CHAPTER XIV BRUSSELS, ANTWERP, CALAIS

The horsemen needed but little time wherein to refresh themselves and their horses. The aubergiste, at Geoffrey's command, brought forth his best wine for the gentlemen, and his ostlers produced corn and water for the horses. In half-an-hour the order to remount was given, and soon the party was trotting quietly through the cobbled streets of Busigney.

Their next halting-place would be Mons; in two hours' time they would be out of French territory.

Clear of the town they put their horses to a hand-gallop, and once more the devastation of war became evident. All was ruin and desolation in this once fertile region, there seemed to be nothing left by the cruel marauding hands of men!

The villages and hamlets still smouldered, and the air was reeking with pungent smoke; but there were no inhabitants, all had fled from the neighbourhood of the great military highway.

Yet Geoffrey and his companions relaxed nothing of their keen vigilance. Robin rode ahead and Hal in the rear as before.

On, on, through the night!

The stars shone brilliantly, not a cloud flecked the sky. Ill-omened blotches of red light on the horizon marked where the gueux were still at their evil work, but even these grew fewer as the small hours of the morning passed and the travellers were reaching Flemish territory.

All at once the advance-guard dropped back upon them. He reported that a crowd of men were approaching; they were not in military order, but they were occupying the whole road.

Geoffrey signalled to the rear-guard to join them, and a rapid consultation ensued. Finally, Geoffrey ordered the three lads to fall in behind the gentlemen; then with drawn swords all advanced at slow pace towards the oncoming mob. Many of these men carried pine-knot torches, and by their flickering and lurid light it could be seen that they were rudely armed peasantry—scythes, pitchforks and huge clubs were their chief weapons, and these they waved aloft with wild cries of defiance. The three young soldiers felt a true pity for these homeless and houseless men, and Geoffrey resolved to win his way through them by expostulation, if it were possible.

Reining up his steed he waited till the gueux were close at hand, then he thundered out—

"Halt there, if you value your lives!"

The men uttered derisive cries—yet they halted.

"Why do you obstruct the King's highway? make way, or you will rue the day when you strove to stop six heavily-armed men."

Their leader stepped to the front.

"You are six in number, are you," he cried, "and we are ten to one against you! Dismount from your horses, give them up to us and we will let you pass," he continued.

"Fools!" cried Geoffrey angrily; "do you think to frighten soldiers with your base threats? Yet I know that you are poor and starving, and I would not willingly put you to the sword. Hear me! On the word of a gentleman I promise you that if you make way for us I will scatter five gold pieces among you. Now answer me, and that quickly!"

For a moment the men drew together to consider the offer. But the very mention of "gold pieces" aroused their base passions and cupidity; perhaps they thought that fear dictated the generous offer. Then the leader cried out—

"We will have your gold and your horses too; dismount and we promise you your lives."

Geoffrey turned rapidly to his men.

"Two abreast," he cried; "are you ready? Charge!"

Then they dug their spurs into their horses' flanks and, like a thunderbolt, they hurled themselves into the midst of the seething mob, with a wild British cheer! Cutting, slashing, hewing, stabbing, the six trained and disciplined soldiers passed through their foes as if they had been but wax dolls or stuffed effigies. In less than a minute they had won their way, and the path through which they had passed was strewn with the dead and dying.

Then Geoffrey cried "Halt!"

The gueux were a hundred yards behind them, and they showed no inclination to pursue.

"Is any man hurt?" cried Geoffrey to his party.

Two lads answered—

"Only a little blood-letting, sir."

"Then in God's name let us ride forward," cried Geoffrey: "we have punished those poor wretches sufficiently; but they would have it, Heaven pity them!"

On, on once more into the night.

The morn was breaking, streaks of grey light quivered in the sky and the stars were losing their brilliance. They were approaching the confines of Flanders, and as the dawn deepened into day the watch-towers of Maubeuge came in sight. It was a frontier town, and in times of peace its barriers would have been kept by an armed force, not to be passed till all dues and customs had been paid, and all questions fully answered.

As the armed party appeared in view the shrill voice of a trumpet rang out, and men were to be seen hurrying to their places of observation. But the sight of six men in uniform, fully armed, seemed to render all formalities unnecessary, and no resistance to their passage was made as the party rode through the town making no halt in it.

The sun was rising in great splendour; it shone upon a scene that cheered the hearts of the horsemen. All was bright and peaceful, the fields were yellow with corn and the reapers were everywhere at work.

"Oh, blessed peace!" said William to Ralph; "who would not sigh for the time when wars should be no more, when men shall 'beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks'!"

They rode more gently now, for their gallant steeds were beginning to flag. At mid-day the towers and spires of Mons came into sight and the splendid tracery of the glorious Cathedral of St. Wandru, as it displayed itself against a sky of opal blue, filled them with admiration.

Reaching the Grande Place, they halted in front of the H?tel de la Couronne, and the weary travellers dismounted. They, as well as their horses, needed repose, and Geoffrey decreed a respite of three hours.

All too soon Geoffrey aroused his comrades, who had both dined and slept after they had seen carefully that the needs of their horses had received attention.

"To horse, to horse," cried Geoffrey: "we must be in Brussels ere nightfall."

Once more they were in the saddle, and the bells of the cathedral tolled the hour of three as they rode across the bridge of the river Trouille, fresh and reinvigorated. Their horses had been well cared for, and they seemed to share the exhilaration of their riders.

On through the pleasant plains of Flanders, through Jubise, Nivelles, Brise-le-Compte, and many another small town. They sang, they talked to their horses and caressed them, and the noble animals responded to their efforts as they cantered forwards.

Yet night was falling ere the noble town of Brussels was reached; the sweet-toned bells of the great Cathedral, St. Gudule, were chiming, and presently they announced the hour—it was eight o'clock.

The party halted in the Grande Place under the shadow of the splendid H?tel de Ville, and Geoffrey quickly found a comfortable hotel where they could stable their horses and refresh themselves.

Then he wended his way to the burgomaster's house, that he might lodge his demand for six fresh horses "for the King's service." He encountered no difficulties, and this business being accomplished he rejoined his companions at the H?tel de Flandres.

The horses were ordered for midnight, when they would begin the last stage of their long ride; they would reach Antwerp by daybreak, if all went well. They had four hours for rest and refreshment, yet, when they had dined, and ere they snatched an hour's sleep, the gentlemen of the party strolled for a brief space in the Grande Place. It was full of gaily-dressed citizens; and great lanterns, suspended on poles at intervals, cast a bright light upon the animated scene.

Here were gallant young Spanish officers, belonging to the garrison of the city, attracting the eyes of all beholders by the glitter of their uniforms and the easy hauteur with which they moved among the people.

There were civic dignitaries in rich flowing robes, escorting their wives and daughters to an entertainment which was being given that night by Margaret, Duchess of Parma, the King's half-sister. She was paying a brief visit to the city, where she had spent her childhood; she was soon to become the Regent of the Netherlands.

There were groups of monks in the many-coloured robes of their Orders, Black Dominicans, White Augustinians and Brown Benedictines.

All sorts and conditions of men were there, and the young Englishmen watched them with keen interest. So novel a scene had they never witnessed, nor so lovely a house as the "Maison du Roi," which blazed with light in all its windows on the eastern side of the Place.

Ah, what a house that was! Richly sculptured, ornamented with armorial bearings, which glittered with crimson and gold; so splendid that it was sometimes called "The Golden House." It was in front of that very house that, eleven years later, twenty-five Flemish nobles passed to their doom on the scaffold—it was in the spring of 1568. Two months later Counts Egmont and Horn were led forth from that gorgeous abode to perish under the headsman's axe.

There was no prophetic vision to foretell these dread things; and that night, as the young Englishmen gazed upon it in all its sumptuous beauty, the wildest imagination would not have dreamt of so tragic a thing.

The eyes of the young men lingered on these scenes of fascination, and, for a time, they lost the feeling of weariness and fatigue.

"Come, boys," cried Geoffrey, as he laid his hands on their shoulders, "this will not do! The clocks are chiming for the ninth hour, and at twelve we have to be in the saddle."

So they retraced their steps to the H?tel de Flandres and soon "fell on sleep," perhaps to dream of gallant courtiers, stout burghers, of civic dignitaries and the fair ladies of the wondrous city of Brussels.

The hour of midnight had come, and in the spacious stable-yard of the hotel six fine Flemish horses, fully harnessed for military service, awaited their riders. Nor had they long to wait.

Scarce had the sound of the chiming bells died down than the six horsemen made their appearance. Again was a minute examination made of every part of the equipment, again the men renewed the priming of their pistols and shook their sword-belts into position.

"Are you all ready?" cried Geoffrey, when all was finished. And in response to the "Aye, aye, sir," of the men, the word of command came—

"Then mount; we ride in pairs till we are clear of the city, then as before: Robin in front and Hal behind."

Quietly they rode through the dimly-lit streets and passed over the river Senne into the open country. They were on a good road now (the ancient Roman "street"), which led straight away to Antwerp, through Mechlin, where they would make their first halt.

They were splendidly mounted and their horses broke into an easy canter, tossing their long manes and snorting, as if with joy. Through verdant plains, through teeming cornfields, through villages and small towns, onwards they galloped till the lights of Mechlin came in sight. Presently they were riding gently through the ancient town, and the carillon in the lofty belfry of St. Rombaut rang out the hour of two as they drew rein in the Grande Place.

The city watchmen gathered round them, eager to do them service as soon as Geoffrey had informed them that he rode on the King's business. Corn and water were quickly found for the horses, wine from some secret store for the men (the hotels were fast locked for the night), for all of which things Geoffrey paid with free hand. Thus half-an-hour was spent, then the horsemen remounted their steeds and they cantered gaily out of the town.

"Heigh ho, for Antwerp, our last stage!" cried Geoffrey, as they rode out into the darkness.

So fresh were their horses that they rode now at full gallop, and the country seemed to fly by them. A grey light was tingeing the eastern horizon as they drew near Antwerp, the dawn had begun as they rode up to the watch-towers of the fortified town.

Their approach had been signalled by trumpet blasts, and a strong body of town-guards awaited them. The horsemen drew up as the captain of the guard approached them, and to him Geoffrey handed his papers as he said—

"On the King's service!"

Everything was en règle, and in a few moments the great gates were opened and the party entered Antwerp and proceeded direct to the Quai.

Antwerp was waking up, and already crowds of men were making their way to the great dockyard of the city. Sailors of many nationalities were proceeding to their ships, which lay at anchor on the broad waters of the noble river Scheldt.

Lord Clinton had provided Geoffrey with a "King's mandate" addressed to the dock-master, and the party soon found their way to that functionary's official residence.

Herr Van Luhys, the worthy dock-master, had not yet opened his doors to the outside world, and the sleepy watchman gazed with dismay at the six horsemen who, dismounted, stood at the door asking for immediate audience. It was not till Geoffrey had slipped a doubloon into the man's hand that he consented to awake his master and to convey a message to him.

But the words "On the King's Service" soon brought the dock-master into the hall, where the three Englishmen awaited him. Geoffrey handed the King's mandate to him, at the sight of which document Herr Van Luhys bowed low and asked his early visitors to be seated, while he read the mandate.

The effect was immediate.

"I am the King's servant and loyal subject," he said: "his commands shall be obeyed. I am bidden to find you immediate means of reaching Calais, and to see that your horses are returned to the Burgomaster of Brussels. By Heaven's good providence the Santa Trinadad, a swift King's ship, is in the harbour, and she sails in an hour's time. I will send word to the captain at once, that six gentlemen are coming on board his ship, and that he is to await your presence before he lifts anchor. Meanwhile, gentlemen, you will break your fast with me, I trust, if you will do me so great an honour."

Geoffrey bowed courteously, and very thankfully accepted the dock-master's offers of service and breakfast. They were weary, and their long ride had made them hungry: an hour could not be spent more profitably than at Herr Van der Luhys's breakfast table.

Their horses were sent under the care of grooms, hastily summoned, to the stables, and men-servants began in hot haste to prepare a meal for the dock-master's guests.

A great table stood in the centre of the hall: soon it was covered with a fair white cloth, and fish, flesh and fowl were produced and set out as if by magic. The honest Dutchman's larder was evidently well stocked and his cellar was equally good, for in a trice curious bottles of spirits and tall flasks, full of wine, were brought forth.

Van Luhys sat at table with his guests, and when the claims of hunger had been somewhat appeased he plied them with questions. He would fain know all about the battle and siege of St. Quentin; what were the King's plans of campaign; where was the Duke of Guise's army; where was De Nevers; what great reward was to be given to their noble compatriot Count Egmont, and many other like things! And so an hour rapidly passed, so quickly indeed that a message from the Captain of the Santa Trinadad came to them almost as a surprise.

"The tide was falling, the gentlemen should come aboard as quickly as possible."

Geoffrey would have made his adieux, but the hospitable Van Luhys insisted on seeing his guests safely on board the ship; moreover, he wished to introduce them to his honourable friend Captain Don Gonzaga.

So the party rose from table and made their way through the docks, now become a scene of great activity. No town in Europe possessed a finer harbour than Antwerp, and its vast fortifications were maintained with zealous care: a garrison of five thousand Spaniards defended them.

A walk of a few minutes brought them to the water-side, where the war-ship floated at anchor. She was a noble vessel, carrying forty-five guns, though many of them were of small calibre. Her decks were crowded with sailors, among whom Geoffrey noted fifty men-at-arms, wearing glittering cuirasses and morions and armed with arquebuses and swords. Many sailors had gone aloft, awaiting the signal to unfurl the sails and fling out the royal standard of Spain.

As the party stepped on board, headed by the dock-master, Captain Gonzaga advanced to meet them. He was a young Castilian noble of purest blood and long descent, and his manners, though courteous, were tinged with a certain hauteur.

"To what happy circumstances am I to attribute the honour of the company of these gentlemen?" he said, with a ceremonious bow towards them.

"I have the 'King's mandate,' honourable Captain, to see that they are conveyed to Calais with no delay," said Herr Van der Luhys.

"I would fain see the 'mandate,'" replied Don Gonzaga.

The dock-master bridled up somewhat.

"It is addressed to me," he said, "but I have it with me and you are welcome to see it;" and therewith he handed the document to the punctilious Captain, who hastily perused it.

As he read the names of the three gentlemen therein set forth, he started as he saw that of Geoffrey de Fynes, and his manner of bearing underwent a sudden change.

"Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Geoffrey de Fynes?" he inquired.

Geoffrey bowed slightly in reply.

"Of Herstmonceux in the County of Sussex?" inquired the Captain.

"My father was Baron Dacres of Herstmonceux", said Geoffrey.

"I welcome you on board my ship," said Don Gonzaga warmly, as he held out his hand, which Geoffrey took courteously. "My father was the Spanish Ambassador at the Court of King Henry the Eighth," continued the Captain, "and your father, Baron Dacres, was his bosom friend; I venture to hope that a like bond may unite their sons! Now come to my cabin, gentlemen, for in a few minutes we start for Calais."

Then they bade farewell to the worthy Herr Van der Luhys and followed Gonzaga to his cabin. It was the "state room" of the ship, luxuriously furnished.

"Make this cabin your own, gentlemen, while you do me the honour of remaining on the Santa Trinadad," said the Captain. "And now I must hasten on deck," he continued; "we are just moving out," and with a bow he left them.

It was not long before the Englishmen ascended to the deck, eager to see the country through which they were passing. The sun was shining brightly on the broad, deep waters of the Scheldt as the noble ship slowly threaded its way out of the crowded port of Antwerp. Soon the majestic city faded out of sight, and on each side of the river a flat and somewhat desolate landscape extended itself.

There were broad meadows, reclaimed from the sea, on which great droves of oxen were pastured; there were innumerable wind-mills and quaint Dutch farm-houses. Occasionally a village came in sight with a metal-sheathed spire rising from its midst. Soon Flushing was reached, the pilot was dropped and the vessel was in the open sea, under full sail.

At mid-day dinner was served in the great mess-room, and Don Gonzaga introduced his guests to the officers of the ship.

Spain was the rival with England for the sovereignty of the sea, and, as a rule, there was little love lost between the sailors of the two nations. But now, taking their cue from their young Captain, the Spanish officers vied in showing hospitality to their English guests. As the banquet, for it really deserved the name, came to a close and the four young men were left alone, Gonzaga turned to Geoffrey, who sat on his right hand, and said—

"Shall I tell you how my father first met Lord Dacres? He often told the tale to me."

And on Geoffrey's eager acquiescence, he proceeded to say—

"It was in the spring of 1538, and my father was summoned to a banquet at the King's Palace at Greenwich. As he crossed Blackheath on foot, accompanied by a small band of servants, he was attacked by a strong body of highwaymen. A desperate fight ensued, and one by one all my fathers servants fell, and he alone was left, fighting desperately for his life with his back against a stone wall. The assassins knew him, and perhaps they were anxious to take him alive and so claim a great ransom. Or perhaps his skill with the rapier saved him, for he was thought to be the finest swordsman of Spain. His foes called on him to surrender, but they called in vain, though he was sorely wounded—a Gonzaga dies but never surrenders!

"A few minutes more and the tragedy would have been complete, for my father was growing faint with loss of blood. But the noise of the strife was heard afar, and suddenly help came. With a shout of 'Dacres to the rescue,' six stout Sussex men attacked the highwaymen in the rear, and they took to flight. Then your noble father, Lord Dacres, bound up Gonzaga's wounds, and his men bore him to Greenwich Palace. His wounds were not serious, and in a few weeks' time he had quite recovered from them. And that was the beginning of a firm friendship between our fathers, only too soon to end by the tragic event which all good men will ever deplore."

Geoffrey was deeply moved as he grasped Don Gonzaga's proffered hand and shook it warmly.

"I was but a babe," he said, "when my father perished at Tyburn, but I love his revered memory, and my one hope in life, above all others, is to see his honour vindicated!"

"May that day soon come!" said Gonzaga.

Then the four young men returned to the deck, and at the request of the Englishmen the Captain took them all over the war-ship, and afterwards put the crew and the men-at-arms through a smart drill, in which the wonderful efficiency of the men excited the Englishmen's admiration.

The voyage was drawing to an end. Ostend and Dunkirk had been passed, and as evening fell Calais came in sight.

At eight o'clock the ship dropped her anchor in front of the town, firing a salute in honour of the flag of St. George, which floated on the bastion. Then a boat was lowered, and, ere taking their departure, the Englishmen took an affectionate farewell of their new friend.

"We shall meet again," said Gonzaga.

"At Herstmonceux, I hope," replied Geoffrey, as they shook hands once more.

Half-an-hour later the young men were in Calais, and the Santa Trinadad pursued her journey to Spain, whither she was bound.