shook hands once more.
Half-an-hour later the young men were in Calais, and the Santa Trinadad pursued her journey to Spain, whither she was bound.
Calais was a petty fishing village in the tenth century, and its first appearance in the annals of history was when Baldwin the Fourth, Count of Flanders, took it under his fostering care and its earliest fortifications were built.
Perceiving its natural advantages, Philip of France, Count of Boulogne, took serious steps for its defence. A citadel was built, forts were erected, a lofty watch-tower was constructed on the bastion fronting the sea, which for centuries was the chief light-house of Calais. The town was encircled by strong walls, deep moats were constructed, every art known to the engineers of that age was employed, and the town was thought to be impregnable.
King Edward the Third captured it after the great battle of Crécy, and it took that warlike monarch eleven months ere he became master of the town, chiefly aided by the grim necessities of famine. It became an English town, and for two hundred years it had resisted the repeated efforts of France to reconquer it. The English rebuilt the cathedral of Notre Dame, whose lofty tower served as a landmark for sailors. When the sovereigns of England and France met on the "Field of the Cloth of Gold," much money was spent on the town by the English.
Wolsey's keen eye marked the decrepitude of its walls, and he spent twenty thousand crowns in strengthening them. Yet vague rumours had lately gone abroad that its fortifications were tottering to a fall, undermined by the action of the sea; that the ancient artillery which defended its walls was but a vain show, and that its garrison of eight hundred men was not only inadequate, but it was untrustworthy from a military point of view. It had become a kind of dep?t for old soldiers, ill watch was kept, and loose discipline was maintained.
Alarmed by the reports which the Bishop of Acqs had conveyed to the French Government (all of which were known by him), Philip took serious alarm. In hot haste he laid these matters before the English Government, only to find his reports to be received with the utmost incredulity. The two hundred years of almost quiet possession had begotten a fatal sense of security on the part of the English.
Again Philip sent to Cardinal Pole, who was the Queen's chief adviser, offering to garrison Calais with Spaniards at his own expense; but this offer was received coldly by the English Government, whose suspicion of the Spaniard, and of Philip himself especially, reigned supreme. Then Philip suggested a greatly increased garrison, of which one half should be English and the other Spanish. The offer was refused.
It was under these circumstances that the King had sent Geoffrey, William and Ralph to make a secret inspection of the town and its garrison. Their report was to be given to Cardinal Pole himself. Philip knew that these three young Englishmen were favourably known to the Cardinal, and that his eminence would feel sure that their testimony would be disinterested and reliable.
It was under these circumstances that Geoffrey and his companions landed at Calais on a fine September evening in the year 1557. The approach of their boat had been perceived from the watch-tower, and as it grated on the shore a company of armed men waited to receive them. The uniforms of the young men gave assurance to the captain of the guard, he recognized the blue accoutrements of the English contingent, now serving with King Philip. It was therefore with the utmost courtesy and with military salute that Captain Lascelles advanced towards the visitors and asked to be allowed to inspect their papers.
We come from St. Quentin as direct envoys from the King to Lord Wentworth, the Governor of Calais, replied Geoffrey. "May we ask you to conduct us to him?" he continued.
Whom have I the honour to address? inquired the Captain.
Geoffrey de Fynes, William Jefferay, Ralph Jefferay, aides-de-camp to Lord Clinton, second in command of the English contingent serving in France, replied Geoffrey.
Captain Lascelles bowed low.
I will conduct you to the Governor's lodgings in the citadel forthwith, he replied; "but I fear you will not see Lord Wentworth to-night, he is entertaining the officers of the garrison to supper."
We thank you for your courtesy, sir, replied Geoffrey; and the Captain leading the way the party ascended to the citadel which overlooked the little town.
Through narrow, ill-paved streets, dimly lit, they proceeded in silence till the plateau was reached which fronted the gloomy old citadel.
The Captain gave the password at the gates, then he called for Lord Wentworth's major-domo, with whom he held a brief consultation apart. Then turning to Geoffrey, he said—
The Castle is very full of guests to-night, yet the major-domo can give you 'soldiers' quarters' if you will deign to accept so humble a lodging.
We are soldiers, replied Geoffrey cheerfully, "we ask for nothing better."
Forthwith the official led them through a long vaulted passage, lit with oil lamps, from which they emerged into a large low vaulted room, roughly but sufficiently furnished with tables and wooden benches. A great fire-place occupied one end of the room, and a quantity of firewood lay on the hearth waiting to be kindled.
Three stone-mullioned windows gave light and air, and from them the twinkling lights of the town could be perceived as it stretched itself out below them. Cressets hung from the walls, and into one of them the major-domo thrust the blazing torch he had been carrying.
By my faith I am sorry to give you so poor a lodging, said Captain Lascelles; "but to-morrow the major-domo will be able to do something better for you. Beyond this room there lies another exactly like it, but furnished with truckle-beds, which shall be provided with fresh and clean linen and blankets for you. And now, gentlemen," he continued, "may I suggest that you come to my quarters in the Castle, which, poor as they are, present a few more comforts than this cold stone room. Meanwhile, your varlets can light your fires and help the major-domo to lay your supper—what say you?"
The offer was so kindly made and evidently so well meant, that Geoffrey at once answered—
Most willingly, sir, and we are greatly your debtors. Meanwhile, he added, "I have a letter from Lord Clinton to the Governor, will you kindly see that it reaches his hand to-night; the royal mandate from King Philip I must deliver to his Lordship myself."
It shall be done, said Captain Lascelles; "and now, if it please you, I beg you to follow me."
A few steps brought them to the courtyard, and crossing it the Captain led the way to a flight of stone steps on the southern side. Ascending these the party found themselves in front of a strong, heavy door, on which Captain Lascelles rapped loudly.
A soldier speedily answered the summons and led the way to his master's quarters, holding aloft a flaming torch. It was a stone-built room, even the floor was stone, like every other chamber in that ancient citadel, but in every other respect it was luxuriously furnished. Glittering designs in daggers and poniards of every age adorned the walls, which were covered with rich tapestries, soft couches and divans invited to repose, curiously carved tables and chairs testified to the taste and elegance of the young Captain of the guard.
Be seated, gentlemen, cried Lascelles, as he sounded a gong and bade his servants bring wine and refreshment.
But are we not keeping you from the Governor's hospitable table? said Geoffrey, as the sounds of arriving guests ascended from the courtyard.
Nay, said the Captain, with a laugh; "I am on duty to-night."
Then, in that case, I pray that you will not let us burden you with our company, replied Geoffrey.
I am free for an hour, replied Lascelles; "De Courcy, my lieutenant, takes my place."
So they sat down while rich wines were being poured into silver goblets and toasts were drunk. Lascelles would fain know all the recent military news from St. Quentin, of which the world knew little as yet. He was eager to hear of the King's present position and his schemes for the future. On many such points Geoffrey was able and willing to give information; on others he preserved a discreet silence, as became a King's envoy sent on a secret mission.
Thus an hour flew rapidly by, and then Geoffrey, pleading fatigue, obtained his host's permission to withdraw to the quarters assigned to them. There they found bright fires burning, and a substantial meal had been provided by the major-domo, with wines for the gentlemen and small-beer for the varlets.
The evening was speeding on, and the Englishmen were about to retire to their truckle-beds, when an unlooked-for intervention occurred. There was a knock at the door, then it was thrown open and a young aide-de-camp, richly dressed, stepped into the room with the words—
May it please you, gentlemen, his Excellency the Governor! and therewith the Earl of Wentworth appeared on the threshold.
He was splendidly dressed, as became a great noble. He had left his guests for a brief space, and so was in all the rich attire of the banqueting-room. Bowing courteously to the young men, he besought them to take their seats, as he sat down on one of the rough chairs of the guard-room. Turning to his aide-de-camp the Governor said—
Descend to the courtyard and wait there for me, take with you the three grooms, and let no man disturb us.
The envoys were left alone with the Earl.
Lord Wentworth was an elderly man of grave and even majestic mien. As "Lord of the Marches" he had seen much service in the Border warfare between England and Scotland; he had only recently been appointed to the Governorship of Calais. In quiet and easy tones he addressed the envoys.
Lord Clinton's letter has just reached my hands, he said, "and in it he tells me that you are the bearers of a royal mandate for me from King Philip. He tells me that the matter is urgent, and that must be my excuse for disturbing you at this late hour of the night. I crave your pardon therein. I shall be glad to read the mandate ere I retire to rest."
Geoffrey at once arose, bowed low, and presented the royal document.
I thank you, young sir, said the Earl. "To-morrow morning at nine o'clock I ask your company to breakfast, there is much that you can tell me which I am very desirous to hear, for Lord Clinton tells me that you come direct from St. Quentin. And now I will not detain you from your rest, you have travelled far and must needs be fatigued. And so good-night, gentlemen!"
And therewith the Earl, attended by Geoffrey, who carried a torch, descended to the courtyard. Ere the Governor quitted his young companion, he said—
I gather from Lord Clinton's letter that one of you three gentlemen is Geoffrey de Fynes—are you he?
Yes, your Lordship, replied Geoffrey.
Then you are of the family of the 'Dacres of the South,' I presume, said the Earl. "I have known the 'Dacres of the North' all my life and I have been honoured by their friendship."
Then the Earl shook hands warmly with Geoffrey.
I am glad to know you, sir, and to welcome you to this town of Calais, of which your grandfather was Governor in the famous year of 'The Field of the Cloth of Gold,' unless I err?
Geoffrey bowed acquiescence, and the interview came to an end.
Soon the six weary travellers sought their truckle-beds and found solace in sleep.
The morning had come, the Earl and his three young guests had breakfasted in the great hall of the Castle. The servants had been dismissed and the gentlemen sat alone.
Last night, said the Earl to them, "I read King Philip's letter, and I gather from it that he wishes me to allow you three gentlemen to make a thorough, but informal, inspection of the fortifications and the garrison of Calais. You will carry your report to Cardinal Pole, and the King earnestly hopes that the English Government will remedy whatsoever may be lacking here. His Majesty's wishes are commands to me, and they shall be willingly obeyed. Indeed, I am heartily glad to have this new opportunity of laying our needs before the Government, to whom I have written many letters and sent many messengers in vain. The King is rightly informed respecting the condition of matters here; it is true we need more men, more guns, and a greater supply of ammunition, and our walls are crumbling into ruin in many important points. Yet I do not fear any foe, nor do I believe that Calais can fall. I held Berwick Castle against all the power of Scotland, with a smaller garrison and with poorer means of defence!
But now we will go forth and you shall see for yourselves how matters stand with us. First, we will inspect the Castle itself, and I will show you our magazines. And we go unattended, remembering that your mission is a secret one. The garrison is being drilled in the great courtyard at this moment. You shall see the men under arms.
The Governor had ordered a full muster this morning, and the courtyard presented a scene full of life and animation when the whole garrison presented arms as the Earl and his guests made their appearance.
The envoys passed between the lines and closely inspected the men and their equipment. The review was soon completed, and the men went to their quarters with a great beating of drums and blowing of trumpets.
What think you of them? asked the Governor, as he and his guests moved on to the bastions.
The envoys consulted together for a brief space, and then Geoffrey, as spokesman, gave their opinion.
The men were gallant English soldiers, but they were chiefly old men, some of them surely past the usual age for men on service. Their weapons were older still, and the arquebusiers were astonishingly few in number, such was their verdict.
The Governor sighed as he admitted that the criticism was just, and he now proceeded to lead the party to the Castle wall.
Many of the great guns were so old that it would be dangerous to use them; one wondrous piece of artillery dated back to the days of Crécy.
But others are on their way hither, the Governor explained. "They were at Dover waiting for shipment," according to his latest information.
Then a circuit of the fortifications was made, and it was all too evident that many towers were crumbling to ruin.
Later in the day the Governor took his guests to the outer walls of the town, the bulwarks of Froyton and Neslé were visited, Newhaven Bridge (as it was somewhat curiously named) was traversed, and they inspected the Risbank and the great moats. These moats formed a vital point in the defence of Calais, should the day of trial come, yet were so ill cared for that some were dry, and in others the water was so shallow that great mudbanks displayed themselves in their midst.
It was with saddened hearts that the envoys returned to the Castle, having inspected the sea walls and the surrounding country as far as Guisnes and Hames.
The night had fallen, the great gates of the Castle were closed and the watches were set.
The envoys were the guests of the Governor, and they sat at supper in the great hall. This was the noblest room in the Castle, it had been built by King Henry the Fifth, and it was a worthy trophy of the Warrior King. Its lofty roof towered above them, dimly seen by the light of the great lanterns which hung upon the walls. On festive nights the iron cressets, suspended at intervals between the lanterns, were filled with blazing torches, and over the "high table" hung handsome candelabra, which on rare occasions glittered with the light of hundreds of wax candles. But this was a "low night," and the da?s was illuminated by lanterns only.
So to-morrow you leave us, said the Governor, as the supper being finished they sat over their wine. "I am sorry that you cannot prolong your stay, for I would fain have seen more of you, but I know it is impossible. I will not ask you aught respecting your report to the Cardinal, but I can divine what it will be. You tell me that the English contingent are clamouring for their return home: ask him to send me but a thousand of those gallant men and I will pledge my honour that in Calais the flag of St. George will never give place to the lilies of France! But above all things let the help, whatever it may be, come quickly. I have forgotten what little Latin I ever knew, but there is an old tag which I learnt at Carlisle Grammar School which dwells in my memory: Bis dat qui cito dat!"
The young men were much moved as the veteran soldier talked.
God grant that the Cardinal may listen to us, and that the Government will heed him, said Ralph.
But the Cardinal is the Government, for at this moment he rules supreme in the council, and the Queen relies implicitly upon his advice, replied the Governor. "Persuade him and the thing is accomplished. Calais will stand for another two hundred years as the brightest gem in the English crown—Heaven grant it!"
But meanwhile, interposed Ralph again, "meanwhile, if Guise come?"
Our latest advice is that Guise will not come, answered the Governor; "he has joined De Nevers and their combined armies are moving into Picardy: all men say that France will make a desperate effort to reconquer St. Quentin—and will make it soon."
It is the unexpected which happens, said Geoffrey.
So they talked till the hour grew late and it was time to retire. This night they were to occupy the "Guest chamber" in the Governor's lodging.
To-morrow, then, said the Earl, as he bade them a good-night, "to-morrow the tide serves at ten in the morning, and I have ordered a swift fly-boat to be ready for you at the quay at that hour. And now good-night, good-night!"
It was a dull gloomy day, the first day of "chill October." The envoys stood on the deck of the fly-ship as she cleared out of Calais harbour, and they watched the fast-receding vista of the old English town, the last remnant of the once vast Continental possessions of the Plantagenet kings.
The flag of St. George hung loosely on the summit of the lofty tower of Notre Dame. The rain had sodden it, and there was little wind to throw out its heavy folds.
There was much cause why Geoffrey, William and Ralph should rejoice and be glad. Their mission was drawing to an end, and all things had gone happily. They had passed through many dangers, and a Divine Providence had surely watched over them. Soon they would be in London, and a rapturous welcome awaited them at Gray's Inn!
Yet these were three patriotic young Englishmen, and an indefinable oppression weighed down their spirits as they caught their last view of the flag of St. George floating over Calais. A prophetic intimation of evil oppressed their hearts.
They had lately been brought into close contact with the gallant soldiers of France; they had fought against Montmorency and Coligni; they could appreciate the desperate valour of a Guise!
How would the worn-out and meagre garrison of Calais, defending its crumbling walls, withstand the onslaught of such men?
Oh, brother, said Geoffrey, as he laid his hand on William's shoulder, "I fear for Calais!"
And I also, said William.
And I, said Ralph, and the hearts of the young men were heavy within them.
But presently the sun broke through a bank of clouds, and lo! there, right in front of them, were the white cliffs of dear old England.
Heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
God save England! cried Geoffrey, and they flung up their caps with joy.
Soon they were in Dover, and as the evening came on they were galloping on three stout horses into Canterbury. They made no stay in the grand old cathedral city, but rode quickly through it.
At Rochester, where the grim old castle built by William de Corbeuil frowned upon them, they halted to refresh themselves and their horses.
On through the night for London!
They were crossing Blackheath at a gentle canter when a slight interruption to their progress occurred. It was a moonless night, but the stars were shining brightly. A small band of horsemen barred their road, and a rough voice called out "Halt!"
Certainly, cried Geoffrey merrily, as he reined up his horse, and his sword rattled as he drew it from its steel scabbard, a proceeding instantly imitated by his companions. "What is your pleasure, gentlemen?" he cried. "A merry passage of arms on the Queen's highway? By all means; you do us much honour!"
But the night rufflers had seen and heard enough, and in a moment they were disappearing in the darkness. Perhaps they had thought to encounter three harmless travellers; they had no mind to display their valour against three soldiers of the English contingent!
With a loud laugh the travellers galloped on.
Soon they were threading their way carefully through the narrow streets of the suburbs of London, and they headed straight for Gray's Inn. They would have gone direct to Lambeth, where the Archbishop was in residence, but the hour was unseemly—the night was not yet past.
So they rode to Gray's Inn, where they aroused the watchmen at the stables, and, like good soldiers, saw to the needs of their horses ere they cared for themselves. The day was dawning as they presented themselves at the great door of the Treasurer's lodgings and woke up the sleepy night porter, who was slumbering in his cell.
Glad was old Robin to see his young masters, of whom nothing had been heard at Gray's Inn for many a day. They were neither hungry nor thirsty, for they had supped well at Rochester; yet the porter was able to find some wine and bread for the weary travellers.
But their chief need was rest, and they at once sought their way to their well-known rooms, which had not been occupied since they left them.
They would sleep, they told Robin, for the next three hours, and at breakfast time they would present themselves to Sir John and Mistress Susan, who might be informed of their arrival when they descended to the breakfast room.
Oh, thank God, to be at home once more! cried Ralph.
Yes, let us thank Him together, said Geoffrey gravely, and the three young soldiers knelt in silence. Then they sought the much needed rest, and were soon in deep sleep.
It was eight o'clock when the sound of the gong aroused the sleepers, and, after a hasty preparation, they descended to the breakfast room.
Ah! what a meeting was that.
There stood Sir John, lost in wonder and delight; there was Susan, clad in some bewitching morning costume, her long fair hair loosely tied with some bright ribbons and falling in masses over her shoulders.
My boys, my boys, cried Sir John, as he embraced them, kissing them on both cheeks, "welcome home!"
Then came Susan's turn, and joy shone in her fair eyes as she kissed them all, Geoffrey not being excepted.
It was long ere they could sit down to breakfast, so much had they to tell and to ask. Eating and drinking were much too prosaic occupations for such a time as that!
But there was an air of gravity on Sir John's face as he presently asked the boys what brought them home so suddenly; when last he heard of them they were on service at St. Quentin.
Then Geoffrey told briefly the history of their special mission, reserving all details for some future occasion.
And now we must hie to Lambeth, said he, "for our business with the Cardinal is urgent."
You cannot see him until after the hour of ten, replied Sir John, "when the service in Lambeth Chapel ends. Until that service is over his Eminence receives no man. I will send a messenger to him, informing him of your arrival and your business, asking for an early audience."
Sir John adjourned to the library, and the letter was written and despatched immediately.
Then the whole party met again in that noble room, and Sir John proceeded to tell the envoys of the present position of affairs in England.
The Queen, said he, "is rapidly failing in health, and the Romanist party is in grave alarm, especially at Court, where the greatest gloom prevails. All eyes turn to the Princess Elizabeth, who is the hope of the Reformation party, which is both numerous and strong; already the courtiers are flocking to Hatfield, where Elizabeth resides.
"Cardinal Pole, also, is becoming each day feebler in body, and his illness is aggravated by the treatment he has received at the hands of Pope Paul the Fourth—who has summoned him to Rome to answer to various charges brought against him, amongst others the charge of heresy. The Pope has revoked his Legation, and has appointed Cardinal Peto as his Legate to England. The Queen sternly resists these papal measures; she refuses to allow Pole to leave the kingdom, and she will not allow Peto to enter it. All the ports are watched, and no messengers from Rome are admitted to England. Alas! poor Queen,"" cried Sir John, ""deserted by her husband, and harassed by the Pope for whom she has done so much, who would not pity her?
" "The fires of Smithfield, and at a hundred other places, have quenched whatsoever love her subjects once had for her. They distrust Philip and hate the Spaniards with so mortal a hatred, that no man of that race dare appear openly in the streets of London, and they are fleeing from England in shoals; our friend Don Diego left last week. For Cardinal Pole much popular sympathy exists. His noble birth and blameless life plead for him, and the mercy he has shown to many a poor prisoner is alleged by the people to be the cause of his present disgrace at Rome.""
"So the discourse went on till Sir John's messenger to Lambeth returned; the Cardinal would receive the envoys at once, and forthwith the young men rose to obey the summons.
The clocks were striking ten as the envoys entered the palace of Lambeth; they were conducted immediately to the Cardinal's presence.
He was busily writing as they entered the audience chamber. It was plainly furnished; there were no luxuries, no ostentation here.
He rose to greet them, and, as he did so, his wan face lit up with a kindly smile. They knelt on one knee and kissed the hand he extended to them.
Welcome, my sons, he said; "you come from St. Quentin and Calais, Sir John Jefferay tells me, as envoys from the King."
Geoffrey bowed low as he handed their credentials to the Cardinal, among them a letter from Philip to his Eminence. This letter Cardinal Pole proceeded to read at once.
I perceive, he said at length, "that his Majesty is greatly concerned respecting the condition of Calais, and that he sent ye thither that you might report to the Government the true state of things in that town."
Geoffrey then presented to the Cardinal a letter from the Lord Wentworth, in which the urgent needs of Calais were set forth for the Government's information. Pole read this carefully.
My sons, he said, "you have been eye-witnesses of the things of which this letter treats; now tell me what you have seen; I know that you are good men and true, and that you will neither conceal nor exaggerate the needs and condition of the town of Calais."
Then Geoffrey proceeded in grave and carefully considered words to give their report.
He spoke of the weakness in numbers of the garrison, and of their inefficiency through age and decrepitude. He set forth the lack of the munitions of war, the antiquity of the artillery and the means of defence generally. He described the ruinous condition of the fortifications, and especially the state of the moats. And to all this William and Ralph testified their assent.
Then the Cardinal questioned them on many points, and the envoys duly replied.
These things must be remedied, and I will see Lord Arundel about them to-day, said the Cardinal. "I hear that the English contingent return home shortly; it may be possible to induce some of them to re-enlist for the defence of Calais under Lord Gray, who knows the town well. At any rate, I thank you heartily for your report, and the matter shall be taken in hand at once.
Now tell me, when last did you see King Philip?
Four days since, at St. Quentin, replied Geoffrey.
You must have travelled very quickly, said the Cardinal.
We did not spare our horses, your Eminence, replied Geoffrey, with a smile.
You are brave young soldiers, said Pole warmly, "and you deserve well of your Queen and country.
"I will inform her Majesty of your return to London, and as I know that she greatly desires to hear news from St. Quentin, I doubt not but that she will send for you. Hold yourselves at liberty to come to Court to-night. If the Queen be sufficiently well to receive you I will send you a message to that effect. And now I bid you 'good-day.' I would fain detain you longer, but business of State awaits me, and my time is not my own. Meanwhile you can prepare for me a written report of the state and condition of Calais.""
"And so the good Cardinal dismissed them, and they hastened back to Gray's Inn.
The evening was closing in, supper was over, and a happy family party was gathered together in the library.
To-morrow many friends would join them, to welcome the return of the travellers; there would be Don Renard, Sir Philip Broke, the Lord Mayor, and other distinguished guests; but to-night theirs was a joy with which "the stranger intermeddleth not": it was a purely family gathering. Much they talked of the battle and siege of St. Quentin, much had they to tell of Egmont, Horn, Montmorency, and Coligni; but it was the ride through the forest and the encounter with the "gueux" which held Susan spellbound. Her eyes were fastened on the young warriors with irrepressible admiration, and glistened with love as she listened.
Then the interview of the morning was told, and the Cardinal's intimation that they might be wanted at Whitehall that night was not forgotten.
At this last piece of news Sir John seemed troubled.
I foresee, he said, "that the Queen or the Cardinal will offer you some military promotion and duty which would do you much honour, and perhaps delight your hearts. But danger lies that way.
The Queen's days are numbered—no man doubts it, and soon the Princess Elizabeth will be called to the throne. And to stand well with Mary, to be actively engaged in her service would be fatal to the statesman, soldier or lawyer when the new era dawns upon the world.
Sir John spoke in a low voice, and with extreme gravity.
Remember also, my boys, that we Jefferays belong to the party of the Reformation; that at this very moment your father is an exile by reason of his religious opinions. Therefore I counsel you to resume your old occupation here, and, for the moment, to lay aside the sword. The time will soon come when you may re-consider the matter; I counsel you to await that hour with patience.
The young men looked grave also, for it was in their hearts that if the Cardinal asked it, they would offer him their swords in defence of Calais while there were yet time to save it.
It was at this moment that the old major-domo asked admission to the room; he brought them the news that a Queen's messenger stood at the door seeking an interview with his young masters.
The summons to Whitehall had arrived, as the envoys told Sir John when they had interviewed the messenger.
Go, my boys, go, but remember my advice, said Sir John, as the family gathering came to an end.
The journey to Whitehall was soon accomplished. The Royal Palace was shrouded in gloom; it was but dimly lit up, for it was not a "guest night."
Alas! guest nights were rare events now that the Queen lay ill; in fact, she had withdrawn herself from almost all public functions.
The Palace was strongly guarded, and ere the young soldiers could gain admittance the officer on duty demanded the password.
It had been communicated to them by the messenger, and, strange to say, the word for the night was "St. Quentin."
Their business being ascertained, they were immediately conducted to the private room occupied by the Cardinal when he was at Whitehall, and soon they were ushered into his presence.
He was busily engaged in writing despatches at a side-table lit by wax candles, nor did he lay aside his work till the documents were signed and sealed; then he turned round and faced his visitors.
He was clad in a plain purple cassock, the only sign of his exalted rank. His handsome face was wan and pale. Alas! his health was fast failing, as all men knew.
Welcome, my sons, he said; "the Queen is anxiously awaiting your arrival, though the hour grows late; we will go to her at once," and rising he led the way to the royal apartments.
Various corridors and chambers were traversed; they were quite empty save for the halberdiers who kept guard in the palace.
Stay here a moment, said the Cardinal in a low voice, as they reached a richly furnished ante-chamber, at the end of which rich curtains hung.
Through these the Cardinal passed; a minute later he rejoined the envoys, saying—
Her Majesty will see you, weary as she is in mind and body; follow me.
They entered Queen Mary's boudoir, the two ladies-in-waiting leaving the room on the Cardinal's signal.
Mary was reclining on a soft couch; she rose to a sitting posture as she saw the young men, and graciously extended her hand, which they kissed as they fell on one knee.
She was very pale, and there were marks of acute suffering in her drawn and wasted face.
His Eminence tells me that you are just arrived in London from St. Quentin; when did you leave that town?
Four days since, may it please your Majesty, answered Geoffrey, now standing erect.
Only four days, murmured the Queen; "how small doth seem the space which separates me from my lord the King!"
She sighed deeply; then, recovering herself, she asked—
How fares his Majesty? did he take part in the siege?
The King is in excellent health, replied Geoffrey, "and he took an active part in the siege of St. Quentin."
You saw him there? inquired Mary.
Many times, your Majesty; he was the cynosure of all eyes as he rode through the flaming streets clad in splendid armour.
Yes, I know, replied Mary, a wan smile flickering awhile on her careworn face; "he would surely be found where duty and danger called him.
Oh, I can call him to mind as he sat on his war-horse, wearing that wondrous suit of Milanese armour which becomes him so well. I mind me that it was in that suit that Titian painted him; I have a copy of it.
For a moment the Queen mused, then she spoke again.
Under what circumstances saw you the King in St. Quentin? Methinks he would thrust himself somewhat recklessly into danger. Did he charge at the head of his troops?—tell me all.
He was ever found where the fight was hottest, replied Geoffrey, "and he was greatly concerned for the fate of the women and children; he had them conducted in safety out of the city."
Oh! gallant Philip, murmured the Queen, as if she spoke to herself, and was unconscious that others were present. "Go on, I pray you!" she said aloud.
He was greatly concerned for the safety of the cathedral, and he ordered the English contingent to see that it suffered no injury, continued Geoffrey. "While the siege was hotly proceeding he ordered the monks of the cathedral to convey the relics of St. Quentin, which lay enshrined there, to his own tent outside the town."
The Queen was greatly moved, and she beckoned the Cardinal to her side.
You hear, father? she whispered to him. "Sometimes I have thought that you misjudged the King, that you did not fully estimate his fervent piety, nor know how easily his noble heart was ever open to the cry for mercy, how full it was of tenderness and pity!"
Poor Mary, poor infatuated Queen!
Suddenly she put her hand to her side as a spasm of pain seized her.
Tell Lady Howard to come hither, she said to Pole, "and to bring with her my strongest essences."
This being done, the Queen seemed to recover, and she would have made further inquiries of the envoys, but the Cardinal intervened.
Will your Majesty pardon me? he said; "the hour grows late, and these gallant young soldiers can wait on you to-morrow; I fear that your Majesty is exerting yourself too much."
Scarcely with these words had the Cardinal persuaded Mary, but he had further arguments at command.
It is the hour for Vespers, your Majesty, and Father Petre awaits us in the oratory.
Yes, you are right, replied the Queen, with sudden willingness; "let us offer to Heaven our thanks for this blessed news from St. Quentin, ere my strength fail me."
The interview ended as it began; Mary extended her poor wasted hand, and the envoys knelt to kiss it.
They never saw Queen Mary again.
Scene I
It was the last day of the year 1557, and it closed amid storm and tempest. The old town of Calais was enshrouded in gloom, the lanterns which dimly lit the streets had one by one gone out under the combined influence of a howling wind and a heavy rain.
In the citadel alone was there light and active life, for the Lords Wentworth and Gray were that night seeing "the old year out and the new year in," after the customary English fashion; there was feasting and merriment within the old Castle walls and the gay uniforms of the officers of the garrison flashed and glittered as they moved about amid the Governors guests.
Out in the darkness Captain Lascelles was relieving the guards and setting the night watches; his men carried lanterns, which they endeavoured to shroud from the blasts of the tempest by the folds of their great military cloaks. The men had reached the strong town gate which guarded the western approach from Sangatte and Hames. A belated English sailor was vainly clamouring for admission.
Fools, he shouted, "let me in, or you will rue the day. I have a matter of life and death to report to your Captain."
Whereat the guards laughed aloud.
But Captain Lascelles arriving at this moment ordered the gate to be opened and the man to be brought before him, and this was quickly done.
And now, my man, tell me your wondrous news, said Captain Lascelles incredulously.
For your ears alone, Captain, I beg of you, replied the sailor, and the pair stepped apart. "I come from Sandgate to-night and the place is full of armed men, they are occupying all the roads, and when to-morrow dawns you will find Calais invested on all sides by a French army."
Are you sober, my man? asked the Captain, as he threw the light of a lantern on his features.
Oh, Captain, it is God's truth, said the sailor, "and I can tell you even more. I mixed with some of these men, and in the darkness they did not discover that I was a foe. They told me that they were the advanced corps of a great army under the Dukes of Guise and De Nevers."
Lascelles was convinced, the deep earnestness of the sailor dispelled all doubt from his mind. He called his lieutenant to his side, and in a few words told him the fateful news.
Take six of your best scouts, De Warenne, he said, "we must verify the truth of this man's statements, though in good sooth I doubt them not. Be wary and watchful lest you fall into the hands of the enemy; when you return come to me at the Castle, I take this man thither at once."
Then he summoned his sergeant and bade him take immediate steps to double the number of guards at all the gates of Calais. Ten minutes later he had reached the Castle, and in reply to his urgent message the Governor gave him instant audience.
Lord Wentworth heard the Captain's report with utter incredulity.
We know, he said, "that De Nevers is marching into Luxembourg, and Guise is in Picardy; the thing is absurd and impossible. It is now nearly midnight, and I will not disturb the peace and happiness of my guests, who will soon be leaving the Castle. But, meanwhile, warn the whole garrison that daybreak must find them under arms," and therewith he rejoined his guests.
The hours of night passed slowly.
Before the dawn of day Lascelles had visited every outpost and the forts of Froyton and Neslé.
De Warenne had not returned, but at many of the gates the country people were assembling in frightened groups, begging for admission into the town. Their report was in every case the same—Guisnes, Sangatte, and Hames were beset by a host of armed men.
De Warenne and his men have fallen into the hands of the foe, and this is the beginning of woe and disaster, said Captain Lascelles to himself, as the first streaks of day appeared in the sky and the drums of the garrison broke into furious uproar calling all men, and even all citizens, to arms.
It was the first day of January 1558. Ah, what a "New Year's Day" was that for England!
All around Calais lay a great host of Frenchmen, and the banners of Guise and De Nevers revealed the fact that the young Duc, the hope of France, was there in person, eager to wipe out the disgrace of St. Quentin. Everywhere the French were throwing up batteries and bringing up their artillery, their first point of attack being the forts of Froyton and Neslé.
Then the guns of the citadel opened fire, and few and feeble as they were their deep roar filled the air and shook the old houses of the town to their foundations.
Wentworth and Gray were everywhere, haranguing, cheering, and encouraging their men. Gray was a famous engineer and, with his own hands, he aimed and fired the best guns the citadel possessed, doing evident execution upon the batteries in course of construction by the foe.
Thus an hour flew by, it was broad daylight now and the rain and storm of the preceding night had ceased. Suddenly the French batteries began to play upon the fortresses on the city walls, and the uproar of war was increased tenfold.
It was at once perceived by the garrison that Guise possessed very powerful battering-trains, for which their poor artillery was no match. And though Lord Gray had brought a reinforcement of two hundred men to the garrison of Calais, no artillery had been sent by the Government.
So the unequal duel went on throughout the day, with a roar so deafening that it was heard both at Antwerp and at Dover. The very heavens seemed to be fighting against England, for there, at Dover, was a great train of artillery waiting for transit to Calais. But the winds were fiercely contrary, and not an English vessel could put to sea.
The darkness of night did not stay the conflict, for the French artillerymen had got their "mark and distance," and the fierce cannonade never ceased.
At daybreak on January 2nd, the Duke of Guise stormed the forts of Froyton and Neslé in overwhelming force and carried them. On the next day Newhaven Bridge and Risbank surrendered, and henceforth all the strength of Guise's thirty-five great guns was directed upon the town and the castle. There was no rest, day or night, for the besieged garrison, each hour brought their inevitable destruction nearer.
It was on the fifth day that a great breach in the citadel was effected, and then came the final struggle in which Captain Lascelles fell at the head of his troops; the victorious foe overwhelmed the defenders in irresistible force and the French flag was planted on the walls of the citadel!
The Castle of Guisnes still held out under Lord Gray, but on the eighth day of the siege it was captured, and with it went Hames.
Lords Gray and Wentworth were taken prisoners and were held to ransom.
Thus fell Calais after two hundred and ten years occupation by the English, and thus England lost the last rood of its once vast Continental possessions.
Few of the garrison survived the siege, the tremendous cannonade slew most of them, and when the town and citadel were stormed by the French every foot of ground was fiercely contested until the streets of the town and the ramparts of the Castle were choked with the dead and dying. It is stated that only fifty prisoners were made.
For a day and a night Calais was the prey of the ruthless soldiery, neither age nor sex was spared.
The town possessed little wealth; twenty-four hours sufficed for the seizure of all that it had to yield.
On January 10 the Dukes of Guise and De Nevers entered the town in all the panoply of war, and thenceforth all disorder ceased and the French began to repair the shattered walls with desperate haste.
Five days later King Henry the Second visited his latest conquest, and the French army was delirious with joy and enthusiasm.
The flag of France floated majestically from the grey towers of the Castle, never to be replaced by the flag of St. George.
Scene II
On November 17, 1558, Queen Mary died. Philip came not to England; by the hand of the Count de Feria he sent a message and a ring to his dying wife.
A truer friend to the hapless Queen than Philip lay dying at Lambeth—Cardinal Reginald Pole.
Within the period of the dawn and sunset of the same day Mary and her noble kinsman died, and the courtiers passed in crowds from Whitehall to Hatfield.
A new era was dawning for England—"the night was departing, the day was at hand!"
How the bells of the many churches in London clanged with joyous notes as Queen Elizabeth entered her capital!
The youth of the nation, all that was noblest, best and greatest thronged her passage as she wended her way through the gay streets. All that pageantry could devise, all that devoted loyalty could prompt, greeted the brilliant young Queen as she passed to the royal apartments of the Tower to await her coronation.
The first act of Queen Elizabeth was to release all religious prisoners, and forthwith multitudes of refugees returned from the Continent. Among these were William Jefferay and the Vicar of Chiddingly, and there was joy at Gray's Inn.
There was another reason for rejoicing among the family of the Jefferays. This very year of 1558, by a short Act, Parliament restored Geoffrey de Fynes "in blood and honours," and he took his seat in the House of Peers as Baron Dacres.
Yet another reason for joy arose when the young Queen promoted the Treasurer of Gray's Inn to the Bench of Judges and Sir John was created Baron Jefferay.
And when it pleased Elizabeth to call William and Ralph to Court, and to make them "Gentlemen of the Queen's Guard," their happiness was complete.
Scene III, and Last
Chiddingly once more
The spring has come, it is the month of April in the year of grace 1559.
The Manor House at Chiddingly is thronged with guests from all parts of Sussex, and the little village is gay with floral arches and flags.
The bells of the church have been ringing at intervals all this lovely spring day, and the villagers are assembling in such numbers that the sacred building cannot contain them.
Would you know the reason of the happiness which beams on the face of every man, woman and child in Chiddingly?
Here is your answer.
Forth from the Manor House comes a noble company, they are walking to the church in long procession. There are Pelhams, Nevills, Howards, De Fynes, and many another great Sussex family represented there. And there comes the bridegroom, for this is a wedding. Ah! we know him, the brave young soldier who has proved his courage on the tented field, and by his side walk William and Ralph, his brothers-in-arms. It is Geoffrey de Fynes, now Baron Dacres of Herstmonceux.
And presently the great dames of the noble families here represented come forth, and among them we espy one whom we know full well. It is Susan!
Oh, how sweet she looks in her bridal attire, and how supremely happy, as she takes the arm of her father and walks forward to the church!
They enter it and there, awaiting them at the altar, stands the good Vicar of Chiddingly, looking little the worse for his year's banishment from his parish. Then the young couple stand together before him, and the solemn service proceeds which is to make them man and wife.
It is over, the bells "gush out in merry tune," the rustics make the welkin ring with their shouts, and the noble couple retrace their steps to the Manor House, the bride leaning upon the bridegroom's arm.
O, ter felices ambo!
There we leave you, possessed of all the happiness that earth has to bestow.
EPILOGUE
In Chelsea old parish church there may be seen an altar-tomb of such marked beauty that Dean Stanley once declared that Westminster Abbey contained only three finer. It is dedicated to the memory of Geoffrey, Lord Dacre and his wife.
On the west side is the following inscription—
"Quos ardens amor juvenilibus annis Abstulit atra dies—mors inopina rapit. Ille prior fatis Dacrorum nobile germen Occidit, in morbum ast incidit ilia prius Qu? languescendo miser? pr?t?dia vit? Sensit, tam dulci conjuge cassa suo, Ut teneri cordis concordia junxerat ambos Sic idem amborum contegit ossa locus. Quos jungit tumulus conjungant c?lica tecta Ut tensant coelum qui tenuere fidem. Nobilis iste Vir Nobilis iste Mulier Obiit Sept. 25, 1594 Obiit Maii 14, 1595.
"The following is a free translation—
"Those whom in youth love joined, death's day of gloom With little warning sank into the tomb; He, Dacre's seed, first yielded to the blow, She lingered on in weariness and woe; Their hearts responsive beat till life's calm close, Together here the bones of each repose, United by one grave,—in faith they lie, One blissful meed awaits them in the sky.
"In Chiddingly Church there exists a noble monument to the memory of Sir John Jefferay, Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer.
He died full of years and honours in the year 1578.
The End