CHAPTER X

The Wages of Judas

Too truly said the prophet-lady of Raguenel, that France stood then in sore need of a deliverer. For now burst on the ill-fated land the full fury of that tremendous storm of calamities that was to rage over it for well-nigh a century to come, till its utter desolation and misery antedated the worst horrors poured out upon Germany during the long agony of the Thirty Years’ War; and the terrified monks who watched from their quiet cloisters the flood of ruin and death that seemed to be overwhelming the whole world outside, whispered to each other that the Last Day must be at hand, and quoted tremulously the only words strong enough to describe adequately a period so fearfully disastrous—

“For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not from the beginning of the world unto this time, no, nor ever shall be.”

While the French nobles were quarrelling with each other, and all with the king, and the trampled French peasants were hating and cursing both parties alike, an English army was fighting its way into the heart of France, burning, slaying, and plundering wherever it came; and, profiting by this universal disorder, pirates ravaged every coast, and robber bands wasted every province.

Then came the fatal field of Crecy, where the proudest nobles of France fell like autumn leaves before the shafts of English archers, and the dead left by the conquered outnumbered thrice over the whole army of the conquerors. And then King Edward’s iron grasp closed on Calais, and all the valour of John de Vienne and his brother heroes failed to save from the invader that fairest jewel in the crown of France.

But the brightest crown of that great historical martyrdom was won neither by knight nor by noble, but by a peaceful burgher, Eustache de St. Pierre, who, with five others as brave and devoted as he, went forth to the terrible conqueror with the halters of doom about their necks, and bade him work his will on them, if he would but spare their city and its people. But though the great king’s chivalrous spirit, and the prayers of his gentle and beautiful queen, saved these self-doomed martyrs from death, their town was French no longer; and for more than two centuries the gate of France was in English hands, ever ready to fling it open for the passage of their destroying armies, till, in God’s good time, the ill-gotten spoil was torn from the spoiler, and the sternest and cruellest of English queens died broken-hearted at the news that Calais was a French city once more.

And after this came woe on woe—war, pestilence, famine, robbery, and murder—till the misery of France rose to a height best described in the terrible words of one who had himself seen it—

“In goode sooth, the estate of the whole realme of Fraunce was thenne most miserable; and, looke wheresoever one myghte, there appeared nought save an horrible face of disorder, povertie, desolacioun, solitarinesse, and feare. The lean and bare labourers in the countrie did terrifie even theeves themselves, who founde nought lefte for them to spoyle save the carkasses of these poore starvynge creatures, wandering miserably uppe and downe like unto ghostes drawn foorth of theyr graves. The leaste farmes and hamlets were foortifyde by robbers of alle naciouns, eche one stryvinge to doe his worste; and alle menne of warre were well agreed in this, to despoyle to the utmoste everie husbandman and everie merchaunte; insomuche that the verie cattell in the fieldes, growing used to the sownde of the ’larum-bell (whiche was the signe of an enemie’s comynge) wolde of themselves runne home withouten any guide, by reason of this accustomed miserie.”

On a gloomy evening toward the close of November, 1348, sat at a table littered with parchments, in an upper room of Westminster Palace, a handsome, stately man in the prime of life, with so striking a look of power and command in his large, deep, thoughtful eyes and broad, noble forehead (over which the long dark hair was waxing thin from the constant pressure of his helmet) that few men would have needed to be told that this was King Edward himself.

There he sat, the man for whose sake great kingdoms were being blasted with fire and sword, and thousands dying daily in the fierce shock of battle, or by the slow agony of famine and disease. Strong, wise, brave, comely, famed alike as king, statesman, general, courtier, and man-at-arms, he had power to do more good, and, alas! used that power to do more evil, than any other man of his time. Little could he then foresee, in the heyday of his might and the splendour of victories at which the whole world stood amazed, that, less than thirty years later, the curses of all Western Europe and the cold indifference of his own neglected people would follow to his grave an old, worn-out, childless, broken-hearted man, stripped of nearly all his hard-won conquests, and robbed on his very death-bed by a worthless favourite.

There was a knock at the door, and a richly clad chamberlain said with a low bow—

“My lord king, Sir Aymery de Pavia of Lombardy, governor of Calais, whom your grace was pleased to command hither, awaits your pleasure.”

The great king started slightly, and over his noble face flickered for a moment a smile more stern, and menacing, and terrible, than his blackest frown, but he only said—

“Bid Sir Aymery enter.”

In came a tall, portly man in a rich suit of gilded armour, whose dark Southern face would have been strikingly handsome, but for the cunning, ever-shifting restlessness of the keen black eyes, and a sinister compression of the thin lips, suggestive of that ingrained Italian treachery which was then, and for many a generation after, the byword of all Europe in a bitter verse as true as it was severe—

“When Italy from poison is, And France from treason, free, And war’s not found on English ground, The world shall cease to be.”

“Welcome to our trusty governor!” cried Edward heartily, as he held out his hand to the new-comer, who kissed it reverently. “Thou comest, I doubt not, worthy Sir Aymery, to report all well with our good town of Calais; for how should it be otherwise than safe and thriving, in the care of so faithful and loyal a warder as thou art?”

It was strange to see the Lombard look so pale and troubled at this flattering welcome from the king’s own mouth; but Edward went on without seeming to notice his confusion, though still watching him keenly.

“We have called thee hither, Sir Governor, to ask thy counsel touching a certain matter of weight, knowing thee to be wise and trusty.”

The knight, whose dry lips seemed to have lost all power of speech, replied only with a low bow.

“A certain lord of my court,” resumed the king, “gave into the keeping of one who was his friend a jewel of great price, which he prized above all else that he had; and it came to his ears that this friend whom he trusted had pawned that gem to a cozening knave of France for twenty thousand crowns. What, think’st thou, should be done unto such a traitor?”

The Lombard’s dark face grew white as ashes, and his limbs trembled under him.

“Ha! thou understandest!” cried the king, in a voice like the roll of distant thunder. “Aymery of Pavia, I have rewarded and honoured thee, and given to thy charge what I prized beyond aught save my wife and children; and how hast thou repaid me? By trafficking with my foes, and covenanting to betray to them my city of Calais! Can a Lombard gentleman sell his honour, and a Christian man his soul, for twenty thousand beggarly crowns, the Judas-wage that Geoffrey de Chargny was to pay thee? What canst thou say for thyself, ere I deal with thee as a convicted felon and traitor?”

“Mercy, gentle king, mercy!” shrieked the unmasked villain, throwing himself at Edward’s feet, and clinging to them in an agony of entreaty. “All your grace saith is true, but there is still time to break the bargain, for I have not yet, so help me Heaven, received one penny of the money!”

The king smiled in bitter scorn, for though he too often used such wretches without scruple for his own ends, an utter loathing of all that was mean and treacherous was ever strong in his bold English heart.

“Stand up, and hearken to me,” said he, sternly. “Thou shalt return to Calais, and bear thyself to De Chargny as if nought had chanced. Tell him thou wilt be ready to deliver up the town on New Year’s Eve, and on these terms I give thee thy life.”

“And the—the money?” faltered Aymery, with a greedy glitter in his eyes that all his terror could not wholly repress.

“Keep it,” said Edward, with a look and tone of such blasting scorn that even this heartless villain felt its sting, and cowered out of the king’s presence so abjectly that he seemed actually to grow smaller as he went.