Faint the din of battle bray'd
Distant down the heavy wind;
War and terror ded before,
Wounds and death were left behind.
Mickle.
Arthur, left alone, and desirous perhaps to cover the retreat of Count Albert, rode towards the approaching body of Burgundian cavalry, who were arrayed under the Lord Contay’s banner.
“Welcome, welcome,” said that nobleman, advancing hastily to the young knight. “The Duke of Burgundy is a mile hence, with a body of horse to support the reconnoitring party. It is not half-an-hour since your father galloped up, and stated that you had been led into an ambuscade by the treachery of the Stradiots, and made prisoner. He has impeached Campo-Basso of treason, and challenged him to the combat. They have both been sent to the camp, under charge of the Grand-Marshal, to prevent their fighting on the spot, though I think our Italian showed little desire to come to blows. The Duke holds their gages, and they are to fight upon Twelfth-Day.”
“I doubt that day will never dawn for some who look for it,” said Arthur; “but if it do, I will myself claim the combat, by my father’s permission.”
He then turned with Contay, and met a still larger body of cavalry under the Duke’s broad banner. He was instantly brought before Charles. The Duke heard, with some apparent anxiety, Arthur’s support of his father’s accusations against the Italian in whose favor he was so deeply prejudiced. When assured that the Stradiots had been across the hill, and communicated with their leader just before he encouraged Arthur to advance, as it proved into the midst of an ambush, the Duke shook his head, lowered his shaggy brows, and muttered to himself, — “Ill will to Oxford, perhaps — these Italians are vindictive.” — Then, raising his head, he commanded Arthur to proceed.
He heard with a species of ecstasy the death of Rudolph Donnerhugel, and, taking a ponderous gold chain from his own neck flung it over Arthur’s.
“Why, thou hast forestalled all our honors, young Arthur — this was the biggest bear of them all-the rest are but suckling whelps to him! I think I have found a youthful David to match their huge thick-headed Goliath. But the idiot to think his peasant hand could manage a lance! Well, my brave boy — what more! How camest thou off? By some wily device or agile stratagem, I warrant.”
“Pardon me, my lord,” answered Arthur. “I was protected by their chief, Ferrand, who considered my encounter with Rudolph Donnerhugel as a personal duel; and, desirous to use fair war, as he said, dismissed me honorably, with my horse and arms.”
“Umph!” said Charles, his bad humor returning; “your Prince Adventurer must play the generous — Umph — well, it belongs to his part, but shall not be a line for me to square my conduct by. Proceed with your story, Sir Arthur de Vere.’
As Arthur proceeded to tell how and under what circum stances Count Albert of Geierstein named himself to him, the Duke fixed on him an eager look, and trembled with impatience as he fiercely interrupted him with the question — “And you — you struck him with your poniard under the fifth rib did you not?”
“I did not, my Lord Duke — we were pledged in mutual assurance to each other.”
“Yet you knew him to be my mortal enemy?” said the Duke~ “Go, young man, thy lukewarm indifference has cancelled thy merit. The escape of Albert of Geierstein hath counterbalanced the death of Rudolph Donnerhugel.”
“Be it so, my lord,” said Arthur, boldly. “I neither claim your praises, nor deprecate your censure. I had to move me in either case motives personal to myself.-Donnerhugel was my enemy, and to Count Albert I owe some kindness.”
The Burgundian nobles who stood around were terrified for the effect of this bold speech. But it was never possible to guess with accuracy how such things would effect Charles. He looked around him with a laugh — ” Hear you this English cockerel, my lords-what a note will he one day sound, that already crows so bravely in a prince’s presence!”
A few horsemen now came in from different quarters, recounting that the Duke Ferrand and his company had retired into their encampment, and the country was clear of the enemy.
“Let us then draw back also,” said Charles, “since there is no chance of breaking spears to-day. And thou, Arthur de Vere, attend me closely.”
Arrived at the Duke’s pavilion, Arthur underwent an examination, in which he said nothing of Anne of Geierstein, or her father’s designs concerning him, with which he considered Charles as having nothing to do; but he frankly conveyed to him the personal threats which the Count had openly used. The Duke listened with more temper, and when he heard the expression, “That a man who is desperate of his own life might command that of any other person,” he said, “But there is a life beyond this, in which he who is treacherously murdered, and his base and desperate assassin, shall each meet their deserts.” He then took from his bosom a gold cross, and kissed it, with much appearance of devotion. “In this,” said he, “I will place my trust. If I fail in this world, may I find grace in the next — Ho, Sir Marshal!” he exclaimed — “Let your prisoners attend us.”
The Marshal of Burgundy entered with the Earl of Oxford, and stated that his other prisoner, Campo-Basso, had desired so earnestly that he might be suffered to go and post his sentinels on that part of the camp intrusted to the protection of his troops, that he, the Marshal, had thought fit to comply with his request.
“It is well,” said Burgundy, without further remark-” Then to you, my Lord Oxford, I would present your son, had you ~of already locked him in your arms. He has won great los and honor, and done me brave service. This is a period of the year when good men forgive their enemies; — I know not why — my mind was little apt to be charged with such matters — but I feel an unconquerable desire to stop the approaching combat betwixt you and Campo-Basso. For my sake, consent to be friends, and to receive back your gage of battle, and let me conclude this year — perhaps the last I may see — with a deed of peace. ”
“My lord,” said Oxford, it is a small thing you ask me, since your request only enforces a Christian duty. I was enraged at the loss of my son. I am grateful to Heaven and your Grace for restoring him. To be friends with Campo-Basso is to me impossible. Faith and treason, truth and falsehood, might as soon shake hands and embrace. But the Italian shall be to me no more than he has been before this rupture; and that is literally nothing. I put my honor in your Grace’s hands; if he receives back his gage, I am willing to receive mine. John de Vere needs not be apprehensive that the world will suppose that he fears Campo-Basso.”
The Duke returned sincere thanks, and detained the officers to spend the evening in his tent. His manners seemed to Arthur to be more placid than he had ever seen them before, while to the Earl of Oxford they recalled the earlier days in which their intimacy commenced, ere absolute power and unbounded success had spoiled Charles’s rough but not ungenerous disposition. The Duke ordered a distribution of provisions and wine to the soldiers, and expressed an anxiety about their lodgings, the cure of the wounded, and the health of the army, to which he received only unpleasing answers. To some of his counsellors, apart, he said, “Were it not for our vow, we would relinquish this purpose till spring, when our poor soldiers might take the field with less of suffering.”
Nothing else remarkable appeared in the Duke’s manner, save that he inquired repeatedly after Campo-Basso, and at length received accounts that he was indisposed, and that his physician had recommended rest; he had therefore retired to repose himself, in order that he might be stirring on his duty at peep of day, the safety of the camp depending much on his vigilance.
The Duke made no observation on the apology, which he considered as indicating some lurking disinclination, on the Italian’s part, to meet Oxford. The guests at the ducal pavilion were dismissed an hour before midnight.
When Oxford and his son were in their own tent, the Earl fell into a deep reverie, which lasted nearly ten minutes. At length, starting suddenly up, he said, “My son, give orders to Thiebault and thy yeoman to have our horses before the tent by break of day, or rather before it; and it would not be amiss if you ask our neighbor Colvin to ride along with us I will visit the outposts by daybreak.”
“It is a sudden resolution, my lord,” said Arthur.
“And yet it may be taken too late,” said his father. “Had it been moonlight, I would have made the rounds to-night.”
“It is as dark as a wolf’s throat,” said Arthur. “But wherefore, my lord, can this night in particular excite your apprehensions?”
“Son Arthur, perhaps you will hold your father credulous But my nurse, Martha Nixon, was a northern woman, and full of superstitions. In particular, she was wont to say, that any sudden and causeless change of a man’s nature, as from license to sobriety, from temperance to indulgence, from avarice to extravagance, from prodigality to love of money, or the like, indicates an immediate change of his fortunes — that some great alteration of circumstances, either for good or evil (and for evil most likely, since we live in an evil world), is impending over him whose disposition is so much altered. This old woman’s fancy has recurred so strongly to my mind, that I am determined to see with mine own eyes, ere to-morrow’s dawn, that all our guards and patrols around the camp are on the alert.”
Arthur made the necessary communications to Colvin and to Thiebault, and then retired to rest.
It was ere daybreak of the first of January, 1474, a period long memorable for the events which marked it, that the Earl of Oxford, Colvin, and the young Englishman, followed only by Thiebault and two other servants, commenced their rounds of the Duke of Burgundy’s encampment. For the greater part of their progress they found sentinels and guards all on the alert and at their posts. It was a bitter morning. The ground was partly covered with snow, — that snow had been partly melted by a thaw, which had prevailed for two days, and partly congealed into ice by a bitter frost, which had commenced the preceding evening, and still continued. A more dreary scene could scarcely be witnessed.
But what were the surprise and alarm of the Earl of Oxford and his companions, when they came to that part of the camp which had been occupied the day before by Campo-Basso and his Italians, who, reckoning men-at-arms and Stradiots, amounted to nigh two thousand men — not a challenge was given — not a horse neighed — no steeds were seen at picquet — no guard on the camp. They examined several of the tents and huts — they were empty.
“Let us back to alarm the camp,” said the Earl of Oxford; “here is treachery.”
“Nay, my lord,” said Colvin, “let us not carry back imperfect tidings. I have a battery an hundred yards in advance covering the access to this hollow way; let us see if my German cannoniers are at their post, and I think I can swear that we shall find them so. The battery commands a narrow pass, by which alone the camp can be approached; and if my men are at their duty, I will pawn my life that we make the pass good till you bring up succors from the main body.”
“Forward, then, in God’s name!” said the Earl of Oxford.
They galloped, at every risk, over broken ground, slippery with ice in some places, encumbered with snow in others. They came to the cannon, judiciously placed to sweep the pass, which rose towards the artillery on the outward side, and then descended gently from the battery into the lower ground. The waning winter moon, mingling with the dawning light, showed them that the guns were in their places, but no sentinel was visible.
“The villains cannot have deserted!” said the astonished Colvin — ” But see, there is light in their cantonment. — Oh that unhallowed distribution of wine! Their usual sin of drunkenness has beset them. I will soon drive them from their revelry.”
He sprung from his horse, and rushed into the tent from whence the light issued. The cannoniers, or most of them, were still there, but stretched on the ground, their cups and flagons scattered around them ; and so drenched were they in wassail, that Colvin could only, by commands and threats, awaken two or three, who, staggering and obeying him rather from instinct than sense, reeled forward to man the battery. A heavy rushing sound, like that of men marching fast, was now heard coming up the pass.
“It is the roar of a distant avalanche,” said Arthur.
“It is an avalanche of Switzers, not of snow,” said Colvin.
— “Oh, these drunken slaves! — The cannon are deeply loaded, and well pointed — this volley must check them if they were fiends, and the report will alarm the camp sooner than we can do.-But, oh, these drunken villains!”
“Care not for their aid,” said the Earl; “my son and I will each take a linstock, and be gunners for once.”
They dismounted, and bade Thiebault and the grooms look to the horses, while the Earl of Oxford and his son took each a linstock from one of the helpless gunners, three of whom were just sober enough to stand by their guns.
“Brovo!” cried the bold Master of Ordnance, “never was a battery so noble. Now, my mates-your pardon, my lords, for there is no time for ceremony — and you, ye drunken knaves, take heed not to fire till I give the word, and were the ribs of these tramplers as flinty as their Alps, they shall know how old Colvin loads his guns.”
They stood breathless, each by his cannon. The dreaded sound approached nearer and more near, till the imperfect light showed a dark and shadowy but dense column of men, armed with long spears, pole-axes, and other weapons, amidst which banners dimly floated. Colvin suffered them to approach to the distance of about forty yards, and then gave the word, Fire But his own piece alone exploded; a slight flame flashed from the touch-hole of the others, which had been spiked by the Italian deserters, and left in reality disabled, though apparently fit for service. Had they been all in the same condition with that fired by Colvin, they would probably have verified his prophecy; for even that single discharge produced an awful effect, and made a long lane of dead and wounded through the Swiss column in which the first and leading banner was struck down.
“Stand to it yet,” said Colvin, “and aid me if possible to reload the piece.”
For this, however, no time was allowed. A stately form, conspicuous in the front of the staggered column, raised up the fallen banner, and a voice as of a giant exclaimed, “What, countrymen! have you seen Murten and Granson, and are you daunted by a single gun? — Berne — Uri — Schwytz — banners forward I Un............