Agincourt Part 46

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

THE CAPTIVITY.

Oh, the long and tedious hours of imprisonment! how they weigh down the stoutest heart! How soul and mind seem fettered as well as body; and how the chain grows heavier every hour we wear it! Days and weeks pa.s.sed by; weeks and months flew away; and, strictly confined to one small chamber in the castle of Montl'herry, Richard of Woodville remained a prisoner.

The Count of Vaudemont, courteous in words, showed himself aught but courteous in deeds. Every tone had been knightly and generous while he stayed in the chateau; but no results had followed. He would never fix the ransom of his captive; he would never hold out any prospect of liberty; and ere long he departed for Paris, leaving Woodville in the hands of the Chatelain of the place, who, severely blamed for the escape of the young Lord of Croy, revenged himself upon him, by whose aid it had been accomplished. To that one little room, high up in the chateau, was Woodville restricted; no exercise was permitted to him, but the pacing up and down of its narrow limits: no relaxation but to sing s.n.a.t.c.hes of the old ballads of which he was so fond, or to gaze from under the pointed arch of the window over the changing scene below. No one was permitted to see him but his own page, who had been captured with him, and one of the soldiers of the castle; no book existed within the walls; and materials for writing, purchased with difficulty in the town, were only granted him in order to write to the Lord of Vaudemont concerning his ransom.

At first he remonstrated mildly; but when no other answer arrived, but that the Count would think of it, he took another tone, reproached him for his want of courtesy, and reminded him, that though he had surrendered rescue or no rescue, the refusal of reasonable ransom, justified him in making his escape whenever the opportunity might occur.

The Count's reply consisted of but four words, "Escape if you can,"

and from that hour the guard kept upon him became more strict than before. The weary hours dragged heavily on. Summer succeeded to spring, and autumn to summer, without anything occurring to cheer the lonely vacancy of his captivity, but an occasional rumour, brought by the page or the soldier who acted as jailer, either of the great events which were then agitating Europe, or of efforts made for his own liberation. The reports, however, were all vague and uncertain. He heard of war between France and Burgundy, but could with difficulty obtain any means of judging which party had gained the ascendancy.

Then he heard of a new peace, as hollow as those which had preceded it; and with that intelligence came the tidings, which the page gained from the soldiers of the garrison, that a large ransom had been offered for him; but whether by the Duke of Burgundy himself, or the Lord of Croy, he could not correctly ascertain. Next came a rumour of dissensions between France and England, and of a probable war; but none of the particulars could be learnt, except that the demands of Henry V. were in the opinion of the Frenchmen extravagant, and that the greater part of the nation looked forward with delight to an opportunity of wiping away the disgrace of Cressy and Poitiers, and blotting out for ever the treaty of Bretigny.

Oh, what would he have given for his liberty then! All his aspirations for glory and renown, all his hopes of winning praise and advancement, all the dreams of young ambition, all the bright imaginations of love, rose up before him as memories of the dead. Those prison walls were their cold sepulchre, that solitary chamber the tomb of all the energies within him. He had well nigh become frantic with disappointment; but he struggled successfully with the despair of his own thoughts, as every man of a really powerful mind will do. No one can obtain full mastery of the minds of others, without having full mastery of his own. He would not suffer his fancy to dwell upon sad things; he strove to create for himself objects of interest; and from the arched window he made himself acquainted as a friend with every object in the wide-spread scene beneath his eyes. Every church spire, every castle tower, every belt of wood, every stream and every road, every hamlet and every house, for miles around, were described and marked as if he had been mapping the country in his own mind. But it was only that he was seeking for objects of interest; and he found them; and variety too, he found; for every hour and every season brought its change. The varying shadows as day rose or declined; the different hues of summer and of winter, of autumn and of spring; the changeful aspect of the April day; the frowning sublimity of the thunder storm; the cold, stern, desolate gloom of the wintry air, all gave food to nourish fancy with, and from which he extracted thought and occupation.

He had withal, one grand support and consolation: the best after the voice of religion, a conscience clear of offence. He could look back upon the past and say, I have done well. There was no reproach within him for opportunities missed, advantages wasted, or ill deeds done; and often and often, he thought of the first song that poor Ella Brune had sung him, and of that stanza in which she said,

"In hours of pain and grief, If such thou must endure, Thy breast shall know relief In honour tried and pure; For the true heart and kind, Its recompence shall find; Shall win praise, And golden days, And live in many a tale."

In the meanwhile his treatment varied greatly at different times.

Sometimes the Chatelain was harsh and severe, refusing him almost everything that was necessary to his comfort; at others, with the caprice which is so common amongst rude and uncivilized people, he would seem joyous and good-humoured: would visit his prisoner, talk with him, and send him dishes from his own table, permitting many a little alleviation of his grief, which on former occasions he denied.

In one of these happier moods he allowed the page to buy his master a cithern, which proved one of the prisoner's greatest comforts and resources; and not long after, in the summer of 1415, a still greater change of conduct took place towards him. His table became supplied with princely liberality; rich wines and dainty meats were daily set before him; and the page was suffered to go at large about the town to procure anything his master might require.

One day the boy returned very much heated with exercise, and moved with what seemed pleasurable feelings; and looking round the room eagerly, he closed the door with care.

"You have tidings, Will," said the young knight, "and joyful tidings, too, or I am mistaken."

"I have better than tidings," replied the boy. "I have a letter. Read it quick, and then hide it. I will go out into the pa.s.sage, and watch, lest Joachim come up. He was lolling at the foot of the stairs."

Richard of Woodville took the letter from the boy eagerly, and read what was written in the outer cover. The words were few, and in a hand he did not know. "Nothing has been left undone," the writer said, "to set you free. A baron's ransom has been offered for you and refused.

The Duke of Burgundy required your liberation as one of the terms of peace, but could not obtain it. The Lord of Croy offered two prisoners of equal rank, and a ransom besides, but did not succeed. But fear not; friends are gathering round you. Be prepared to depart at a moment's notice, and you shall be set free as others have been. The moment you are free, hasten to England; for you have been belied."

Within this was a short letter from Mary Grey, full of tenderness and affection, with words and avowals which she might have scrupled to utter for any other purpose but the generous one of consoling and supporting him she loved, in sorrow and adversity. Beneath her name were written a few words from her father, expressive of more kindness, confidence, and regard, than he had ever previously shown; but he, too, spoke of the young knight's return to England, as absolutely necessary for his own defence; and he too alluded to the rumours against him, without stating what those rumours were.

If there was much to cheer, there was much to distress and grieve; and Woodville paused for several minutes to think over the contents of these letters, and to consider what could be the nature of the calumnies referred to, believing that he had fully refuted the charge of having neglected to obey the King's command to return to England, before he set out on the expedition which had been attended by such an unfortunate result. At length the page looked in, to see if he had done; and Woodville, bidding him shut the door, inquired from whom he had received the letters.

"It was from the young clerk, n.o.ble sir," replied the boy, "who was with Sir John Grey at Charleville. I saw a youth in a black gown wandering about the castle gates some days since; and as I stood alone upon the drawbridge, about half an hour ago, he pa.s.sed me again, and seeing that there was no one there, made me a sign to follow. I walked after him into the church, and then he gave me the letter for you; but bade me tell you to be upon your guard, for that there are enemies near as well as friends. To make sure that you were not deceived, he said, you were to put trust in no one who did not give you the word, 'Mary Markham.'"

"Hark!" cried Woodville, rising and going to the window. "There are trumpets sounding!"

"I heard the Lord of Vaudemont was expected to-day," replied the boy.

"And there he is," said Richard of Woodville, watching a body of horse coming up the hill. "On my honour, if I have speech with him, he shall hear my full thoughts on his discourteous conduct. But now, hie thee away, Will. Seek out this young clerk in the town, and ask if he can convey my answer back to the letters which he brought. I will find means to write if he can."

"Oh, I can find him," replied the boy, "for he told me where he lodged: in the house of a widow woman, named Chatain."

"Away, then!" answered Woodville; "let them not find you here."

When he looked forth from the window again, the young knight could no longer perceive the body of horse he had seen advancing; but the noises which rose up from the court of the castle below, the clang of arms, the gay tones of voices laughing and talking, the word of command, and the shout of the warder, showed him that the party had already arrived. About an hour pa.s.sed without his hearing more; but then came the sound of steps in the pa.s.sage; the door opened, and three gentlemen entered, of whom the first was the Count of Vaudemont.

The next was a man several years younger; and the third, a stout ill-favoured personage, of nearly fifty years of age. None of them were armed, except with a dagger, usually worn hanging from the waist; and all were dressed in the extravagant style of the French court in that day, with every merely ornamental part of dress exaggerated till it became a monstrosity. Every colour, too, was the brightest that could be found; each contrasted with the other in the most vivid and inharmonious a.s.sortment, green and red, amber and blue, pink and yellow, so that each man looked like some gaudy eastern bird new feathered.

The Lord of Vaudemont was evidently in a light and merry mood, or, at least, affected it; for he entered laughing, and at once held out his hand to his prisoner, as if a familiar friend.

Richard of Woodville, however, drew back, saying, "Your pardon, my good lord. I am a captive, for whom ransom has been refused.--You forget!"

"Nay, I remember it well, sir knight," replied the Count, laughing again; "and that you intend to escape. You have not succeeded yet, I see. However, let me set myself right with you on that head. 'Tis not I who refuse your ransom. 'Tis my lord, the Duke of Aquitaine, who will not have you set free just yet, so that I risk my angels if you have wit enough to find your way out. His commands, however, are express, and I must obey. My lord the Duke of Orleans, here present, will witness for me, as well as my lord of Armagnac, that I would far rather have your gold in my purse, where it is much needed, than your person in Montl'herry, where it could be well spared."

The young knight regarded the famous n.o.bles, of whom he had heard so much, with no slight interest; and the Duke of Orleans, drawing a settle to the table, leaned his head upon his arm in a thoughtful att.i.tude, saying, "It is quite true, sir; but perhaps that may be remedied ere long. If you be willing to renounce the cause of Burgundy, and agree to serve no more against the crown of France, the difficulty may be removed."

"I have no purpose, sir, to ride for that good lord, the Duke, any more," answered Richard of Woodville; "I did but seek his Court to win honour and renown; but now I am called to England by many motives, so that I may well promise not to serve with him again; but if your proposal goes farther, and you would have me give my knightly word, not to fight for my Sovereign against any power on earth where he may need my arm, I must at once say no. I am his va.s.sal, and will do my duty according to my oath, whenever he shall call upon me. He is my liege lord; and--"

"There are some Englishmen, and not a few," said the Count of Armagnac, in a harsh and grating tone of voice, "who do not hold him to be such, but rather an usurper. Edmund, Earl of March, is your liege lord, young knight."

"He has never claimed that t.i.tle, n.o.ble sir," answered Richard of Woodville; "and indeed, has renounced it, by swearing allegiance himself to his great cousin."

"Compulsion, all compulsion," said the Duke of Orleans; "we shall yet see him on the throne of England."

"I trust not, my lord the Duke," answered the English knight; "but if the plea of compulsion can, in your eyes, justify the breach of an oath, how could you expect me to keep a promise made, not to serve against this crown of France, here in a prison?"

"But why say you, that you trust not to see him on the throne?" asked the Count of Armagnac, evading the part of Woodville's reply which he would have found difficult to answer. "He is surely a n.o.ble and courteous gentleman, full of high virtues."

"Far inferior in all to his royal cousin," answered the knight; "but it is not on that account alone I say so, but for many reasons. We Englishmen believe that our crown is held by somewhat different rights from yours of France. At the coronations of our kings, we by our free voices confirm them on their throne. The people of England have a say in the question of a monarch's t.i.tle; and without that recognition they are not kings of England. To our present sovereign, the n.o.bles of the land offered their homage ere the crown was placed upon his brow; but he, as wise in this as in all else, would receive none till he was proclaimed King, not by a herald's trumpet, but by the tongues of Englishmen. Besides, I say, I trust I shall never see the Earl of March wearing the English crown, because I hope never to see an honourable n.o.bleman forget his oath, nor a perjured monarch on the throne."

"And yet your fourth Harry forgot his," said the Duke of Orleans.

"Not till intolerable wrongs and base injustice drove him to it,"

answered the knight; "not till the monarch so far forgot his compact with the subject, as to free him from remembrance of his part of the obligation. Besides, I was then a boy; I found a sovereign reigning by the voice of the people; to him I pledged my first oath of fealty. I have since pledged it to his son; and I will keep it."

The two Counts and the Duke looked at each other with a significant glance; and after a moment's consideration, the Count of Vaudemont changed the subject, saying, "Well, good knight, such are your thoughts. We may judge differently. But say, how have you fared lately? I heard that our worthy Chatelain here had been somewhat harsh with you, resolving that you should not play him such a trick as the boy of Croy; and I ordered that such treatment should be amended. Has it been done? I would not have you used unworthily."

"It has been done in some points, my lord," replied Richard of Woodville, "but not in all."

"Nay, good faith, with warning from your own lips that you sought to escape," answered the Count, "he was right not to relax on all points."

"But some he might have relaxed, yet held me safe," rejoined the young knight. "I have been cut off from all means of holding any communion with my friends, though it was most needful that I should urge them to offer what terms might find favour for my liberation. I have been kept more like some felon subject of this land, than a fair prisoner of war."

"Nay, that must be changed," said the Duke of Orleans; "such was not your intention, I am sure, De Vaudemont?"

"By no means, n.o.ble Duke," answered the Count. "I will take order that it be so no more. You shall have liberty to write to whom you will, sir knight; and, indeed, having a courier going soon to England, you will have the means right soon, if you will, of sending letters. I have heard," he added with a laugh, "that there is a certain n.o.ble gentleman of the name of Grey, with whom you have some dear relations--much in King Henry's confidence, if I mistake not.

Perchance, were he to use his influence with that Prince, something might be done to mitigate the Dauphin's sternness. We are still negotiating with England, though, by my faith, these preparations at Southampton, and this purchase of vessels from the Hollanders, looks more warlike than one might have wished."

"If my liberation, n.o.ble Count, depends on Sir John Grey's using his influence for ought but his Sovereign's interests," replied Richard of Woodville, "I fear I shall be long a captive. However, to him will be, perchance, my only letter; for he can communicate with other friends."

"Do as you will, n.o.ble lords," cried the Count of Armagnac, who had been sitting silent for some time, gnawing his nail in gloomy meditation; "but were I you I would suffer no such letters to pa.s.s.

They will but tend to counteract all that you desire. Here you have in your hands one of the hearty enemies of France: that is clear from every word,--one who, at all risks, would urge his sovereign to deeds of hostility against us, when we are already wrung by internal discord. Why should you suffer him to pour such poison into the hearts of his countrymen?"