CHAPTER XLIX

OUR CAPTIVITY

It was not in the direction taken by the Scottish army that we were conducted as prisoners by the Scottish men-at-arms, but to a castle standing on the banks of a stream called the Leader, and hard by the tower within the walls of which, in the thirteenth century, dwelt Thomas of Ercildoun, a bard of mighty fame, who enjoyed the reputation of being gifted with a prophetic faculty, and who is said, while at supper in the castle of Dunbar, to have predicted the death of Alexander, King of Scots, and who, on being asked when the war in Scotland would come to an end, answered, "When the cultivated country shall become forest; when wild beasts shall inhabit the abodes of men; when the Scots shall not be able to escape the English, should they crouch as hares in their form; and when they shall be drowned in their flight for fault of ships."

As we approached Mount Moreville, which, in earlier days, was the castle of Hugh de Moreville, a great Norman noble, who figured as Constable of Scotland, and founded the abbey of Dryburgh, and as we rode through the village that had risen under the protection of the stronghold of the Morevilles, night had for some time fallen, and darkness overshadowed the earth. But the rumour that Englishmen were being led to captivity brought forth men and women, and even children, who greeted us in harsh accents, with epithets of no complimentary kind, and loudly chanted a song, which I learned had, forty years earlier, been in fashion among the Scots, and which still retained much of its popularity, albeit it was a song of triumph over potent foes humiliated by a disaster which had been sternly and terribly avenged in three foughten fields:--

"Maidens of England, sore may ye mourn For your lovers ye have lost at Bannockburn, With Heve a low! What ho! weneth the King of England, So soon to have all Scotland, With a rumby low!"

Smiling, as one who had fought at Neville's Cross might well smile, in scornful disdain at this barbarous dirge, I passed through the barriers, Salle riding by my side in doleful mood at the thought of being separated from freedom by stone walls and iron bars; and, having passed the drawbridge and dismounted in the courtyard, we were led into the hall of the castle.

While Salle, much downcast, and I, somewhat crestfallen, were kept waiting in the great hall of the castle of Mount Moreville till arrangements were made for lodging us securely in one of the strong rooms of the tower, I gradually became aware that the inmates were not all Scots. In fact, some of the French who had accompanied Eugène de Garentière were quartered in the castle, and among them Lancelot de Lorris, a young knight, who, young, handsome, expert in arms, and much in love with a demoiselle of his own country, had come to win his spurs in combat with the English, and had taken one of those romantic vows so common at the period not to eat bread from a table-cloth, nor to sleep in a bed, nor to look the lady of his love in the face, till he had performed certain feats of chivalry against the garrison of Roxburgh.

As we entered the hall the Frenchmen, some seated, some standing by the fire that burned on the hearth and blazed up the huge chimney, were playing dice, and talking boastfully enough of their feats in love and war. On seeing us, however, they, with one accord, moved to the middle of the floor and stared at us, smiling and whispering to each other, and displaying more curiosity than was agreeable to my comrade.

"Gallants!" growled Salle, patting the heads of two hounds that had roused themselves and risen from their recumbent posture on our entrance, "have you before never seen an English prisoner, that you stare at us as if we were elephants or camels, or beasts of prey? By good St. George, I err grievously if you would not be more shy of approaching were we but mounted on our horses and armed with swords."

It seemed that the language in which Salle conveyed his question and uttered his comment was not comprehended by the Frenchmen; for they merely looked at each other and shook their heads. Suddenly, however, the countenance of Lancelot de Lorris was lighted up with a smile of surprise, and the young knight, who, I observed, bore a chain on his arm to indicate that he was under thraldom to his chivalrous vow, stepped forward.

"By our lady of Rybamont!" said he, addressing me, "it seems to me, gentle squire, that we have met before."

"It may so have chanced, sir knight," replied I, speaking in his own tongue, and with studied courtesy, for I wished to make amends for my comrade's growl, "but, if so, my memory serves me not as to time and place."

"Ah!" said Sir Lancelot, shaking his head gravely, "it was at a time which no warrior of France can recall but with sadness, and at a place which, credit me, I long again to behold as an exile the home whence he had been banished--the castle of Corbie."

"I now remember me," replied I, and not without a flush of pride; for on that day I had won some renown as the champion of imperilled ladies.

"And trust me," said Sir Lancelot cordially, and with a tear in his eye--for it was one of the ladies of Poix to whom he pledged his love, and in whose honour he was eager to do noble deeds--"there are many, myself among the number, who remember how chivalrously you did your devoir as an aspirant to chivalry, and, by our lady of Rybamont! were you here free, and at liberty to do as you liked, instead of a prisoner, naught would please me better than on the morrow to mark my esteem for your valour by indulging you with an encounter outside the barriers of this castle for death or life."

"Gramercy, sir knight," replied I, laughing heartily, "you over-estimate my prowess when you deem me worthy of such a distinction: and yet," added I, "should we chance to meet in time to come on some field where French and English men struggle for renown and victory, in no wise could I imagine good St. George favouring me more highly than by placing me face to face and hand to hand with a warrior at once so courteous and so brave."

Smiling, as if pleased with the answer, Sir Lancelot de Lorris showed that, however readily he would, under other circumstances, have given me a passport to another world, he was not indifferent to my comfort in this. Leading myself and my comrade to the huge chimney, he did everything to console us in our captivity, and his example was not lost on his countrymen, who stood around breaking jests on the poverty of the land and the badness of the fire.

"By my faith," said John de Helennes, a squire of France, "the night is raw and cold; and my very bones seem to freeze."

"In truth," remarked another French squire, known as Eustace the Strong--who prided himself on being like that King of France called Pepin le Bref, whom he did resemble in this at least, that, though his stature was small, his strength was enormous--"Scotland is not a country to be in during winter. I never knew what hard living was till now."

"But certes," said John de Helennes, "that is no reason why we should have such a fire in such weather; for, being but now in the courtyard, I saw several asses driven in, laden with billets of wood for the use of the garrison."

"Holy Mary!" exclaimed Eustace with a look of indignation. "Do you tell me that fuel in plenty is so near, and that warriors of France are left to starve in the cold? Shame upon us if we right not ourselves in such a case."

And, as the strong Frenchman spoke, he sallied forth to the courtyard, seized one of the asses with panniers, carried it into the hall, and, pushing towards the chimney, flung the ass and its load, with its feet uppermost, on the dogs of the hearth, to the great delight of the bystanders, who, with the exception of Sir Lancelot, overlooked the cruelty of the action, and applauded the display of strength.

By this time our term of reprieve was at an end; and, arrangements having meanwhile been made for lodging us securely, we, after taking leave of Sir Lancelot, were conducted up a flight of stone stairs, and into a dimly-lighted chamber, with huge doors and narrow windows, the strong bolts and strong gratings of which seemed to forbid every thought of escape.

"My malison on Dame Fortune for playing us this scurvy trick," said my companion, as the gaoler departed, drawing bolt and bar carefully behind him. "If there is anything I have ever dreaded more than I have hated Scot and Frenchman, it has been the thought of captivity; and now here we are, mewed in an enemy's stronghold, without hope of freedom, and in the hands of men belonging to the nations I have ever detested."

"My friend," replied I soothingly, "be patient, I intreat you, and speak not of being without hope; captivity is the hard fate of many a brave warrior; and circumstances can open stronger doors than the one which bars us from liberty."

But days and weeks passed over, and winter went, and spring came, and the fields became green, and the leaves appeared on the trees, and we learned that the King of England and his army had returned home, and we were still prisoners, when, one day, an event occurred which lent something like novelty to our existence, and stimulated me in some efforts I had made to gratify our anxiety to escape.

I have said that Sir Lancelot de Lorris had vowed to perform certain deeds of chivalry against the garrison of Roxburgh, and no sooner had King Edward left the country than he began to make excursions with the object of accomplishing his vow. Pushing up one day to the stronghold, of which Sir John Copeland was governor, the French knight adventured so far as to strike upon the gate of the fortress and defy the garrison. On that day Copeland had left the castle to exercise his functions of Sheriff of Northumberland, and no notice was taken of the French knight's bravado. But when the Governor of Roxburgh returned, and learned what had occurred, he lost no time in returning the visit.

It was a day in spring, and the sun was shining pleasantly on pool and stream, when I, looking between the strong iron gratings that secured the window of our prison, observed a knight, accompanied by a band of horsemen, approach the castle, and hover on the lee outside the barriers in an attitude of defiance. I had no difficulty in recognising Copeland, and, entertaining little doubt as to the errand on which he had come, I called the attention of Salle to his presence, and awaited the result of his adventure with almost breathless interest.

Nor was Copeland long kept waiting. Elate with the anticipation of encountering so hardy a knight, Sir Lancelot, on hearing that the Governor of Roxburgh requested a tilt, immediately accepted the challenge, and, arraying himself for combat, sallied out, attended by Eustace the Strong and the other Frenchmen, all armed and mounted.

I have seldom beheld a more handsome cavalier than Sir Lancelot looked on this occasion, as, with his pennon displayed, he rode through the barriers with his target on his neck and a lance in his hand, full of gaiety and joyous with the prospect of conflict.

Meanwhile, Copeland, having looked to his saddle-girths, laid his lance in rest, and answered Sir Lancelot's cry of "Our lady of Rybamont!" with a shout of "St. George for England!" Then trumpets sounded, and the two champions rushed against each other. In this course, and in the second which they ran, both charged gallantly, and neither could be said to have any advantage over his antagonist; and, as their targets rang with a clash as they met, their companions shouted applause at their skill, and even I could not refrain from clapping my hands.

But when the English and French knights wheeled their coursers, and, charging for a third time, met with a furious onset, the result was far different. For a moment, so fierce was the shock that it was impossible to perceive what had occurred. But soon all doubt was at an end. Copeland had been so forcibly struck on his helmet that he bent back and shook in his saddle; but his spear had been driven with terrible effect; and Sir Lancelot, pierced through shield and armour, dropped from his steed with a deep and mortal wound.

On seeing the young knight fall, the French, in sore displeasure, raised a cry for revenge; and, headed by Eustace the Strong, they spurred forward to encounter their adversaries. Undauntedly, however, Copeland met them, sword in hand, smote Eustace to the earth, and, literally felling down all before him, drove them, in spite of a desperate resistance, within the barriers, and then, sheathing his sword, prepared to be gone.

"Adieu, sirs," said he, waving his hand as he turned his horse's head to regain his company. "Much it grieves me to have troubled you with my presence. But it would ill have become me, as King Edward's captain, to allow either Scot or Frenchman to strike upon the gate of a fortress committed to my keeping, without hastening, with all speed, to mark my sense of the chivalry that prompted such an adventure. Adieu! I thank you."

Some hours later our evening meal was brought by the gaoler, and I seized the opportunity to ascertain how fared those who had fallen before Copeland's weapon.

"The squire is little the worse for the clout he got," replied the gaoler. "As for the young knight, he will never see France more; he has already departed for a fairer country."

"Gone to his long home," said I, with a pang of mournful regret. "I grieve to hear it with all my heart."

"And, in good sooth, so do I," exclaimed Salle earnestly. "I sincerely lament his fall; for, now that he is dead, I will say of him that, had he been ten times a Frenchman, he was still a gallant young knight, courteous in words, generous in thought, handsome to look at, and expert with his lance; and may Christ have mercy on his soul!"

"Amen!" added I, crossing myself. "And in truth his death is the more mournful that he seemed so much in love."

"Ay," said the gaoler, "it was woesome to see him when he lay on the rushes in the hall, and felt that he was sinking fast; he took his pennon, and giving it to John de Helennes, said, 'Take this, which is dyed with my best blood, to the lady of my love, by whom it was broidered, and tell her what has befallen me, and that, though I failed to accomplish the vow that kept me from her presence, yet I died with honour in the attempt.' And then," added the gaoler, "he laid his head on the rushes, and died."