The chevaliers of France from the crusaders to the marechals of Louis XIV |
 |
EUSTACHE DE SAINT PIERRE;
Or, the Surrender of Calays. |
|
|
|
 | The chevaliers of France |  |
EUSTACHE DE SAINT PIERRE;
Or, the Surrender of Calays.
Night fell on the beleagured walls of Calays; but, with
night, there came to that sad city, none of those sweet accompaniments
none of those happy gatherings to the domestic
hearth, none of that cessation from the toils and sorrows of
the by-gone day, which, even under the ordinary circumstances
of human wo, render the hours of darkness a season of
consolation at least, if not of absolute enjoyment.
A gaunt and famished multitude, of every age and rank,
crowded the narrow streets, hurrying, they knew not to what
end or whither, from place to place, in the last stage of desperate
misery. Torches and cressets flashed upon knightly
crests, and burnished mail; but from beneath the lifted vizors
there glared forth countenances so corpse-like, eyes so glazed
and sunken, that one would have deemed the wearers incapable
of supporting the weight of their steel harness. And, in
truth, so miserably depressed were the hearts of those brave
men, so utterly were their spirits prostrated by protracted sufferings
and hope deferred, that warriors who might, a few
short weeks before, have been intrusted to do battle for a
wand in the hands of a stripling. Ladies were there, of
high degree, in whose pale cheeks and squalid dress no human
eye could recognise the glorious beauties, for which a hundred
lances had been splintered. Princes and paladins mingled
and confused with the veriest outcasts of society, all levelled
by common calamity to a common humiliation. On the preceding
morning they had looked, from their ramparts, upon the
camp of their relentless foe; they had seen his sturdy archers
revelling in abundance, his knights curbing their pampered
steeds in proud defiance beneath the very barriers of the town;
they had seen his triumphant navy riding before their harbor
— they had turned their eyes into their own blockaded streets,
and witnessed sights, that might have shaken the constancy of
earth's haughtiest spirits — they had hung over the wives of
their bosoms, the babes of their affections, perishing as it were
piecemeal by the most agonizing of deaths; they had seen the
dogs slaughtered for food, they had beheld the last drop drained
from their casks, the last handful of meal wane in their coffers,
yet they had still a hope. So long as they could see the
countless myriads of their countrymen marshalled upon the
distant height of Sandgate, their thousand banners flaunting in
the sunshine, they could not dream that they should be abandoned,
without a blow stricken or a lance broken, to the merciless
wrath of England's Edward. But when the evening
sun had sunk upon that vast array, slowly retiring from the hills
it had occupied so long in empty circumstance of war, their
hearts sunk to the dust in consciousness of utter destitution.
It was in vain that John de Vienne, than whom no better
knight had ever spurred a horse to battle, essayed to allay the
tumultuous terrors of the populace. Dread and despair had
goaded them to madness. Subordination was at an end, and,
— as if that miserable town had not endured enough by the
and famine — tumult and rapine were about to wreak
the remnant of that once proud community. All the livelong
night had the din of arms, fearfully mingled with the wild
shrieks of women, the deep roar of the rioters, the groans of
the sick and dying, struck terror and compassion to the hearts
of the besiegers. But even such a night as that must pass
away at length, although its moments may seem multiplied to
ages. The first streaks of dawn were scarcely creeping over
the horizon, when a trumpet rang from the walls in the prolonged
flourish of a parley, and the English watchers could
descry, through the mists of morning, a knightly crest nodding
above the solitary figure upon the ballium. The word
passed rapidly from post to post, and ere it could have been
deemed practicable, Sir Walter Manny reined in his panting
charger beneath the frowning gateway. Between men actuated
by the same high and gentle spirit, although arrayed under
hostile banners, few words sufficed. The noble heart of the
English knight had long bled within him at the sufferings of
his hereditary foemen, and it needed but a word from John de
Vienne, to interest him to the utmost in behalf of the beleaguered
citizens. Promising his utmost services with his warlike
king, he bowed till his plumes were mingled with the
charger's mane, then stirring the courage of the noble brute
with the spur, he dashed away upon his errand of mercy, the
pebbles spurned high into air at every hoof-tramp, and his steel
harness glancing like gold in the beams of the newly-risen sun.
“God speed thee, gallant Manny” — cried his admiring enemy
as he turned from the walls — “God speed thee and pity
us. But if I know the heart of Edward, thou ridest but in
vain!” An hour had not elapsed, before the gloomy forebodings
of De Vienne were realized by the return of the Island noble.
Long before he came within reach of voice could the Frenchman
messenger. The first words of Sir Walter confirmed his
darkest apprehensions.
“I bring thee terms” — he said — “noble de Vienne — but
terms, alas! such as it grieves me to report to such a knight as
thee. Our monarch is a gracious, and a brave — but we have
worked him such despite and damage here before these walls
of Calays, that by the Holy Paul, he hath been dangerous this
seven nights past to all around him. Right hardly have we
striven with him to win for ye small favor. Ye must — now,
by St. Paul, full sooner would I run three courses against e'er
a knight in Christendom, with grinded spear, than be the bearer
of such foul conditions — ye must choose out six of your noblest
citizens, to bear the keys bareheaded and barefooted, to
his tent, each in his shirt alone, with a hempen halter round
his neck. So shall he take ye to his mercy, and a short shift
to the bearers!” —
For a moment the head of De Vienne sunk upon his polished
corslet, and he wrung his gauntleted hands till the blood
oozed through the crevices of his mail.
“Thanks,” he said at length, in a suppressed tone, “all
thanks to thee, Sir Walter, for thy good aid, although it hath
availed us little. But tarry, till I bear these tidings to the men
of Calays.” Without another syllable, he turned abruptly from
the walls, forgetting in the bitterness of his spirit, those chivalrous
courtesies, which relieved with so fair a contrast, the
darkness of that iron age.
It was with an anxious eye, and a brow of gloom that he
forced his way through the dense multitude to the steps of the
market-house, and there, after a few brief words with the astounded
magistrates, during which the common bell rang backward
— addressed the assembled thousands, in a voice as calm
and clear, as though he spoke of matters of light or pleasing
hum of intense excitement — and then the falling of a feather
might have been heard in a deep hush of feeling that ensued.
“Brethren, and men of Calays,” he began, “I bear ye terms
from England — bitter they are and evil terms, but ye will have
none others; advise ye, therefore, and make a brief response,
and above all things, bestir not yourselves to any wrath or folly;
for it may avail ye naught.”
“The terms — the terms — tell us the terms,” burst like the
roar of a cataract from ten thousand mouths at once.
“Ye shall choose out six,” he continued, “six of your number,
the noblest and the best men of the city, and send them
forth to Edward, that he may hang them up and pardon ye!”
Now did such a yell of execration and despair go up to the
offended skies, as pealed through that multitude, on the terrible
announcement. Cries of vengeance on the head of De Vienne
himself, were mingled with bitter curses on the British tyrant,
and on the heartless monarch, who had abandoned them to such
a fate; while the wailings of women and children formed a
terrible accompaniment to the hoarser cries of the men. Arms
were again grasped, and torches kindled. “Better to die,” was
the clamor, “better to die amidst our blazing houses — better
to die, with those we love about us, than to live on terms like
these!” The riot was spreading fearfully, and in another instant
blood would have been shed by kindred hands, and Calays
been a prototype of Moscow; when a noble-looking man,
with a broad, high brow, a glance like that of a Narroway falcon,
and a port as stately as that of the steel-clad baron, by
whose side he stood, calmly uncovered his head, and with a
mute appeal of hand and eye to the infuriated mob, restored
tranquillity on the moment. “Eustache de Saint Pierre,” was
the cry, “Hear him — the father of the commons — hear Eustache
de Saint Pierre!” and again the place was still as death.
“My friends and fellow countrymen,” he said, “I thank ye
for your courtesy, and, if it please our lady, that courtesy shall
be requited. Great sin it were and shame, that such a noble
people, as be now within these walls, should perish, when
there be means to save them! My brothers, I believe that
any man shall have great mercy at the hands of our Lord God,
who should save this people. Fearlessly therefore and confidently,
have I this trust in him, that he will be merciful unto
me, as I shall jeopard my life for you. I Eustache de Saint
Pierre will be the first to die for Calays.”
Strange was the revulsion produced upon the minds of men
by his magnanimous devotion. Eyes, stony eyes, that had
never wept before, gushed out in torrents. Haughty nobles,
contemners of all save men of action, bowed themselves in the
dust before him; and the silver tones of women were heard,
with the faint trill of infant voices invoking blessings on their
preserver. Nor was so noble an example lost — five other
burgesses stepped forth at once, to go to their deaths, as it were
to a banquet. They threw their rich garbs of velvet on the
earth; bareheaded and barefooted, with halters about their
necks, they threaded the crowded streets, men pressing around
to grasp their hands, matrons clinging to their knees, and virgins
showering pure kisses on their brows. The heart of De
Vienne choked, as it were, the passage of his voice, and he
scarcely faltered forth his prayers to Manny for his intercession
with the king.
Slowly they passed the gate, but not a shade of fear or of
regret clouded the glorious tranquillity of their features. Had
they required aught to nerve their breasts, the sympathy of
friend and foe alike might well have supported their extremity.
For the island archers crowded with no less veneration around
them, than had done their grateful countrymen. Earls veiled
their high-plumed helmets as the burghers passed; kind words,
to die surrounded by such tokens of admiration and applause.
But Eustache and his companions felt no base shrinking
from their doom — needed no consolation! They stood before
the throne of their revengeful judge, as calmly as they hoped
to stand ere long before the tribunal of a far mightier king and
arbiter. The heart of the English monarch was naturally kind
and generous, but he had lashed himself into unwonted fury,
his eyes glared, the foam actually flew from his lips, and his
whole frame shook with the excitement of rage. “What, ho!”
he shouted, hearing not, nor heeding their dignified but humble
petition for grace. “What, ho! our proyost-marshal — Hence
with the traitors to the block!”
“For the love of Heaven, sire,” cried the gallant Manny,
“pardon! pardon these noble-minded men!”
“For your own fame, my gracious master, for the honor of
our country, for the name of England, spare them!” exclaimed
Derby; nor were these two the only petitions; the most distinguished
warriors, the holiest prelates, the proudest peers of his
realm, crowded around his footstool, but in vain.
“Ha! my lord — fie!” cried he, gnashing his teeth, “shame
ye not, lords and knights, to make this coil for the vile puddle
that stagnates in the veins of base mechanics? Vex me no
further, lords! For by St. George I will not dine this day, till
these have rued their treason! 'Sdeath,” he shouted in yet
fiercer tones, “am I not your king? Silence! For shame!”
and without another glance toward the undaunted burghers, he
motioned sternly to the door of the tent, “Away with them!
Away!”
There was not a brow, in that gallant circle, that was not
clouded, not a lip but quivered with vexation, as the reluctant
guards prepared to lead them out; but at this awful moment a
female form, of rare beauty, rushed hastily into the apartment;
supplication.
It was Philippa, his noble-minded, his adored wife — Philippa
the woman-conqueror of Neville's cross — Philippa the
mother of his son as yet unborn. She threw herself prostrate
at his footstool, pale, not from agitation only, but from the weakness
of her interesting situation, yet never did a lovelier, or a
sweeter form bow at the foot of man, to bend his stubbern heart
to deeds of mercy.
“Dear sir, and gentle husband,” she exclaimed, “to do you
pleasure, in great peril have I crossed the sea; never have I
at any time desired any boon or favor at your hand; but now,
deny me not, most noble king and husband, in honor of the Son
of the Virgin Mary, I beseech you, for the love of me, and for
the love of thy child, which is unborn, I do beseech thee to
take mercy of these unhappy men!”
For ten minutes' space did Edward gaze in silence, motionless,
and stern, upon that lovely form, and upon those beaming
features, eloquent with love and pity. At length his brow
slightly relaxed, yet there was no softness in his eye, or tone,
as he replied.
“Ha! gentle dame! I would you had been as now in any
other place. Yet have you offered such a prayer to me as I
may not deny you. Now have it as you will — do with these
men as is your pleasure — but let me see their countenances
never more.”
Hastily, and as if doubtful of his own resolution, he flung
from the tent, and, ere a moment had elapsed, was heard shouting
to horse, and dashing away at a furious gallop; as if to
give vent to his passion at being thus compelled to forego a
deed, which executed would have stamped one of the brightest
names of English story with the brand of deathless infamy.
| The chevaliers of France | |