University of Virginia Library

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.