University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—Ypres.—The Burgomaster of Ypres, with several Burghers of the French Faction, and Van Muck.
Burgomaster.
Well, well, God bless us! have a care—oh me!
Be careful how thou speak'st; wear a white hat;
And ever, mind'st thou, when thou see'st Vauclaire,
Uncover and stand back.

Van Muck.
I will, your worship.

Burgomaster.
Nay, but thou must. And Roosdyk—speak him fair:
For, give him but a saucy word, he's out,
And twinkling me his dagger in the sun,
Says, “take you that,” and thou art dead for good.

Van Muck.
I'll speak him fair.

Burgomaster.
Nay, but I say thou shalt.
Tis a good rule to be more civil-spoken
Than wantonly be cut and stabb'd for nothing.

Van Muck.
'Tis so, your worship.

Burgomaster.
Cast not away thy life.

Van Muck.
'Tis as your worship pleases.

1st Burgher.
But if Vauclaire, or Roosdyk, on their rounds,
Should ask him whence he comes or what's his craft,
Being strange-looking for a citizen,
What should he answer?

Burgomaster.
Say thou com'st from Dinand—
From Dinand, say, to sell Dinandery,
Pots, pitchers, mugs and beakers, and the like.

Van Muck.
Suppose I'm question'd where they are?

Burgomaster.
Thou'st sold 'em.
Say thou thank'st God. Say thou'rt a thriving man.

1st Burgher.
(aside to 2nd)
This matter will be out.

2nd Burgher.
Why so?

1st Burgher.
Good friend,
Did'st ever know a secret to lie close
Under a goose's wing?

2nd Burgher.
I think 'twill out.
'Twill surely out.

1st Burgher.
The frighten'd fox sits fast;
Folly with fear will flutter still and cackle. [Aloud.]

This will be known. I am for rising now,
Slaying Vauclaire and Roosdyk in their beds
Before they nose it, sounding through the streets
King Charles's pardon and the town's submission,
And so to present issue with it all.

Burgomaster.
Mercy! what foolishness will young men talk!

1st Burgher.
Under your favour—old men too at times.

3rd Burgher.
De Vry, a word. I marvel at thy rashness;
We are not ripe for action: in a week,
Perchance a day,—nay, it may be this hour,
Or Van den Bosch will conquer at Commines,
Or the French force the passage. If the first,
In vain were this revolt, for Van den Bosch
Would quell us in a trice; and if the second,
Then were the time to rise, for all the town
Would then rise with us.

2nd Burgher.
In good time, Verstolken;
The axe's edge is turned toward us now,
And what shall save us if this mooncalf here
Should let his errand out?

Van Muck.
A mooncalf, I?
I am an honest man; I dare you, Sir,
To signify me other.

2nd Burgher.
Hold thy peace.
Whilst the French King is looked for at Commines
Too wise is Van den Bosch to break his strength
With sending soldiers hither. He but counts
Nine thousand men.

4th Burgher.
The double were too few
To be divided.

5th Burgher.
More than some two thousand
Would hardly march on Ypres should we thrive,
And if they did, what then? We'd bowl them down
Like ninepins.

2nd Burgher.
Nay, no fear of Van den Bosch;
He'll never waste his forces upon us
Whilst the French King's to come; and then the news
Of Ypres fallen off will cheer the French,
Sicken the White-Hoods, and make sure the loss
Of that famed passage, which shall magnify
Our merits with King Charles.

Enter a Sixth Burgher.
6th Burgher.
Away, away!
Vauclaire has word of all you do; a troop
Despatch'd by Van den Bosch to give him aid
Is riding into town; Van Muck's commission
Is whisper'd of, and loudly.

Burgomaster.
There now, there!
I told you so—I told you this would come;
But still you talk'd of rising. Run, Van Muck,
Thou villain, run, and be not seen abroad
With honest citizens.

2nd Burgher.
Ay, get thee hence;
Best quit the town and make thy way to France.

Van Muck.
I will, your worships.
[Exit, but returns immediately.
Please you, Sir, they come;
The street is full of men-at-arms.

Burgomaster.
There—there!
I said so; there! and still you hearken'd not!
Oh Time and Tide! Oh wala-wa! Oh me!

3rd Burgher.
What shall we do?

2nd Burgher.
Van Muck, stand fast; they come:
It is Vauclaire himself.

Burgomaster.
Say you sell pots.

Enter Vauclaire and Roosdyk, followed by a troop of Men-at-Arms.
Vauclaire.
Ah, Master Burgomaster, here thou art!

Roosdyk.
Make fast the doors.

Vauclaire.
And thou, Verstolken—nay!
Here's Goswin Hex, and Drimmelen, and Breero!
And thou, De Vry—Van Rosendaal, and thou!
How rare a thing is faith! Alas, my masters!
Here is a work you put me to!

Roosdyk.
Stand forth,
Master Van Muck! where art thou?—which is he?

3rd Burgher.
What is it, Sirs, you charge us with?

Roosdyk.
What think ye?
Say treason and I'll call you conjurors.

Vauclaire.
I have my orders—stand thou forth, Van Muck—
Which I must needs obey. What art thou, say?

Roosdyk.
A villain.

Van Muck.
No, Sirs, I am not a villain;
I am a travelling trader; I sell pots.

Roosdyk.
Thyself—a precious vessel!—that thou sell'st.
Where is the Provost Marshal? Hark you, Sir!
Put irons on them all, and give Van Muck
A taste of what you have.

Burgomaster.
Hold off! what's this?
I am your master.

Roosdyk.
Knock him on the head;
Bid him be patient.

Vauclaire.
I am amazed at this!
So sweetly as you all demean'd yourselves!
A guileful world we live in! God forgive us!
Make fast the gyves and take them off to gaol.

Burgomaster.
Sirs, hear me, oh!

Roosdyk.
Gag me this grey-beard!

Burgomaster.
Oh!

1st Burgher.
Thank God!

Vauclaire.
The Stadt-house. You shall all be heard
Except Van Muck, whose treason is too rank
To be excused. My orders I obey;
First to the rack they doom him, then to the block.

Van Muck.
Oh! mercy, Sirs; I'm not a traitor; no,
I'll tell it all.

Roosdyk.
That shalt thou, or the rack
Is not so good a singing-master now
As it was wont to be.

Van Muck.
Oh Lord! oh Lord!

[He is taken out.
Vauclaire.
Bring them away: the Stadt-house—hear them there,
Each by himself. Bring them away at once;
Keep them apart and let them not have speech
One of another.

Roosdyk.
If any man make signs,
Despatch him on the spot. Master Vauclaire,
We follow you.

Scene II.

—The French Court at Arras.—An Antechamber in the Maison de Ville. Tristram of Lestovet, Clerk of the Council, and Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Sir Fleureant.
When I forgive him, may the stars rain down
And pierce me with ten thousand points of fire!
His whore! his leman!

Lestovet.
Had she been his wife
A small transgression might have pass'd. Learn thou
To keep thy hands from meddling with men's whores;
For dubious rights are jealously enforced,
And what men keep for pleasure is more precious
Than what need is they keep.

Sir Fleureant.
He'll be the worse,
And knows it. When I fled I left behind
A notion of my purpose. There's none here
Can know like me his weakness and his strength.
Let but the Council hear me, I shall tell
What shall be worth to them ten thousand spears.

Lestovet.
'Tis now their time; but youth lies long a-bed;
The King is always tardy. Who comes here!
My Lord of Burgundy, I think—yes, he.

Enter Duke of Burgundy.
Burgundy.
Good-morrow, Sirs, good-morrow! So, your stars,
They tell me, are your good friends still, good Flurry;
You always come clear off;—well, I'm glad on't.

Sir Fleureant.
I give your Highness thanks.

Burgundy.
Well, Lestovet,
My brother of Bourbon keeps his mind, they say;
He is for Tournay still! 'tis wonderful,
A man of sense to be so far astray!

Lestovet.
His Grace of Bourbon is misguided much;
He is deluded by a sort of men
That should know better.

Burgundy.
They shall rue it: Lo!
To turn aside ten leagues, ten Flemish leagues,
With sixty thousand men!—mad, plainly mad.

Lestovet.
Sir Fleureant here, who left the rebel camp
No longer past than Wednesday, says their strength
Lies wholly eastward of the Scheldt.

Sir Fleureant.
The towns
Betwixt the Scheldt and Lis, your Grace should know,
Are shaking to their steeple-tops with fear
Of the French force; and westward of the Lis
You need but blow a trumpet and the gates
Of Ypres, Poperinguen, Rousselaere,
And Ingelmunster, gape to take you in.

Burgundy.
They are my words, they are my very words;
Twenty times over have I told him so.
But he's as stubborn as a mule; and oh!
That Constable! Oh, Oliver of Clisson!
That such a man as thou, at such a time,
Should hold the staff of Constable of France!
Well! such men are!

Lestovet.
My Lord, forgive my zeal
For so exorbitantly shooting past
The line of duty as to tender words
Of counsel to your Highness; but my thoughts
Will out, and I have deem'd that with his Grace,
Your royal brother, you have dealt too shortly;
The noble frankness of your nature breaks
Too suddenly upon the minds of men
That love themselves and with a jealous love
Are wedded to their will: not he alone,
But others of the Council at his back
Would on a gentler provocation yield
That stiffen with a rougher.

Burgundy.
That may be;
But, Lestovet, to sue to them to yield!
I cannot do it.

Lestovet.
May it please your Grace
To leave it in my hands. With easier ear
They listen to a man of low condition;
And under forms that in your Grace to use
It were unseemly, I can oft approach,
And with a current that themselves scarce see
Can turn the tenour of their counsels.

Burgundy.
Nay;
But how can I be absent from the board
At such a time as this?

Lestovet.
A seizure, say,
Of sudden illness. They'll be here anon;—
I think I hear them now.

Sir Fleureant.
A sound, I think,
Of horses' feet.

Burgundy.
Then try it, Lestovet;
You are a wise and wary man; this day
I leave the field to you; say that the gout
Confines me to my chamber.

Lestovet.
Hark, my Lord,
They come.

Burgundy.
Farewell to you; improve your time.

[Exit.
Lestovet.
Ha! ha! the Council! they are mettlesome men.
Arouse their passions, and they'll have opinions;
Leave them but cool, they know not what to think.

Sir Fleureant.
You'll tell them I am here.

Lestovet.
Before they rise
You shall be heard at large; but leave to me
To choose the fitting moment. Hide without
Until the Usher have a sign: the mace
Shall trundle from the board, which he shall hear;
Then come at once as one that from his horse
Leaps down, and, reeking, hurries in to tell
A tale that will not wait.

Scene III.

—The Council Chamber.
The Chaplain to the Council and an Usher.
Chaplain.
Beasts of the People called in Holy Writ;
Beasts of the People proved in France to-day.
And such as we are leaving them in France
In Flanders shall we find them. Is't not so?

Usher.
Yea, Sir; but not now first, or here or there.
In France,—I think 'tis twenty years foregone,—
When I was but a boy,—twenty and more,—
That ramping to a Demon's trumpet-call
The beasts of burthen changed to beasts of prey.
Our Aubriot of to-day was Claremont then,
And then in Flanders Philip's father ruled,
As now the son.

Chaplain.
Worse villain of the two.
And how comes he, not skilled nor bred to war,
To deal such deadly strokes? I'll tell thee how:
The father, knowing to what wicked work
The babe was destined, at the Font of Grace
Took order with a catamountain priest,
A hungry priest whose mouth he filled, to leave
(Oh! sacrilege, and horrible hell-born sin!)
The right hand unbaptized.

[A flourish of trumpets.
Usher.
Ho! there they come.
Here is thy book—this door—just show thyself
Before we go—if they but see thy back
They are content and take their prayers as read.

[Exeunt Chaplain and Usher.
Enter the King, who is brought in by the Duke of Bourbon and seated on a Chair of State at the head of the Board; three seats are placed below, on two of which the Dukes of Bourbon and Berry place themselves. The other Councillors take their seats in succession to the number of twelve; to wit, Sir Oliver of Clisson, Constable of France; Sir John of Vien, Admiral of France; the Lord of Coucy, Sir William of Poictiers, Sir Aymenon of Pumiers, the Bastard of Langres, Sir Raoul of Raneval, and the Begue of Villaine. A desk is placed opposite the lower end of the Board, at which is seated Tristram of Lestovet, Clerk of the Council.
Bourbon.
My brother of Burgundy is sick to-day;
And keeps his chamber, which the King permits,

The King.
We do.

Bourbon.
Save him, our number is complete.
Sir Oliver of Clisson, unto thee,
By virtue of thine office, appertains,
More than to any here, to point the course
Of the King's armies: wherefore he desires
Thou open this day's business.

The King.
'Tis our will.

The Constable.
May it please your Highness; and my good Lords, you!
So much was said on Friday of the choice
'Twixt Lille and Tournay—that the more direct,
And this, 'tis justly held, the safer road—
That I should waste your patience and your time
Did I detain you long. To Lille, my Lords,
Were two days' journey; thence to Warneston
Were one day, let or hindrance coming none;
But should the rains continue and the Deule—

The King.
What ails my Lord of Burgundy, good uncle?

Bourbon.
The gout, sweet cousin. May it please your Grace
To hearken to the Constable.

The Constable.
My Lords,
If with these luckless rains the Deule be flooded
As there is cause to think it is, at least
From Armentières to Quesnoy, and the Marque
Be also fuller than its wont, what days
Should bring us to the Lis were hard to tell.
But grant we reach so far, all over-pass'd
Without mishap the waters in our way,
The bridges on the upper Lis, we know,
Are broken down, and on the further shore
Lies Van den Bosch—and where are we to pass?
I put it to you, where are we to pass?
How do we cross the Lis?

Saimpi.
May it please your Grace,
I would be bold to ask the Constable
Hath not the Lis a source?

Sanxere.
Yea, one or more.

Saimpi.
Why then it may be cross'd.

The Constable.
My Lord of Saimpi,
Surely it may be cross'd, if other ways
Present no better hope. My Lords, ye all
Have voices in the Council; speak your minds,
And God forefend that any words of mine
Should blind your better judgments.

Pumiers.
Higher up,
A few leagues south, by Venay and St. Venant,
The Lis is fordable and is not kept.

Raneval.
Not kept, my Lords! why should it? Van den Bosch
Were doubtless overjoy'd to see us strike,
Amidst the drenching of these torrents, deep
Into the lands of Cassel and Vertus;
An English force, for aught we know, the while
Borne like a flock of wild geese o'er the seas
And dropp'd at Dunkirk. On the left are they,
The Flemings on the right, strong towns in front;
And so we plunge from clammy slough to slough
With fog and flood around us.

Sanxere.
Yea, wet-footed.

Raneval.
What say you?

Sanxere.
For the love of God, my Lords,
Keep we dry feet. Rheumatic pains, catarrhs,
And knotty squeezings of the inward man
Thus may we fly the taste of.

Raneval.
Soft, Sir Lois;
Spare us thy gibes; I've stood more winters' nights
Above my knees in mire than thou hast hairs
Upon the furnish'd outside of thy skull.

Sanxere.
I say, my Lords, take heed of mists and swamps;
Eschew rain-water; think on winter nights;
Beware the Flemish on the Lis; beware
The English, that are in much strength—at London.
You've brought the King to Arras in November,
And now you find that in November, rain
Is wont to fall; you find that fallen rain
Swells rivers and makes floods; whereof advised,
Take the King back with all convenient speed
And shut him up at Senlis.

The King.
Hold, Sir Lois;
I will not go.

Sanxere.
I crave your Grace's pardon;
I little dream'd you would; you are a man.

Raneval.
Lois of Sanxere, I ask thee in this presence,
Fling'st thou these girds at me?

The Constable.
My Lords, my Lords!
I do beseech you to bethink yourselves.
Remember where ye are.

Raneval
(drawing off his glove).
Lois of Sanxere—

[Here Tristram of Lestovet, in arranging some parchments, touches the mace, which rolls heavily from the table and falls close to the feet of Sir Raoul of Raneval. He starts up.
Lestovet.
Not hurt, my Lord, I hope? Thank God! thank God!
Most humbly do I sue to you, my Lord,
To grant me your forgiveness.

Raneval.
Nay, 'tis nought;
It might have been a bruise, but——

Enter an Usher, followed by Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Usher.
Please your Grace,
Sir Fleureant of Heurlée waits without,
Hot from the Flemish camp, which he but left
Two days agone, and he can tell your Grace
How all things stand in Flanders.

Bourbon.
Now we'll see;
This is an apt arrival. Welcome, Sir!
What is the news you bring us?

Sir Fleureant.
Please your Grace,
The letters patent I sought means to send
To Ghent and Bruges and Ypres; to the last
Alone they found their way, although from thence
Doubtless the terms have spread. The Regent, warn'd
Of what was machinated, as I hear,
Sent orders to the Lis for Van den Bosch
To split his power, and throw a third to Ypres
To fortify Vauclaire: whilst he stood fast,
But held himself prepared, if Bruges should rise
Or Ghent, to drop adown the Lis to Heule,
Or Disselghem, or Rosebecque, there to join
The Regent's force, that then should raise the siege
Of Oudenarde, and gather on the Lis.

Bourbon.
These are good tidings; yet I deem the Lis
Is still too strongly guarded for our force
There to make way.

The Constable.
Your Grace is ever just
In all your views.

Villaine.
Sir Constable, some thought
Let us bestow on tidings whence we learn
The fears o' the adverse and the slide this way
Of Ypres, Ghent, and Bruges.

Raneval.
Should these towns turn,
The Regent were constrain'd to keep i' the west
A larger force and passing down the Scheldt
By Tournay, we are less opposed.

Sanxere.
Not so.

Raneval.
I say we meet with opposition less
Upon the Scheldt at Tournay.

Sanxere.
I say, no.
Turning our faces from these doubting towns,
What can they but fall back?

Raneval.
Wilt have it so?
Methinks, my Lords, if turning and backsliding
And lack of loyalty——

Lestovet
(to Sir Fleureant).
Hilloa, Sir, ho!
You cannot go, you must not quit the board;
My Lords will further question you anon.
Spake you not of the Scheldt? doubtless my Lords
Would hear you upon that.

Bourbon.
Ay, ay, the Scheldt;
What say'st thou of the Scheldt?

Sir Fleureant.
My Lords, 'tis true
With mine own eyes I have not view'd the Scheldt
Higher than Oudenarde, yet what I know
More sure than common rumour I may tell,—
That reach by reach from Elsegem to Kam,
At sundry stations, say Kerckhoven first,
'Twixt Berkhem and Avelghem, where the Ronne
Its tide contributes elbowing Escanaffe,
At Pontespiers and Pecq and divers points
Betwixt them interposed, strong piles are driven
Deep in the belly of the stream athwart.
Thus neither up nor down can make their way
Boat, raft, nor caravel.

Langres.
We see, my Lords,
The Scheldt is no purveyor of our victual
Should we proceed by Tournay.

Saimpi.
I surmise
We shall find spears as thick upon the banks
As stakes within the stream.

Raneval.
Then let us—Ha!
Who is it now that flinches and postpones?
I say, once pass'd the Scheldt, and better far
We should confront the Flemish spears; so be it!
We'd give the villains such a taste of France
That thence for evermore “Mon Joye St. Denis”
Should be a cry to make their life-blood freeze
And teach rebellion duty.

Sanxere.
Fee, faw, fum!

Lestovet.
The Admiral would speak; the Admiral
Hath not yet spoken.

The Admiral.
Here we lie, my Lords,
At Arras still, disputing. I am a man
Of little fruitfulness in words; the days
That we lie here, my Lords, I deem ill spent.
Once and again the time of year is told,
That we are in November: whiles we vex
This theme, what follow?—why, December? True,
The time of year is late, my Lords; yea, truly,
The fall of the year, I say, my Lords, November,
Is a late season, when it rains, my Lords.
I have not, as you know, the gift of speech,
But thus much may a plain man say,—time flies;
The English are a people deft, my Lords,
And sudden in the crossing of the seas;
And should we linger here with winter coming
We were not call'd good men of war, forsooth.
So truly, Sirs, my voice, with humbleness,
Is for short counsel; in good truth, my Lords—

The King.
Dear uncle, what's o'clock?

Bourbon.
'Tis noon, sweet cousin.

The King.
I want my dinner.

Bourbon.
Presently, fair cousin.

Sanxere.
Your Grace, I see, is of the Admiral's mind;
You love short counsel; marry, and of mine;
I love it too; more specially I love it
With mallets at our backs and winter near.
We talk so long that what is said at first
What follows sponges from our memories.
Pass to the vote, my Lords, nor waste your breath
In further talk.

Bourbon.
Then pass we to the vote.

The Constable.
So be it; to the vote.

Others.
Agreed: to the vote.

Lestovet.
My Lords, may it please you, ere I take your votes,
That briefly I rehearse what each hath said
As noted with a hasty pen, or writ
In a weak memory?

Bourbon.
So do, so do.

Lestovet.
First, my Lord Constable: he bade you think
What length of way and waters lay between
Ere you could reach the Lis; where when you come
You find no bridge, and on the further bank
The Flemish power: my Lord of Saimpi then
Told of a passage nearer to the springs
By Venay and St. Venant; whereunto
My Lord of Raneval made answer meet
That though the Lis were fordable above,
Yet in the lands of Cassel and Vertus
There dwelt a dangerous people, sulking boors,
Who, when we straggled, as perforce we must,
Through bye-ways sunder'd by the branching waters,
Should fall upon us, founder'd in the sloughs,
And raise the country round:—thus far, my Lords,
Had you proceeded, when the tiding came
Of Ypres, Ghent, and Bruges upon the turn,
Repentant of their sins and looking back
For their allegiance; with the sequel fair
Of much diminish'd squadrons at Commines.
Then though my Lord of Raneval spake well
Of clearance on the Scheldt, through direful need
That now must westward suck the Flemish force,
Yet in abatement came the shrewd account
Of how the Scheldt was grated, gagg'd, jaw-lock'd,
With here a turnpike and with there a turnpike,
And Friesland horses. Said the Knight of Langres,
How shall our victual reach us? To which adds
Sir Hugh of Saimpi, that the banks are kept;
Whereat my Lord of Raneval rejoin'd
That he, as best became him, took no heed,
So it were soon, to whereabouts he faced
The Flemish scum in arms, or on the Scheldt
Or on the Lis—

Raneval.
Permit me, Sir, the Lis
I spake not of.

Lestovet.
I humbly crave your pardon;
My memory is but crazy, good my Lords:
It oft betrays me vilely. Sir Raoul,
I do beseech you pardon me; I deemed
(Misled perchance by that so rife renown
Which plants you ever foremost) that your voice
Was mainly raised for speed.

Raneval.
I grant you that:
No man is more for speed, my Lords, than I,
So we outrun not wisdom.

Bourbon.
Next—proceed.

Lestovet.
My Lord the Admiral was next, and last
The Souldich of Sanxere; the English fleet
Expected shortly; winter distant now
But few days' journey; mallets at your backs,—
These were their fruitful topics: on the last,
An't please your Lordships to vouchsafe me audience,
Some tidings have I gather'd, here and there,
Which haply not unworthy of your ears
You might, when heard, pronounce.

Bourbon.
Say on, Sir; well?

Lestovet.
At Paris, when the commons, serfs, and boors,
Beat in the prison doors, ye know, my Lords,
That Aubriot their friend, the sometime Provost,
Who lay in prison then, made good his flight
To Arc in Burgundy; and thence, I learn,
He look'd abroad, and journeying up and down,
He practised with the towns upon the Marne,
With Rheims and Chalons, Toul and Bar-le-duc,
With sundry villages in Vermandois,
And Brieche and Laon; so he moved the poor
(Through help, as I believe, of something evil,
From which God shield good men!) that straight they slew
The chatelains and farmers of the aids.
They next would march to Paris in hot haste;
But Nicholas le Flamand bade them wait
Until the Scheldt were 'twixt the King and them,
Which shelter found, he trusted with their aid
To bring the castle of the Louvre low,
And not of Paris only, but of France
And Burgundy to make the mean folk Lords.
This have I gather'd from the last that left
Champagne and Beauvoisin.

Bourbon.
Something of this
Reach'd me last night.

The Constable.
I had some tidings too.

The Admiral.
And I.

Bourbon.
I think, my Lords, this matter asks
A further inquest. If the whole be true,
We were not wise to overlook it. No,
Let us take order so to sift the truth
That we may meet to-morrow clear of sight;
Till when I deem it prudent we should hang
In a free judgment.

St. Just.
Till to-morrow, then.

The Constable.
One day's delay will hurt us not.

Sanxere.
To-morrow.

Saimpi.
To-morrow be it, then.

The Admiral.
At noon, my Lords?

Bourbon.
To-morrow noon. Sir Oliver of Clisson,
Wilt please you ride?

The Constable.
Your Highness does me honour.

The King.
Dear uncle, is the Council up?

Bourbon.
It is.

The King.
Take that, old Tristram.

Bourbon.
Soberly, fair cousin;
You do not well to toss about the parchments.
Ho! tell my serving-men we ride to Vis,
The Constable and I. Adieu, fair Sirs.

[Exeunt the King and the Lords of the Council. Manent Tristram of Lestovet and Sir Fleureant of Heurlée.
Lestovet.
Go to the Duke; tell him his end is gained.

Sir Fleureant.
But is it so?

Lestovet.
It is as good.

Sir Fleureant.
They seek
Some further knowledge.

Lestovet.
Tut! they know it all;
They knew it ere I told them; but my mind
As touching it they knew not of till now.
Run to the Duke; pray him to keep his chamber;
Let him but stand aloof another day,
And come the next, we march upon Commines.

[Exit.
Sir Fleureant.
Run to the Duke? Run to the Devil. Yea,
Tis thither Lestovet would have me run,
With him to lead the way. And, to say truth,
I for a small consideration now
Would sell myself to Satan—or the Duke.

Scene IV.

—The Market-place at Ypres. In front, Van Whelk, a Householder, driving the last nails into a Scaffolding erected against his House. Van Winkel, another, looking on. A Woman is scouring the doorstead of the next house. At some little distance six Gallows-trees are seen, opposite the Stadt-House.
Whelk.
Room for five ducats at a groat a head.

Winkel.
'Twill be a piteous spectacle! Good-day,
How do you, Mistress?

Woman.
Thank you, how's yourself?

Winkel.
'Twill be a sight most piteous to behold!
A corporation hung!

Woman.
Alack a day!

Whelk.
'Twill be a sight that never yet was seen
Since Ypres was a town. A groat is cheap;
A groat is very reasonable cheap.

Winkel.
The Burgomaster was confess'd at seven;
He is the first.

Whelk.
Van Rosendael the next,
And then comes Drimmelen, Verstolken then,
And Goswin Hex, and Breero, and De Vry.

Winkel.
This ancient corporation!

Woman.
Wo's the day!
Poor gentlemen; alas, they did not think,
Nor no man else, the Regent would take life
So hastily.

Whelk.
The like was never seen,
Nor ever will be after.

Winkel.
Hold you there;
Come the French King and we shall see this square
More thick with gallows than with butchers' stalls
Upon a market day.

Woman.
Nay, God forbid!
Master Van Winkel, sure you say not so?

Winkel.
It is not saying it that hangs them, dame:
I tell you it is true.

Woman.
There's some have said
King Charles was tender-hearted as a lamb;
The Dukes his uncles likewise; and that none
Were loather to shed blood.

Winkel.
Those burghers said it
Whom yonder gallows wait for; and if lies
Were worthy hanging they deserved their doom.

Woman.
Well, Sirs, I know not.

Winkel.
Tut! King Charles, I say,
The Dukes his uncles and his Councillors all
Are of one flesh and follow after kind.
There are humane amongst them! how humane?
Humane to Lords and Ladies, Kings and Counts.
Humane to such as we? Believe it not.

Whelk.
The Earl of Flanders is the French King's cousin.

Winkel.
To show his cousin kindness, good King Charles
Would canter over acres of our dead.
His cousin is in what he calls distress;
To succour the distress'd is kind and good;
So with an army comes the good King Charles
And kindly to his cousin cuts our throats.
And that is their humanity, and such
Is Man's humanity the wide world through.
Men's hearts you'll find on one side soft as wax,
Hard as the nether mill-stone on the other.

Whelk.
How is it with your own, Dame Voorst?

Woman.
God's love!
I would not hurt a hair upon the head
Of any man alive.

Winkel.
Look you—the Earl—
But hearken to a tale: Once in my youth—
Ah, Mistress Voorst! years, years, they steal upon us!
But what! you're comely yet,—well, in my youth
Occasion was that I should wend my way
From Reninghelst to Ronques, to gather there
Some moneys that were owing me; the road
Went wavering like jagged lightning through the moors,—
For mind, Van Whelk, in those days Rening Fell
Was not so sluiced as now;—the night was near
And wore an ugly likeness to a storm,
When, weary and misdoubting of my way,
I spied the flickering of a cottage fire
Thorough the casements; thither sped my feet:
The door was open'd by a buxom dame
Who smiled and bade me welcome, and great cheer
She made me, with a jocund, stirring mien
Of kindly entertainment, whilst with logs
Crackled the fire, and seem'd the very pot
To bubble in a hospitable hurry
That I might sup betimes. Now say, Dame Voorst,
Was not the mistress of this cottage lone
A kind good soul?

Woman.
Yea, truly was she, Sir.

Winkel.
Master Van Whelk, what think you?

Whelk.
Let me see;
Did she take nothing from you?

Winkel.
Not a groat.

Whelk.
Why, that was charitable; that was kind;
That was a woman of the good old times.

Winkel.
Now mark, Van Whelk; now listen, Mistress Voorst.
The seething-pan upon the fire contain'd
Six craw-fish for my supper; as I stood
Upon the ruddy hearth, my addle head
As empty as my stomach but more at rest,
My eyes chanced fix upon the bubbling pot:
Unconsciously a while I gazed, as one
Seeing that sees not; but ere long appear'd
A tumbling and a labouring in the pot
More than of boiling water; whereupon,
Looking with eyes inquisitive, I saw
The craw-fish rolling one upon another,
Bouncing, and tossing all their legs abroad
That writhed and twisted as mix'd each with each
They whirl'd about the pan. God's grace! quoth I,
These craw-fish are alive! Yea, Sir, she answered,
They are not good but when they're sodden quick.
I said no more, but turn'd me from the hearth
Feeling a sickness here; and inwardly
I cried Heigh-ho! that for one man's one meal
Six of God's creatures should be boil'd alive!

Woman.
Lord help us, Sir! you wail about the fish
As they were Christians.

Winkle.
Look you, Mistress Voorst;
The King will be as kind to Louis Mâle
As this good wife to me; for us mean folk
We are but craw-fish; in his noble zeal
To serve his cousin 'twere to him no sin
To boil us in a pot.—Back, back, Van Whelk!
Here be the Captains!

[They retire.
Enter Vauclaire, Roosdyk, and Van Den Bosch's Lieutenant.
Vauclaire.
Shrewd news! whence cams't thou last?

Lieutenant.
From St. Eloy.

Roosdyk.
On Monday did they cross?

Lieutenant.
On Monday night,
And all night long; they crossed by nines and tens;
The boat would hold no more.

Roosdyk.
And seen of none?
Were there none watching of those jobbernowls
That follow Van den Bosch?

Lieutenant.
The night was dark;
The most part of our men were sent to sleep
In quarters at Commines, that they might rise
Fresh on the morrow, when the French, 'twas thought,
Would try the passage by the bridge. The rest
Kept guard upon the causeway. Two miles down
The river crankles round an alder grove;
'Twas there they brought the boats; strong stakes were driven
In either bank, and ropes were pass'd betwixt,
Stretching athwart the stream; by aid of these
Hand over hand they tugged themselves across
And hid within the thicket; when day dawn'd
They still were crossing, but the Constable,
Who always kept his ground, made show to force
The passage of the bridge, and brought us there
To handy-strokes, which so misled our eyes
That nothing else was seen.

Roosdyk.
Ha, ha! I love you!
Set you to watch the cat!

Lieutenant.
When first we knew
Their stratagem, six banners could we count,
And thirty pennons on the hither bank,
The Lord of Saimpi leading them: were there
Sir Herbeaux of Bellperche, Sir John of Roy,
The Lords of Chaudronne, Malestroit, Sanxere,
All Bretons, with Sir Oliver of Guesclin,
Sir Tristram de la Jaille, and, to be short,
The flower of all their host, from Poictou, Troyes,
Artois and Hainault, Burgundy and France,
That had their station marshall'd in the van.

Vauclaire.
And there they stood?

Lieutenant.
As yet they had not fought
When I was order'd thence: for Van den Bosch
Upon the eminence beside the bridge
Awaited them as on a vantage ground,
Whilst they abode below to gather force
From them continually that cross'd the stream.

Vauclaire.
Then went you to the good towns near?

Lieutenant.
To Bergues,
To Poperinguen, Rolers, Warneston,
To Mesiers and Vertain, with strict command
From Van den Bosch to muster all their men
And send him succour; thence I hasten'd here
To pray you do the like.

Roosdyk.
Oh rare! What next?
Didst ever see one beggar dropping alms
Into another's hat?

Lieutenant.
My master sware
If he should lose the day the cause should lie
In that misfortunate wasting of his strength
By sending aid to Ypres.

Vauclaire.
Send it back
And he shall lose the battle, we the town,
Ere it shall reach him; from the nearer posts
He may get aid more opportune; meanwhile,
Lest evil hap betide him, which when known
Would bring a wild destruction upon us,
Behoves us send the Regent instant news
Of our predicament. Christoffel Waal,
Mount thee thy horse and hie to Oudenarde,
And bid the Regent know the Lis is pass'd.
That said is all said: he shall know by that
We shall have much ado with this good town
Ere many days be gone, or many hours.
If he can help us, so.

Roosdyk.
Ay, mount thy nag
And make his heels strike fire: away, begone!

Vauclaire.
Know'st thou thy message?

Waal.
Sirs, from point to point.

[Exit.
[A bell tolls. Muffled drums are heard, and the head of a Procession appears entering the Marketplace. The Procession is formed chiefly by Friars and Guards; and lastly appear the Burgomaster and Aldermen of several Guilds as Malefactors, with their arms pinioned. They form a line between the Gallows and the Stadt-house. The Market-place suddenly fills with the Populace.
Vauclaire.
This folk looks strangely! guess you what's toward?
Is the news known?

Roosdyk.
I see no women here;
There is a mischievous intent.

Vauclaire.
Go you
And get our men of battle under arms;
This means a rescue; we shall have to fight.

Roosdyk.
Let the clerks hold the culprits unconfessed
Some fifteen minutes, and I'll bring you here
The most I can; and till I come again
Let no knave swing, for that should be their sign
Doubtless for rising. I'll be here anon.

[Exit.
Enter a Pricker.
Vauclaire.
Thy spurs are bloody—what, from Commines, ha!
A battle lost?

Pricker.
'Tis so, Sir. Van den Bosch
With what remains of us is flying hither
And wills you arm.

Vauclaire.
We shall be arm'd anon:
And some of us you see.
[He beckons to the Captain of the Guard who has charge of the prisoners.
Sir, draw your men
More close upon their charge and look about,
For here's foul weather.
[Cries begin to be heard and stones are thrown, one of which hits the steel cap of Vauclaire.
Said I not? look here!
These drops forerun the storm.
[A cry is heard at the opposite corner of the Marketplace, and Van den Bosch's Page is seen approaching.
Lo,—stand aside;
There is a face I'll swear I've sometimes seen
Attending Van den Bosch.

Pricker.
His page, I think.

Page.
My master, Sir, is near—

Vauclaire.
Say'st thou!—how near?

Page.
Close on the town; he enters now.

Vauclaire.
What force
Comes with him?

Page.
It is hard to say; they ride
So scatter'd and so broken, wounded most,
And mile by mile, now one and now another,
They tumble from their horses. He himself
Is sorely piked and gash'd, and of his hurts
One, the leech deems, is mortal.

Vauclaire.
Christ forbid!

Page.
They bear him in a litter, and each jog
They give him, when the bearers change their hands,
Makes him to bleed afresh.

Pricker.
See, there he comes!

[The tumult, which had been increasing, is in some measure stilled as Van den Bosch is borne across the Market-place to the front of the scene.
Van den Bosch
(raising himself in the litter).
Who's that? Vauclaire? We're ruin'd, Sir, we're lost!
How stand ye here?

Vauclaire.
The worst is what I see.
Yet hath the town an evil inclination,
And we shall feel it suddenly.

Van den Bosch.
Send forth—
Be still, thou jumping villain, with thy jolts!
Thou grind'st my bones to powder. Oh! oh! oh!
I would thou hadst my shoulder.—Send abroad,
And bid the Commons to the Market-place.

Vauclaire.
Nay, here they are, as thick as they can stand.

Van den Bosch.
Are they? My eyesight fails me. And is this
The Market-place? Oh, ho! then lift me up
Upon some cart or tumbril or the like
To make a preachment to the people.

Vauclaire.
Nay,
Leave that to me: betake thee to thy bed;
Roosdyk is making muster of our force,
And what is instant to be cared for here
We will perform.

Van den Bosch.
Not whilst I live, Vauclaire.
The leech, I think, has patch'd me up this body
To last a season. Hoist me—have a care—
Mount me upon this scaffolding: up, up—
Smoothly and all together—there we go—
Oh! oh! that's thou again, uneasy whelp!
Hast the string-halt? Now set me down;—so—so.
Let silence be commanded.
[The soldiery fall back so as to admit the people to the space immediately in front of the scaffolding. Sundry officers pass to and fro, vociferating “Silence!” which is obtained.
Friends, Sirs of Ypres!
Dear friends of Ypres! we have lost a battle.
This once, by evil hap, the day is theirs:
Which is no fault of mine; for, Sirs, I'll tell you
How this hath chanced.
By the Black Art (which Frenchmen dare to use
For lack of godlier courage)—by this art
They brought a cloudy film upon the eyes
Of half our host, the half that should have watch'd;
Which was on Monday night: and thus ere dawn
They cross'd the Lis. Then, Sirs, what force had I
Without advantage to affront the flower
Of the French van? Solely twelve thousand spears!
Yet like a hedge-pig tuck'd I up my power
The softer parts within, and when Sanxere
Came nuzzling like a dog to find some flesh
Whereon to fix and turn me inside out,
I'll warrant you I prick'd his snout a little!
Well, Sirs, we might have conquer'd but that then
The Commons of Commines—bell, book, and candle
Curse them that pass for Flemings and are none!—
They of Commines, that call'd themselves so stout,
Show'd such a fear and faintness of their hearts
As makes me sweat with shame to think upon;
And, traitors in their flight, they fired the town
To stay the following French. From that time forth,
Seeing we had no holding-place behind,
The best began to falter; and in brief
Ye see us here.—Fellow, some wine! I tire;
I've lost some blood.

Vauclaire.
Prithee go in-a-doors,
And let thy hurts be tended.

Van den Bosch
(a cup of wine having been brought, which he drinks off).
Softly, Sirs:
There's more to say.
[An arrow, shot from the crowd, strikes the scaffolding close to Van den Bosch, whereupon loud cries are heard from both parties and some blows pass between them, followed by great uproar and confusion.
Who hinders my discourse
With shooting croos-bow shafts? Oh, there you are!
See you you villain there that gapes and shouts?
Send me an arrow down his throat.—I say
This battle lost is nothing lost at all.
For thus the French are wiled across the Lis,
Which ne'er shall they repass. Inveigled on
By wheedling fortune, they shall thus be snared:
For hither come the Regent from the Scheldt,
And hither come the English, that are now
Landed at Dunkirk—landed now, I tell you;
The news was brought me yesterday; which heard,
Verily I was glad I lost this battle,
Although it cost me something—(for ye see
How I am troubled in my head and shoulder)—
Yea truly I rejoiced that thus the French
Should run upon a pit-fall, whilst we sweep
A circle round them, so that none—more wine—
Sinks suddenly back in the litter.
Here is a bandage loose—stanch me this blood—
Look ye, I bleed to death—oh, doctor vile!
Oh treacherous chirurgeon!—endless fire
Crumble his bones in hell!—I die! I die!

Vauclaire.
(helping to re-adjust the bandage).
Another ply; how draw it tight; anon
Roosdyk will come and give us escort hence;
Meanwhile defend yourselves and shoot again
If ye be shot at.

Van den Bosch.
Now the trumpets sound!
Chains for the King! The trumpets sound again!
Chains for the Knights and Nobles! Victory!
Thou gaoler, shut the doors. 'Tis very dark!
Whose hand is this?—Van Artevelde's?—I thank you:
'Twas fortune favour'd me. Chains, chains and death!
Chains for the King of France!—You've shut me in.
It is all over with me now, good mother.
Let the bells toll.

Vauclaire.
Bring him behind these boards;
The arrows now come quickly. Send a flight—
They've loosed the prisoners. See, they bear this way.
Shoot well together once and then fall back
And force a road to Ghent with Van den Bosch
Alive or dead. I follow if I can.
Incomparably shot!—they're flutter'd; aye,
And well they may; there-steadily, my friends;
Take forth the litter first; now close your ranks;
Show a back front; so—off ye go—well done!