CHAPTER XXIX

ROYALTY IN A RAGE

Great, as may be supposed, was the anxiety, and great was the consternation, which pervaded the town of Durham, and extended along the banks of the winding Wear, on that day when the battle of "Neville's Cross" was fought at the Red Hills.

From the hour at which Philippa mounted her white palfrey, and rode towards the Park of Auckland, monks, and merchants, and women were equally agitated. The monks who had not accompanied the prior to kneel around the corporax cloth of St. Cuthbert ascended the highest towers of the cathedral, and, with eyes strained towards the embattled hosts, sang hymns, and prayed earnestly that the patrimony of their patron saint might be saved; merchants crowded the house-tops, or paraded the streets, and excitedly lamented the danger to which their families, and booths, and wares were exposed; and women wrung their hands, and bewailed their prospective fate if the town was sacked, and they themselves delivered over to the mercy of foes who, at other places, had proved that they knew nothing of mercy--perhaps not even the name.

It was an awful crisis, as every one felt; and not even the oldest inhabitant could remember such a display of anxiety and dread in a town which was supposed to be guarded by a patron saint of marvellous potency.

At length the danger passed; and when it became known that the conflict, maintained for hours with fury, had terminated in the rout of the invading host, the joy and thankfulness were not less conspicuous than the dismay and consternation had been. Shouts of triumph were on every tongue; and everybody was eager to express gratitude to Heaven for deliverance from those evils that fall to the lot of the vanquished. Nor was any time lost in giving formal expression to the sentiments which filled all hearts. When I, after the memorable scene in which John Copeland enacted so prominent a part, rode into the town, I found that the Lords Neville and Percy and the other war-chiefs--with the exception of Ralph, Lord Hastings, slain on the field--had attended the queen and the prelates to the cathedral, and were, in that sacred edifice, rendering thanks to God and St. Cuthbert for the great victory that had been vouchsafed to their arms.

The religious ceremony having been performed with an earnestness which the circumstances were eminently calculated to inspire, Philippa and the Lords of the North returned in procession to the castle. While there endeavouring to estimate the extent of their victory, and while ascertaining the number and rank of the prisoners, many and grave were the inquiries made by the queen and her captains as to the fate of the King of Scots.

Now it happened that I was the only person capable of affording information on this very important subject; and, albeit not without apprehensions that the consequences of carrying off such a captive with so little ceremony might prove somewhat awkward to Copeland, I felt and deemed it a duty to speak the truth plainly. Having, therefore, intimated that I could throw light on the point as to which so much curiosity was manifested, I was conducted to the hall in which the council was held, and, approaching the queen, bent my knee, not, as I flattered myself, without some of the grace which I had often marked and admired in the castle of Windsor.

"Rise, page," said Philippa gravely, "and, whatever you have to say, say briefly."

"Madam," began I simply, "what I saw with my own eyes that only I wish to relate."

"Proceed."

"Having followed the chase as far as the rising ground which, I since learn, goes by the name of Merrington, I there came upon a party who were preventing the King of Scots from making his escape; and there I myself saw the said king surrender to John Copeland, whom I know to be an esquire of Northumberland, and I believe a stout and valiant man in war."

"His name is not unknown to me," said the queen. "But wherefore conducts he not the captive to our presence?"

"Gracious lady," replied I, much confused, "it irks me to say aught ungrateful to your ears; but since it would ill become me to conceal the truth, I am under the necessity of adding that I saw John Copeland not only take the King of Scots prisoner, but ride off with him from Merrington."

"And whither?"

"Madam, I know not," replied I, driven to desperation; "and albeit it would ill beseem me to answer for another, nevertheless, I cannot but deem that this squire means naught disloyal; for, on putting the question, he only answered that he would keep his captive safe, and account for him to our lord the king."

Not before could I have believed Philippa capable of so much wrath as she displayed on hearing this. Never, in truth, had the eye of living man seen the excellent queen in such a rage. All the fire of her ancestors seemed to burn within her at that moment; and, though she did not stamp her foot, or clench her hand, or express her indignation in loud exclamations, her bent brow and flashing eye sufficiently attested the ire which Copeland's conduct had kindled in a bosom seldom agitated with angry emotions. Recovering, in some degree, her serenity, but with her countenance still flushed with offended pride, she turned towards the lords, and, looking round the circle--which did not fail to sympathise with what she regarded as an insult to her dignity as the Queen of England, and the heroine of the day--she seemed to appeal to them for aid to vindicate her privileges.

"Madam," said Lord Percy, in reply to her look, "have patience for a brief space, and this matter shall be set to rights."

"Yes," added Lord Neville, "Copeland is rude and headstrong; but he is a right loyal squire, who, in his day, hath done England good service, and cannot but mean well."

"May it so prove, my lords," said the queen recovering her equanimity; "I will exercise what patience I can. Meantime, be it yours to take measures for ascertaining whither he has carried the King of Scots; and I will, with my own hand, write a letter commanding him to bring the King of Scots to me at York, and telling him that he will disobey me at his peril--for he has not done what is agreeable to me in carrying off his prisoner without leave, and that he will have to explain his conduct fully ere he can hope for my pardon."

"Madam," replied Lord Percy, "what you command shall be done without loss of time; and I much mistake my merry men if, used as they are to track foes, they put your grace's patience to a long test."

"And," added Lord Neville earnestly, "I entreat your grace to suspend judgment as to Copeland's conduct, for well I know him to be leal and true, and could even take upon myself to be his warranty for explaining everything to your satisfaction."

With this the conference came to a close; and the lords moved off to celebrate their victory, and make preparations for disbanding the army that had saved England in the day of need. At a later hour I was summoned to the queen's presence, and went, not without a feeling of alarm that I might, in some measure, be involved in Copeland's disgrace. I soon found, however, that my alarm was groundless, and that I was not to be punished for the rash imprudence of another.

"Page," said Philippa as I entered, "I have sent for you to say that I hold you have done good service in informing me of the outrage of which this Northern squire has been guilty; and I doubt not but that my lord the king will so account it. Nay, answer not, but listen. At daybreak, Sir John Neville, son of the lord of that name, sets forth to journey to Calais, to carry thither news of the victory which has this day been sent us by God and St. George. It is but right that my lord the king should have all information as to the manner in which a royal prisoner was taken and lawlessly carried off. Be ready, therefore, to join Sir John Neville's train and accompany him when he takes the road."

With the best grace I could, I expressed my deep sense of the honour which the queen was pleased to confer upon me; and next morning, about cock-crow, I was riding out of Durham with Neville and his men, and, in their company, taking the way south to embark at Dover for the stronghold before the walls of which lay, in hostile array, the gallant prince whom I had the distinction of serving and the brave warriors at whose side I had fought at Cressy.

It was true that, in thus leaving England, I was deprived of the opportunity of visiting my grandsire's homestead, and this somewhat damped the joy which I felt at the prospect of figuring once more in the prince's train. But I was young, and too sanguine to dwell long on a subject which was rather suggestive of melancholy reflections.

"What matters it," soliloquised I, as I rode along, "whether I appear there now or hereafter? Mayhap the delay is favourable; and when the time does come, I may have won some more significant symbol of renown in arms than aught that decks a page's livery to gladden the heart of my stout grandsire, and to cheer, if but for a moment, the heart of my sad, sad mother."

Little, as I thus mused, did I foresee the awfully painful circumstances under which I was destined next to approach the homely grange, and set foot in the humble hall whose roof had sheltered my childhood.