Part 32
The successor of Henry, Edward I., was of a far more knightly quality. Faithful in love, intrepid in battle, generous to the needy, and courteous to all--except when his temper was crossed--he may pass muster as a very respectable knight. He was active and strong, and, with one hand on the back of his steed, could vault, at a single bound, into the saddle. Few men cared less for finery. He was even reproved on one occasion by a bishop, for being dressed beneath his dignity of either king or knight. “Father,” said Edward, “what could I do more in royal robes than in this plain gaberdine?”
Edward would have acted little in the spirit of a true knight if he had really acted toward the Bards, according to the cruel fashion recorded in history. I am inclined to believe with Davies, in his “Mythology of the Druids,” that this king has been calumniated in this respect. “There is not the name,” says Davies, “of a single bard upon record who suffered either by his hand or by his orders. His real act was the removal of that patronage, under which the bards had, hitherto, cherished the heathenish superstition of their ancestors, to the disgrace of our native princes.” This king showed a feeling common with many knights, that however indifferently they might look living, in rusty armor or faded mantle, they should wear a decent and comely covering when dead. Thus he ordered that every year his tomb should be opened, and his remains covered with a new cere-cloth or pall. It was a pride akin to that of Mrs. Oldfield’s, in the days of our grandmothers, who was buried in a Brussels lace head-dress, a Holland shift with tucker and double ruffles of the same lace, and a pair of new kid gloves. The same weakness of nature marked both the tragedy-queen and the actual king; and it marks many more than they. There was more humility, however, in the second Duke Richard of Normandy, who was far more chivalrous than Edward I., and who ordered his body to be buried at the church-door, where passengers might tread upon it, and the spouts from the roof discharge their water upon it.
It was in the religious spirit of chivalry that Edward I. expelled the Jews. One curious result is said to have followed. Report alleges that many of the Jewish families fled into Scotland, where “they have propagated ever since in great numbers; witness the aversion this nation has above others to hog’s flesh.”
Of the unfortunate Edward II., it may be said that he was an indifferent knight, who gave the honors of chivalry to very indifferent persons, and committed great outrages on knightly orders themselves. In the annals of knighthood he is remembered as the monarch who abolished the Order of Knights Templars in England. He treated the luckless chevaliers with far more generosity than Henry VIII. observed toward the ejected monks and abbots. He allowed two shillings per day to the deprived master of the Temple, and fourpence each daily to the other knights for their support, out of their former confiscated property. Edward himself loved carousing and hunting, more than any other pastime. There were other pleasures, indeed, in which he greatly delighted, and these are well catalogued in one of Gaveston’s speeches in Marlowe’s tragedy, called by this king’s name:--
“I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits, Musicians, that with touching of a string, May draw the pliant king which way I please; Music and poetry are his delight, Therefore I’ll have Italian masks by night, Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing slaves; And in the day, when he shall walk abroad, Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad; My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns, Shall with their goats’ feet dance the antic lay. Sometimes a lovely boy, in Dian’s shape, With hair that gilds the water as it glides Coronets of pearl about his naked arms, And in his sportive hands an olive-tree, To hide those parts which men delight to see, Shall bathe him in a spring; and there hard by One, like Actæon, peeping through the grove, Shall by the angry goddess be transformed, And running in the likeness of a hart, By yelping hounds pulled down, shall seem to die; Such things as these best please his majesty.”
How dearly he paid for indulgence in such pleasures, and how meekly he accepted his fierce destiny or retribution, need not be detailed here.
Whatever may be thought of the character of Edward II. himself, his chivalry wrought little good for the realm. The crown of England during his reign was weaker; and as the knight-historian, Sir J. Davies, remarks in his History of Ireland, “suffered more dishonor in both kingdoms than at any time since the Norman Conquest.” There were few such honest knights, too, in that reign, as in that of the third Edward, when Sir Thomas Rookesby, an eminent law-knight and judge, was wont to say that he “would eat in wooden dishes, but would pay gold and silver for his meat.” In this speech a blow was dealt at the extravagant people who in order “to eat off plate,” made no scruple of cheating their butcher.
In Edward III. we have a king who is more closely connected with knightly associations in our memory than any other sovereign of England. He it was who, by reviving or reconstructing the ancient order, founded by Richard I., of “The Blue Thong”--a leather knee-band, worn by certain of the English crusaders--formed that brilliant Order of the Garter, which has been conferred on so few who are deserving, and on so many whose claims were not so great as their “pretensions.”
How far gallantry to the Countess of Salisbury had to do with the renewing of the Order of the Blue Thong, under the name of the Garter, is still an unsettled rather than a disputed point. Froissart’s account is: “You have all heard how passionately King Edward was smitten with the charms of the noble Lady Katherine, Countess of Salisbury. Out of affection to the said lady, and his desire to see her, he proclaimed a great feast, in August, 1343. He commanded all his own lords and knights should be there without fail, and he expressly ordered the Earl of Salisbury to bring his lady, his wife, with as many young ladies as she could collect to attend her. The Earl very cheerfully complied with the king’s request, for he thought no evil, and his good lady dared not to say nay. She came, however, much against her will, for she guessed the reason which made the king so earnest for her attendance, but was afraid to discover it to her husband, intending by her conduct to make the king change his opinion.... All the ladies and damsels who assisted at the first convocation of the Order of the Garter came superbly dressed, excepting the Countess of Salisbury, who attended the festival, dressed as plainly as possible; she did not wish the king to admire her, for she had no intention to obey him in anything evil, that might tend to the dishonor of her dear lord.” The repetition of the word _evil_ here, has probably nothing to do with the motto of the Garter, but I may notice that when Froissart calls the above festival a convocation of the order, he is in error, for, the first _chapter_ of the Garter was held at Windsor, on St. George’s Day, 1344. At this chapter Queen Philippa was present in the robes of the order; for every knight’s lady in the olden time shared in the knightly honors of her lord.
How Edward bore himself in tournament and battle we all know. Both historians and poets have rejoiced to exhibit this chivalrous monarch as a lover, and he is even more interesting as a knight in love than as one in war, and moreover as the account of him in the former character reveals some other incidents of knightly life, I will borrow Froissart’s historical picture of Edward in a lady’s bower, and contrast therewith the picture of the same monarch in the same circumstances, as depicted by the hands of a poet. It is only necessary to premise that the lady who was the object of Edward’s homage was Katherine de Granson, daughter of a handsome, penniless knight, and a rich Wiltshire heiress named Sibyl. “Katherine the fair,” says Miss Strickland, “was the only child of this couple, and was richly endowed with her mother’s wealth and her father’s beauty. She bestowed _both_ on the brave Earl of Salisbury”--who, if he was ugly as he was valiant, must have been grateful for the gift of the beauty of William de Granson.
When Edward wooed the countess, the earl was a prisoner in France, and the lady’s castle of Wark had just been relieved from siege laid against it by an army of Scots. “The moment the countess heard the king’s approach she ordered all the gates to be thrown open, and went out to meet him most richly dressed, insomuch that no one could look at her, but with wonder and admiration at her noble deportment and affability of behavior. When she came near King Edward she made her obeisance to the ground, and gave him thanks for coming to her assistance, and then conducted him into the castle, to entertain and honor him, as she was very capable of doing. Every one was delighted with her; but the king could not take his eyes from her; so that a spark of fine love struck upon his heart, which lasted for a long time, for he did not believe that the whole world produced another such a lady, so worthy of being beloved. Thus they entered the castle, hand in hand. The countess led him first to the hall, and then to the best chamber which was very richly furnished as belonging to so fine a lady. King Edward kept his eyes so fixed upon the countess that the gentle lady was quite abashed. After he had sufficiently examined his apartment, he retired to a window, and leaning on it, fell into a profound revery.
“The countess left him, to order dinner to be made ready, and the table set, and the hall ornamented and set out; likewise to welcome the knights and lords who accompanied the king. When she had given all the orders to her servants she thought needful, she returned with a cheerful countenance to King Edward and said: ‘Dear sir, what are you musing on? Such meditation is not proper for you, saving your grace! You ought rather to be in high spirits, having freed England from her enemy without loss of blood.’ The king replied, ‘Oh, dear lady, you must know since I have been in this castle, some thoughts have oppressed my mind that I was not before aware of, so that it behooves me to reflect. Being uncertain what may be the event, I can not withdraw my attention.’ ‘Dear sir,’ answered the lady, ‘you ought to be of good cheer, and feast with your friends to give them more pleasure, and leave off pondering, for God has been very bountiful to you in your undertakings, so that you are the most feared and renowned prince in Christendom. If the king of Scotland have vexed you by the mischief he hath done in your kingdom, you will speedily be able to make reprisals in his dominions. Therefore, come, if it please you, into the hall to your knights, for your dinner will soon be served.’ ‘Oh, sweet lady,’ said King Edward, ‘there be other things which touch my heart and lie heavy there, than what you talk of. For in good truth, your beauteous mien, and the perfection of your face and behavior have wholly overcome me, and so deeply impress my heart, that my happiness wholly depends on meeting a return to my flame, which no denial from you can ever extinguish.’ ‘Oh, my dear lord,’ replied the countess, ‘do not amuse yourself by laughing at me with trying to tempt me; for I can not believe you are in earnest as to what you have just said. Is it likely that so gallant and noble a prince, as you are, would ever think of dishonoring either me or my husband, a valiant knight, who has served you so faithfully, and who now lies in a doleful prison on your account? Certainly, sir, this would not redound to your glory, nor would you be the better if you could have your wayward will.’
“The virtuous lady then quitted the king, who was astonished at her words. She went into the hall to hasten dinner; afterward she approached the king’s chamber, attended by all the knights, and said to him, ‘My lord king, your knights are all waiting for you, to wash their hands, for they, as well as yourself, have fasted too long.’ King Edward left his apartment, and came to the hall, where, after he had washed his hands, he seated himself with his knights at the dinner, as did the lady also; but the king ate very little, and was the whole time pensive, casting his eyes, whenever he had the opportunity, on the countess. Such behavior surprised his friends, for they were not accustomed to it, never having seen the like before in the king. They supposed it was his chagrin at the departure of the Scots without a battle. The king remained at the castle the whole day, without knowing what to do with himself. Thus did he pass that day and a sleepless night, debating the matter within his own heart. At daybreak he rose, drew out his whole army, exercised his camp, and made ready to follow the Scots. Upon taking leave of the countess he said, ‘My dear lady, God preserve you safe till I return; and I pray that you will think well of what I have said, and have the goodness to give me a different answer.’ ‘My gracious liege,’ replied the countess, ‘God of his infinite goodness preserve you, and drive from your noble heart such villanous thoughts, for I am, and ever shall be, willing to serve you, but only in what is consistent with my honor and with yours.’ The king left her, quite astonished at her answers.” He was, in fact, a very villanous personage in these matters, and looked for as much submission from those ladies on whom he cast his eyes, as the Czar Nicholas did from the loyal ladies whom that “copper captain” delighted to favor.
An unknown poet, of the period between 1590 and 1600, in an historical play entitled “Edward III.” has reproduced this incident, and worked it up for the stage--with some touches which are probably warranted by facts, and which, for that reason alone, render the passage worth transcribing.
_Edward_ (_solus_). She is grown more fairer far, since I came hither. Her voice more silver ev’ry word than other, Her wit more fluent; what a strange discourse Unfolded she of David and his Scots! Even thus, quoth she, he spoke; and then _spake broad With epithets and accent of the Scot; But somewhat better than the Scot could speak_: And then, quoth she, and answered then herself; For who could speak like her? but she herself Breathes from the wall an angel note from heaven Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes-- When she could talk of peace, methinks her tongue Commanded war to prison; when of war, It wakened Cæsar from his Roman grave, To hear war beautified by her discourse. Wisdom is foolishness, but in her tongue; Beauty is slander, but in her fair face; There is no summer, but in her cheerful looks; Nor frosty winter, but in her disdain. I can not blame the Scots that did besiege her, For she is all the treasure of our land; But call them cowards that they ran away, Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.
* * * * *
_Countess._ Sorry am I to see my liege so sad; What may thy subject do to drive from thee This gloomy consort, sullen Melancholy?
_Edward._ Ah, Lady! I am blunt and can not straw The flowers of solace in a ground of shame. Since I came hither, Countess, I am wronged.
_Countess._ Now, God forbid that any in my house Should think my sov’reign wrong! Thrice gentle king, Acquaint me with your cause of discontent.
_Edward._ How near then shall I be to remedy?
_Countess._ As near, my liege, as all my woman’s power Can pawn itself to buy thy remedy.
_Edward._ If thou speak’st true, then have I my redress. Engage thy power to redeem my joys, And I am joyful, Countess; else I die.
_Countess._ I will, my liege.
_Edward._ Swear, Countess, that thou wilt.
_Countess._ By Heaven, I will!
_Edward._ Then take thyself a little way aside, And tell thyself a king doth dote on thee. Say that within thy power it doth lie To make him happy; and that thou hast sworn To give him all the joy within thy power. Do this, and tell him, when I shall be happy.
_Countess._ All this is done, my thrice-dread sovereign. That power of love that I have power to give Thou hast, with all devout obedience. Employ me how thou wilt, in proof thereof.
_Edward._ Thou hear’st me say that I do dote on thee.
_Countess._ If on my beauty, take it, if thou canst. Though little, I do prize it ten times less; If on my virtue, take it, if thou canst; For virtue’s store, by giving, doth augment. Be it on what it will that I can give, And thou canst take away, inherit it.
_Edward._ It is thy beauty that I would enjoy.
_Countess._ Oh! were it painted, I would wipe it off, And dispossess myself to give it thee. But, sov’reign, it is soldered to my life. Take one and both; for, like an humble shadow, It haunts the sunshine of my summer’s life.
_Edward._ But thou mayst lend it me in sport withal.
_Countess._ As easy may my intellectual soul Be lent away, and yet my body live, As lend my body (palace to my soul) Away from her, and yet retain my soul. My body is her bower, her court, her abbey, And she an angel, pure, divine, unspotted. If I should lend her house, my lord, to thee, I kill my poor soul, and my poor soul me.
_Edward._ Didst thou not swear to give me what I would?
_Countess._ I did, my liege; so what you would I could.
_Edward._ I wish no more of thee than thou mayst give. Nor beg I do not, but I rather buy; That is thy love; and for that love of thine, In rich exchange I tender to thee mine.
_Countess._ But that your lips were sacred, my good lord, You would profane the holy name of love. That love you offer me, you can not give; For Cæsar owes that tribute to his queen. That love you beg of me I can not give; For Sarah owes that duty to her lord. He that doth clip or counterfeit your stamp Shall die, my lord; and shall your sacred self Commit high treason ’gainst the King of Heav’n, To stamp his image in forbidden metal, Forgetting your allegiance and your oath? In violating marriage’ sacred law You break a greater honor than yourself. _To be a king_ is of a younger house Than _to be married_; your progenitor, Sole-reigning Adam on the universe, By God was honored for a married man, But not by Him anointed for a king. It is a penalty to break your statutes, Though not enacted with your highness’ hand; How much more to infringe the holy act Made by the mouth of God, sealed with his hand? I know my sovereign in my husband’s love Doth but to try the wife of Salisbury, Whether she will hear a wanton’s tale or no; Lest, being guilty therein, by my stay, From that, not from my liege, I turn away.
The countess, naturally, has the best of the argument, and shames the king. In this pleasant light is she presented by both chronicler and poet, and the lady, chiefly to honor whom the Order of the Garter was constructed upon the basis of the Order of the Blue Thong, was worthy of all the distinctive homage that could be rendered to her by knight or king.
Richard II., so fond of parade and pleasure, so refined and intellectual, so affable at first, so despotic and absolute at last, till he was superseded and then slain, is among the most melancholy of knights and sovereigns. He was not heroic, for he was easily elevated and easily depressed. He turned deadly pale on hearing, in Ireland, of the landing of Henry Bolingbroke in England, and that the Archbishop of Canterbury had preached in favor of the usurper. He was eminently courageous, sang a roundelay as well as any minstrel, and often made the roundelays he sung. He looked little like a knight indeed when he traversed part of Wales to Conway, disguised as a Franciscan friar; or flying from castle to castle, having sorry lodging and little food. It was in the dress and cowl of a monk that the once chivalrous Richard surrendered himself to his cousin. In the army of that cousin, sent to take Richard and his few faithful knights and squires who refused to detach his device from their coats, was “Sir Henry Percy” (the _Hotspur_ of Shakespeare), “whom they held to be the best knight in England.”
It was by persuasion of Hotspur’s father that Richard left Conway for Flint, where he was made prisoner, and afterward conveyed to Chester, the English knights of the opposite faction behaving to him with most unchivalric rudeness. The unsceptred monarch was first taken to Pickering, one of the most beautiful spots in England, defaced by scenes of the greatest crimes, of which place knights and nobles were the masters. Thence he passed on to Leeds and Knaresborough Castle, where the king’s chamber is still pointed out to visiters. Finally, he was carried to “bloody Pomfret”--“fatal and ominous to noble peers.” Never, it is said, did man look less like a knight than the unhappy king, when he appeared before the drawbridge of Pontefract Castle. Majestic still he was in feature, but the majesty was depressed by such profound melancholy, that few could look upon the weeping king without themselves shedding tears. If the picture of him at this juncture might be metrically given in outline, the following sketch might feebly render it:--
Who enters now that gate, With dignity upon his pallid brow? Who is the man that, bending to his fate, Comes hither now?
A man of wo he seems, Whom Sadness deep hath long marked for her own. Hath such a form as that indulged in dreams Upon a throne?
Have smiles e’er wreathed that face? Face now so stamped with every line that’s sad; Was joy e’er known those quivering lips to grace, That heart to glad?
Who is this shadow’s shade? This type of withered majesty? this thing? Can it be true that knightly form decayed Was once a king?
Son of a noble sire, And of his father’s virtues too, the heir; Those eyes so dim once rivalled the sun’s fire; None were more fair.
Gallant, and light of heart, The rock-born eagle was less bold than he; Formed upon earth to play each graceful part Enchantingly.
His joys were early crushed; His mind perverted by most ruthless men; Hope, like a short-lived rose, a moment blushed, And withered then.
His virtues were his own; His vices forced upon him, against his will; His weaker faults were of his age alone-- That age of ill.
In him thou seest the truth, How tyrannous and all-usurping night, Heedless of means, will, acting without ruth, Triumph o’er Right.
Nor is this lesson sad Void of instruction to the wary sent. Learn from it with thy portion to be glad, Meek and content.
And be, where’er thy path, Whate’er the trials life may to thee bring, Grateful that Heaven has not, in its wrath, Made thee a king!