Part 2
A number of the citizens then went to Fannia’s house, and forming in procession before the proscribed man led him to the sea. As each had some useful thing to present to him for his journey, he lost some time in receiving and acknowledging their attention, and this delay threatened to be further prolonged by the fact that the sacred grove, called Marica, lay in the way of their direct passage to the shore. An old man, however, had the courage to enter the wood, observing that where the safety of Marius was concerned there should be no forbidden path, and the rest followed his example. On reaching the shore Marius found a ship ready to receive him, which had been thoroughly equipped and provisioned for his service by a citizen named Beleus. In this manner he made his escape.
He afterwards ordered all these incidents to be made the subject of a grand picture, which he placed as an offering in the temple standing near the place of his embarkation.
_ATTALUS._
SIXTH CENTURY.
Theodoric and Childebert entered into an alliance, took oath not to march against one another, and mutually received hostages for the better observance of the terms of their treaty. Among these hostages were many of the sons of senators, who, when the kings unfortunately began to quarrel again, were reduced to servitude, and became the slaves of those in whose guardianship they had been placed. Many of them, however, contrived to escape, and but a few
were kept in servitude for any length of time. Among the latter was Attalus, nephew of Gregory, Bishop of Langres. He had been sold as a slave to the State, and had been employed in the care of horses under a certain barbarian in the district of Treves. Some servants of Bishop Gregory, who had been sent in search of the youth, and had discovered his whereabouts, tried to buy his freedom from the barbarian; but he refused their modest offerings, on the ground that a person so illustrious as his captive ought to pay at least ten pounds’ weight of gold for his ransom. On the return of these emissaries, one of them named Leon, employed in the bishop’s kitchen, said to his master, “God grant that your lordship give me permission to make the attempt, and perhaps I shall be able to redeem Attalus yet.”
The bishop consented, and Leon set out for Treves. He tried at first to get the young man away secretly, but this was impossible. He then deliberately caused himself to be sold to the barbarian, offering the price of the transaction as a reward to the man who had pretended to be his owner. The buyer asked what the new slave could do. “I am a very clever cook,” replied Leon; “I can serve everything fit for the table of a great lord; and I don’t believe that my equal in this science is to be found anywhere. I dare venture to say that if my master wanted to entertain the king, he could not do better than order me to invent him a right royal feast.”
“Sunday is coming,” said the barbarian, “and on that day I am going to invite my friends and relations. I want you to prepare a banquet for me which will excite their admiration.”
The Sunday came, and the new slave served one of his choicest repasts, which so pleased his master that he at once took him into high favour, and made him almost the second person in the household. At the end of about a year he was so trusted that he was enabled one day, without exciting suspicion, to walk after Attalus into a meadow near the house, and to begin a conversation with him, though they took the precaution of sitting back to back and at some distance from one another. “It is time,” said Leon to the young man, “that we began to think of our country; and I have come to you to give you warning not to go to sleep to-night after you have put up your horses, but to be ready to leave this place the moment you hear me call.”
The barbarian was in the meanwhile feasting at his own table with a number of his relations and a son-in-law, to whom he wished to do especial honour. As they left the table at midnight to go to bed, Leon followed this son-in-law to his apartment, and presented him with a cup of wine.
“You are very high in the confidence of my father-in-law,” said the son-in-law, jocularly; “but, suppose you had the power, when would you have the will to jump on the back of one of his horses, and make a dash for your own country?”
“I hope to do it to-night, please God,” said Leon, adopting the same tone of pleasantry, with great self-possession.
“Then, please God too,” returned the other, laughing, “my servants will keep a sharp look out, for I must see that you don’t take away any property of mine;” and they left one another in this pleasant way.
When the whole household was asleep, Leon softly called Attalus, whose horses were ready saddled, and asked him if he had a sword. “I have nothing but a small spear,” said Attalus.
Leon went straight into his master’s room, and took down his sword and buckler, not without awakening him, however, for he called out to know who was there. “Only Leon,” replied the slave; “I am going to wake Attalus, to make sure of his being up in time to take the horses to grass, for he is as sound asleep as a drunken man.”
“Oh! is that all?” murmured the master; “very well,” and he turned over and went to sleep again.
Leon stole out, and gave the weapons to the young man; and, by nothing less than a miracle, found the doors of the court-yard open, though they had been closed at nightfall, with heavy iron wedges, for the better security of the horses. They both gave thanks to God, and at once made off, taking with them all the horses, and their few personal effects as slaves. But at Moselle they were obliged to leave both horses and effects behind for fear of awakening the suspicion of some persons they overtook there; and once rid of these encumbrances, they easily gained the opposite bank of the river by floating over on their bucklers. The darkness favoured them; and they soon found shelter and concealment in a forest. They stayed there till they had been three whole days and nights without tasting food, till at length, by the special favour of Providence, they found a plum-tree, the fruit of which served to satisfy their more pressing and immediate wants. They then started with renewed strength on their journey, and took the road to Champagne. They had not gone far when they heard the sound of hoofs, and they hastily hid themselves in a thicket of brier, taking care, however, to draw their swords, so as to be ready to defend themselves in the last extremity. A moment after a number of horsemen drew up at the thicket, and one of them was heard to say, “Why cannot we find these wretches? I swear if I came across them, I would hang the one and hack the other in pieces with my sword.” It was the voice of the barbarian, their master, who had ridden from Rheims in search of them, and who would certainly have found them on the way if the darkness had not been in their favour. The troop then pushed forward again, and the sound of their hoofs was soon lost in the distance.
The two fugitives resumed their journey, reached Rheims at nightfall, and asked the first person they met in the city the way to the house of the priest Pantellus. It was Sunday, and as they went through the great square on their way to the house, the bell sounded for matins. When they entered the priest’s dwelling, Leon disclosed to the good man the name and rank of Attalus. “My dream is made out,” said the overjoyed father; “for this very night in my sleep I saw two doves fly towards my threshold, and perch upon my hand, and one of them was a white one and the other black.” (The reader will bear in mind that Leon was a negro). “God forgive us,” replied the slave, “for not paying due observance to his holy day.” (On Sunday no one took nourishment till after mass.) “But we entreat you give us something to eat, for this is the fourth time we have seen the sun rise without breaking our fast.”
The priest hid the two young men, gave them some bread steeped in wine, and went to matins.
The barbarian, by-and-by, appeared on the scene, still in hot and eager pursuit of his slaves; but he had to go away again without them, for the priest deliberately put him on a wrong scent, out of his great friendship for Bishop Gregory. They then sat down to the uninterrupted enjoyment of a good meal; and they remained two days with the good priest until they had quite recruited their strength, and were enabled to pursue their journey towards their own home, which they reached without any further trouble. The bishop, transported with joy at the sight of them, fell weeping on the neck of Attalus: and as a special mark of his gratitude to the preserver of his nephew, he gave Leon and all his family their freedom, with as much land as sufficed for their subsistence for the rest of their days. (_Histoire Ecclésiastique des Francs_, bk. iii., ch. xv., translated by M. Henri Bordier.)
Attalus afterwards became Count of Autun.
_RICHARD, DUKE OF NORMANDY._
TENTH CENTURY.
After the assassination of William Longsword, Duke of Normandy, near Pecquigny, on the Somme, his infant son Richard was called to the succession. Louis d’Outre-Mer, who had fixed his eyes on the throne, contrived to get the young prince in his power, and to have him sent to Laon, under pretence of giving him an education suited to his rank. The arch-plotter placed the child under the most rigorous espionage, and treated him with great cruelty. He even threatened to hamstring his innocent victim by fire, a frightful torture which the policy of the Middle Ages did not disdain to use as a means for depriving princes of their thrones.
The young prince’s steward, Osmond, hearing of the king’s determination, and foreseeing the terrible lot in store for the child, sent messengers to apprise the Normans of the perilous position of their lord. The news excited the utmost anxiety and alarm throughout all Normandy; and during a three days’ fast of the entire people, the clergy prayed continually for the safety of the captive. Osmond, meanwhile, by the advice of Yvon, the father of William de Belesme, found an opportunity to advise the young prince to pretend to be very ill, and to take to his bed as if he never hoped to rise from it again. The child, understanding the object of his steward’s instructions, showed great intelligence in following them, and stretched himself at full length on his bed, to all appearance at the point of death. This naturally had the effect of making his guardians less vigilant, and they soon began to neglect their charge of the seeming invalid to look after their own affairs. When Osmond judged that the fitting moment had arrived, he went into the courtyard of the prince’s house, and, putting the child in a bundle of grass which he found there, hoisted him on his shoulders as if he were going to carry fodder to his horse, and scaled the walls of the city while the king sat at supper and the streets were almost deserted. He then took horse, and in due time arrived at Conci, where he placed the child in the care of the governor, himself pushing forward, till he reached Senlis by the break of day. Count Bernard showed some surprise at the sight of him, and made many eager inquiries about the safety of the child; and when he had received a full account of all that had been done, he rode away with the brave steward to ask help of Hugo the Great. The appeal was not in vain. Hugo remembered an oath by which he had engaged to protect the prince, and sent a large army to Conci, whence the fugitive was conducted in state to Senlis, to the great joy of the entire people. (_Guillaume de Jumièges: Histoire des Normands_, bk. iv., ch. iv.)
_LOUIS II., COUNT OF FLANDERS._
1347.
When Louis II., Count of Flanders, had succeeded his father, Louis I., in 1346, at the age of sixteen years, the Flemings wished him to marry Isabella, daughter of the King of England, while Duke John of Brabant and Philip VI. of Valois, King of France, had come to an understanding to unite the young count to the daughter of Duke John. Louis II., on his part, refused the marriage which his subjects wished to force on him, “Being,” says Froissart, “unwilling to marry the daughter of the man who had murdered his father, even if she brought him half the kingdom of England for her portion.” “When the Flemings heard that,” the old chronicler continues, “they said their lord was too much of a Frenchman, and was badly advised, and that he would not do for them at all if he did not mean to take their counsel. So they laid hands upon him, though with all courtesy and tenderness, and put him into prison, telling him he must remain there until he saw fit to do as they wished.
“The young count was shut up by his subjects a long while, and he even began to be in some danger, for his firmness provoked them. At last, however, he gave way, or pretended to do so, and told those about him that he would do as his people wished, since they were dearer to him than any other. This rejoiced the Flemings mightily, and they at once softened the excessive rigours of his captivity. They allowed him to extend his walks as far as the river, to his great joy though he was still attended by guards, who had orders never to leave him a moment out of their sight. When this had lasted a pretty long while, the young count seemed to yield absolutely, and told the Flemings that he was now quite willing to marry the lady of their choice. They ran in great haste with the news to the King and Queen of England, who were before Calais, and signified to their majesties that if they would take their daughter to the abbey of Bergues, the young count should be there to meet her, and the preliminaries to the marriage should be at once concluded. This arrangement was actually carried out; the young people were betrothed at the abbey, and the Flemings once more took the count back to his prison for safe keeping until the marriage.
“The count,” continues Froissart, “still went down to the river every day with his guards, but he pretended to look forward to the marriage with so much joy that they did not think it needful to watch him half so narrowly as before. But they did not quite know the temper of their young lord, for submissive as he was to outward seeming, he was soon to prove that he had at heart all the courage of a Frenchman. It wanted scarcely a week to the day fixed for the marriage, when he went out one morning to fly his falcon by the river. His falconer started one bird, himself another; and when the two falcons were seen in hot pursuit of the same prey, the count ran forward as if carried away by the excitement of the chase, and encouraged them with his cries. This ruse enabled him to reach the open fields without suspicion, and, once there, he clapped spurs to his horse, and in an instant was lost to view. He hardly paused till he came to Artois, where he felt safe, and he lost no time in laying his case before King Philip and the French people, and telling them by what a fine stratagem he had escaped from his own people and the English. The King of France was greatly overjoyed, and told the young man he had done more than well, and the French people said the same. The poor English, on the contrary, seemed to think that he had betrayed them.” (_Froissart’s Chronicles_, bk. i., ch. xxxi.)
_THE DUKE OF ALBANY._
FIFTEENTH CENTURY.
James III., King of Scotland, saw, not without misgiving, that his two brothers, the Duke of Albany and the Earl of Mar, were greatly beloved by his subjects; and this feeling was soon changed into one of positive hate, thanks to the whisperings of certain evil counsellors who were about his person. These wretches, well knowing the feeble nature they had to deal with, threw the King into a very sickness of terror with impossible stories of his brothers’ design against his crown and life.
The Earl of Mar, they told him, had obtained a positive assurance from certain sorcerers that his royal kinsman would die by the hand of a near relation, and they brought a sorcerer of their own to the palace to say that there was a lion in Scotland which would be torn in pieces by its own whelps. This was enough for the king; his cowardly spirit was frightened into energy and decision, and he ordered the arrest of his brothers. Albany was thrown into Edinburgh Castle, but the fate of Mar was determined on at once. He was suffocated in a bath, according to some historians; or, according to others, bled to the last drop of his blood.
Albany was in great danger of the same miserable lot, but he had friends both in France and in Scotland who were resolved not to let him perish without making an effort to save his life. They were not long in forming their plans. A little sloop sailed into Leith Roads with a cargo of Gascony wines, of which two small casks were sent as a present to the captive prince. The governor of the castle allowed them to be taken into the chamber in which his prisoner was confined, and when the duke came to dip into them, he found in one a ball of wax, containing a letter urging him to escape and make his way to the water-side, where he would find the little vessel waiting for him. In the other cask there was a coil of rope, which would enable him to drop from the walls of his prison to the rock on which the castle stands. His faithful chamberlain, who shared his captivity, promised to aid him in the enterprise.
The main point was to make sure of the captain of the guard. Albany, therefore, invited this officer to sup with him under the pretext of wishing to have his judgment on the wine. The invitation was accepted, and the captain, having as usual posted his men with due circumspection, led three of them into the duke’s room with him, and took his place at table.
The meal over, the duke proposed a game of _trictrac_, and took care while it was going on to ply his guest freely with the wine, while his chamberlain was no less attentive to the three soldiers. The drink, and the heat of a great fire, near which they had artfully placed him, soon made the officer very drowsy, and the men too began to nod their heads.
Their time was come: the duke, who was a strong man, suddenly jumped up, and with one blow of a poniard laid the captain dead at his feet. In another moment he had despatched two of the soldiers; while the chamberlain with his own dagger finished the third. Their work was the easier to do as the drink and the fire together had almost stupefied the poor wretches before a blow was struck. After they had taken the keys out of the captain’s pockets, they threw the bodies on the fire, and making their way to an out-of-the-way corner of the wails, began their perilous descent.
The chamberlain went down first to try the cord, but it was too short, and he fell and broke his leg. He uttered no cry of pain, but simply told his master the cause of the disaster. The duke went back to fetch his bed-clothes, and finally made the descent in safety. His first care was to provide for the injured man; and he did not bestow a thought on himself till he had carried his faithful dependent to a hut where he might remain in perfect security until his recovery. This done, he flew to the sea-shore, and a boat answering to the hail--at the signal agreed on--he boarded the sloop, which instantly set sail for France.
During the night, the guards, who knew that their officer had three men with him in the duke’s room, had no suspicion of what was passing. But when at daybreak they saw the cord hanging from the wall, they took the alarm, and rushed hastily into the apartment, when they stumbled over the body of one soldier lying across the doorway, and saw those of the captain and the two other men smouldering amid the dying embers in the large fireplace. The King expressed much surprise at this extraordinary escape, and he could not be brought to believe in it till he had seen the place with his own eyes. (_Sir Walter Scott’s History of Scotland_, vol. i., ch. xix.)
_JAMES V., KING OF SCOTLAND._
SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
Sir George Douglas and his brother, the Earl of Angus, who had married Queen Margaret of Scotland, had obtained possession of the person of the young King James V., then a child; and the Earl of Angus administered the kingdom, and discharged all the functions of a regent without assuming the title. In a word, these two lords manœuvred so as to substitute their family for the reigning one upon the throne of Scotland. Several attempts for the King’s deliverance had failed, and even two great battles had been fought without success by the partisans of James V. At the commencement of the second battle, George Douglas, seeing that the King was eagerly watching an opportunity to escape, said, “It is useless for your Grace to think of getting out of our hands; if our enemies held you by one arm, and we by the other, we would see you torn in pieces rather than loosen our grip.” To make quite sure of their prize, they appointed a hundred chosen men to guard the youthful monarch, commanded by one of their own family, Douglas of Parkhead.
Every attempt by open force having thus failed, James resolved to have recourse to stratagem. He persuaded his mother, Queen Margaret, to give up her castle of Stirling to him, and to place it under the command of a gentleman in whom he had confidence. All this was done very secretly, and the King, having thus prepared a possible retreat, began to seek an opportunity of flying to it. The better to disarm the vigilance of the Douglases, he showed such deference to the Earl of Angus, that people began to think he had gone over to that nobleman’s party, and had become resigned to the loss of his own liberty. He was then living at Falkland, a royal residence very favourably situated for hunting and falconry, his favourite amusements.
The Earl of Angus and Archibald and George Douglas had all three left Falkland on various errands of business or pleasure, and no one remained near the King but Douglas of Parkhead, with the hundred men on whose vigilance the family knew they could rely. James saw the moment was favourable. To allay the suspicions of his guards, he announced his intention of rising early on a certain morning to hunt the stag, and Douglas of Parkhead never doubting that this was said in good faith, went to bed after posting his sentinels in the usual manner.
But the King no sooner found himself alone than he called his trusty page, John Hart, and looking at him very earnestly, said, “John, do you love me?”
“More than I love myself,” replied the page.
“And are you willing to risk everything for me?”
“My life, if needs be,” replied the youth.
The King then made him acquainted with his plan, and hastily putting on a servant’s livery, went to the stables with him, as though to prepare for the next day’s hunt. The guards, failing to recognise him in this disguise, suffered him to pass without hindrance. The King had previously taken another of his servants into his confidence, so that when he and the page reached the stable they found three good horses, ready saddled and bridled, awaiting them.