Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times
then disperse, and each man make the best of his way to his own
stronghold. Monthermer, you shake your head!"
"I have sworn, De Montfort," said his old friend, kneeling down and
grasping his hand, "not to quit this field so long as there is light in
yonder sky to strike a stroke, and I must keep my vow."
"You are going, my noble friend," said Lord Ralph Basset--"you are
going on a journey where you must have companions. I am with you,
Leicester, and that right soon."
"Good bye, De Montfort," said Lord le Despenser. "Go on; I will not
make you wait. We shall meet again in half an hour."
A faint smile came upon the lip of the dying man. "Must it be so?" he
asked. "Well, then, range your men! Upon them altogether! and let the
traitors, who have betrayed their country, make such a field, that
Evesham plain shall be sung and talked of so long as liberty is dear to
the hearts of Englishmen.--Hark, they are coming!" he continued, in a
faint voice, with his eye rolling languidly from side to side.
"No, my lord, that is thunder," said the surgeon.
"Ha!" replied De Montfort, vacantly, "thunder!--I am very thirsty."
Some one ran and brought him a little water from the stream. It seemed
to refresh him; and, raising himself for an instant upon his arm, he
gazed around with a countenance, full of stern enthusiasm, exclaiming
aloud, "Do your devoir!" and with those words he fell back into the
arms of the priest, a corpse.
A dozen voices, replied, "We will!" and each man springing on his
horse, regained the head of his band. Just as Edward's troops were once
more in movement to advance, the word was given along the whole of the
confederate line, the trumpets blew to the charge, and the army, which
had held its firm position up to that hour, rushed forward to meet the
adversary like a thunder-cloud rolling down a hill.
The sun, at the same moment, touched the edge of the horizon, shining
out beneath the edge of the stormy canopy that covered the greater
part of the sky, and blending its red descending light with the
thunder-drops which were now pattering large and thick upon the plain
of Evesham. The whole air seemed flooded with gore, and the clouds on
the eastern side of the heavens, black and heavy as they were, assumed
a lurid glare, harmonizing with the whole scene, except where part of a
rainbow crossed the expanse, hanging the banner of hope, light, and
peace, in the midst of strife, destruction, and despair.
Such was the scene at the moment when the two armies met in the dire
shock of battle; and fierce and terrible was the encounter, as, soon
broken into separate parties, they fought hand to hand, dispersed over
the plain. In one of these confused groups, leading on a small body of
archers, with Robin Hood by his side, was the young Lord of Monthermer.
"My lord, my lord," said Sir John Hardy, riding up, "your uncle is
down--wounded, but not dead!"
"Bear him from the field, Sir John," replied Hugh. "Robin, I beseech
you, look to him. Bear him from the field--bear him from the field!"
"What, ho! Monthermer!" cried a loud voice, from a party Of spearmen
coining at full speed. "Down with your lance; surrender to the Prince!"
"If the Prince can take me!" replied Hugh, charging his lance at
Edward's shield, and driving his spurs deep into his horse's sides.
"Hold back--hold back!" shouted Edward to his own men. "Hold back,
every one, upon your lives!" and meeting the young lord in full career,
both their lances were shivered in a moment, as if in some mock combat
of the tilt-yard.
Hugh de Monthermer's sword sprang from the sheath in a moment, while
Edward cried--"Yield thee, Hugh--yield thee!" but a number of men on
foot had ran up; and, suddenly, the young knight received a violent
blow from a mallet on the side of his head, while, at the same instant,
his horse, gashed deep in the belly by the broad sword of a
crossbowman, staggered and and fell prone upon the plain. A dozen
spears were at his throat in a moment; but Edward shouted once more, to
stand back; and springing to the ground, he bent over the young knight,
exclaiming, "Now, Hugh, rescue, or no rescue--do you surrender?"
"I have no choice, my lord," replied the other; "I am in your hand."
"Take him to the rear," said Edward; "but use him with all kindness, as
your Prince's friend. Now, my lords," he continued, remounting his
horse, "methinks the field is ours, and there is scarcely light to
strike another blow. Well has the fight been fought, and it is but
justice to our enemies to say, that never was greater valour, conduct,
and chivalry, displayed in any land than by them this day. Some one
said De Montfort is dead. Have the tidings been confirmed?"
"They are certain, my lord," replied one of his attendants. "The Lord
de Vesci, who is taken sorely wounded, saw him die."
"He was a great man," said Edward. "Now spur on and clear the plain;
but be merciful, my friends. Remember, they are brave men and
fellow-countrymen."
Thus speaking the Prince advanced again, and having seen that no party
remained in active contention with his forces, but that all were either
dead, taken, or dispersed, he caused his standard to be pitched upon
the banks of the little rivulet we mentioned, his trumpets to blow the
recal--and thus ended the famous battle of Evesham.
CHAPTER XXIII.
How frequently in real life, as upon the mimic stage, the most opposite
scenes that it is possible to conceive follow each other in quick
succession. Often, indeed, are they placed side by side, or only veiled
from the eye of the spectator by a thin partition, which falls with a
touch, and all is changed. While revelry haunts the saloons of life,
anguish writhes in the garret, and misery tenants the cellar. Pomp, and
pageantry, and splendour occupy the one day; sorrow, destitution, and
despair the next; and, as in some of our old tragedies, the laughter
and merriment of the buffoon, appear alternately with tears and agony.
If it be so with human life--if, in this fitful spring-day of our
being, the storms and the sunshine tread upon the heels of each
other, so must it be with everything that would truly represent
existence--even with a tale like this.
We must change the scene, then, and convey the reader far away from the
sad field of Evesham--without pausing to detail some of the barbarous
horrors there committed on the bodies of the dead--at once to the
splendid court of England, now triumphant over its enemies, and
revelling in uncontrolled power.
We may, indeed, stay for an instant to remark, that while joy and
satisfaction spread through the various partisans of the court, while
the foreign favourites of Henry III. displayed their rejoicing with
indecent ostentation, and even the calmer and wiser adherents of his
high-minded son could not refrain from triumphant exultation,
consternation, dismay, and mourning spread throughout the middle and
lower classes of the people, through the clergy of the real Anglican
church, and through the greater part of the barons who claimed a
genuine English descent. The barrier was thrown down which had
protected their rights and liberties; and most of those whose swords
had been so long unsheathed in the popular cause, now lay weltering in
their gore upon the field of Evesham, leaving none but outlaws, and
fugitives to mourn for them in secrecy and concealment, and poets and
minstrels to sing the deeds of the gone.
It was at the court of England,--not in the capital of the kingdom, but
in the palace of Eltham, then one of the most beautiful, if not most
splendid of the residences of our kings--in a small chamber in the left
wing of the building, rather more than a month after the scenes which
we have lately commemorated, that there lay upon a couch, covered with
a leopard's skin, a young knight, busily engaged in reading a
manuscript written in a somewhat cramped and difficult hand. He was
clad altogether in the garments of peace, but a deep gash upon his
brow, a scarf bound tight round his arm, and a certain uneasy
expression of countenance when he turned from side to side, showed that
it was not long since he had been engaged in the fierce and bloody
pursuits of war.
Hugh de Monthermer had not passed through the battle of Evesham
unwounded; and though, as a point of chivalrous, courage, he had
scorned to suffer the slightest sign of anguish to appear, yet the
injuries he had received were long in being healed, and even for some
days his life had been held in danger.
Asa prisoner taken by the Prince's own hand, he had been brought in the
train of the Court to London, and then to Eltham; and although no one
word had been spoken of his future fate--no proposal made in regard to
terms of liberation at the period when many other nobles were allowed
to submit and receive letters of remission, yet he had been treated
with constant care and kindness. Scarcely a day had passed without his
being visited by Edward himself; but the subject of his actual
situation had been studiously avoided by the Prince; and Hugh,
impatient of farther restraint, now lay in his chamber waiting his
coming, and resolved to make such inquiries as must lead to some
definite reply.
About half an hour later than his usual time, the firm step of Edward
was heard in the ante-room, and his voice bidding the page who followed
stop at the door. The next instant the Prince entered, bowing his lofty
head as he passed through the low arched doorway. His countenance was
somewhat grave; but his tone was full of kindness towards Hugh de
Monthermer, and he took him by the hand inquiring after his health.
"I am nearly well, my dear lord," replied Hugh; "and, like your Grace,
when I found you in the castle of Hereford, I only sigh for fresh air
and liberty to use my cramped limbs."
"But why do you not take exercise?" demanded the Prince. "You should
ride forth every day."
"I did not know I had permission," answered Hugh. "I fancied your Grace
might think that the lesson you gave upon the banks of the Wye might
not be lost upon your humble prisoner."
"Not after you had surrendered, rescue or no rescue, Monthermer," said
the Prince. "I put no fetters upon you, my friend, but the fetters of
your word. The great gates are as free to you as to myself; and, though
I give you not your liberty, it is for your sake, not my own. My
father's anger burns fierce against your house, Monthermer. It is the
only spark which I have not been able to quench. You, he will pardon,
after a time; but I fear towards your uncle we shall never soften
him.--He says that it was by his advice De Montfort acted."
Edward put the last words in the tone of a question, or, perhaps,
as an assertion which he wished to hear refuted; but Hugh replied,
gravely--"His majesty says true, my lord; it was by my uncle's advice.
But your Grace's words give relief to my mind. I have had no tidings of
my uncle since that fatal field; and though I had hopes that he had
escaped, yet those hopes were faint. I do beseech you, my good lord,
tell me what you know for never son loved father more than I love him,
under whose sword I have been brought up from youth."
"I know little more than yourself," answered the Prince; "all I can
say, is, neither his body nor his arms were found amongst the dead; and
so far is my father convinced of his having escaped, that he, with
seven others, who have not yet made submission, have had sentence of
outlawry proclaimed against them."
Hugh de Monthermer mused with feelings very much divided between
pleasure and pain; but the Prince laid his hand kindly on his shoulder,
saying--"Come, old playfellow, prepare yourself for a ride, and join me