stripped the atrocious Emir of both beard and daughter. All this the industrious woman narrated in a low and pleasant voice, while the wide-eyed Regent attended and at the proper intervals gulped his cough-mixture.
You must know that about noon Master John Copeland came into the tent. 'We have conquered,' he said. 'Now, by the Face!'—thus, scoffingly, he used her husband's favorite oath—'now, by the Face! there was never a victory more complete! The Scottish army is as those sands which dried the letters King Ahasuerus gave the admirable Esther!'
'I rejoice,' the Queen said, looking up from her sewing, 'that we have conquered, though in nature I expected nothing else— Oh, horrible!' She sprang to her feet with a cry of anguish: and here in little you have the entire woman; the victory of her armament was to her a thing of course, since her cause was just, whereas the loss of two front teeth by John Copeland was a genuine calamity.
He drew her toward the tent-flap, which he opened. Without was a mounted knight, in full panoply, his arms bound behind him, surrounded by the Queen's five retainers. 'In the rout I took him,' said John Copeland; 'though, as my mouth witnesses, I did not find this David Bruce a tractable prisoner.'
'Is that, then, the King of Scots?' Philippa demanded, as she mixed salt and water for a mouth-wash; and presently: 'Sire Edward should be pleased, I think. Will he not love me a little now, John Copeland?'
John Copeland lifted either plump hand toward his lips. 'He could not choose,' John Copeland said; 'madame, he could no more choose but love you than I could choose.'
Philippa sighed. Afterward she bade John Copeland rinse his gums and then take his prisoner to Hastings. He told her the Marquess was dead, slain by the Knight of Liddesdale. 'That is a pity,' the Queen said; and more lately: 'There is left alive in England but one man to whom I dare entrust the keeping of the King of Scots. My barons are sold to him; if I retain Messire David by me, one or another lord will engineer his escape within the week, and Sire Edward will be vexed. Yet listen, John—' She unfolded her plan.
'I have long known,' he said, when she had done, 'that in all the world there was no lady more lovable. Twenty years I have loved you, my Queen, and yet it is but to-day I perceive that in all the world there is no lady more wise than you.'
Philippa touched his cheek, maternally. 'Foolish boy! You tell me the King of Scots has an arrow-wound in his nose? I think a bread poultice would be best.' ... So then John Copeland left the tent and presently rode away with his company.
Philippa saw that the Regent had his dinner, and afterward mounted her white palfrey and set out for the battle-field. There the Earl of Neville, as second in command, received her with great courtesy. God had shown to her Majesty's servants most singular favor despite the calculations of reasonable men—to which, she might remember, he had that morning taken the liberty to assent—some fifteen thousand Scots were slain. True, her gallant general was no longer extant, though this was scarcely astounding when one considered the fact that he had voluntarily entered the melee quite unarmed. A touch of age, perhaps; Hastings was always an eccentric man; and in any event, as epilogue, this Neville congratulated the Queen that—by blind luck, he was forced to concede— her worthy secretary had made a prisoner of the Scottish King. Doubtless, Master Copeland was an estimable scribe, and yet— Ah, yes, he quite followed her Majesty—beyond doubt, the wardage of a king was an honor not lightly to be conferred. Oh yes, he understood; her Majesty desired that the office should be given some person of rank. And pardie! her Majesty was in the right. Eh? said the Earl of Neville.
Intently gazing into the man's shallow eyes, Philippa assented. Master Copeland had acted unwarrantably in riding off with his captive. Let him be sought at once. She dictated a letter to Neville's secretary, which informed John Copeland that he had done what was not agreeable in purloining her prisoner without leave. Let him sans delay deliver the King to her good friend the Earl of Neville.
To Neville this was satisfactory, since he intended that once in his possession David Bruce should escape forthwith. The letter, I repeat, suited this smirking gentleman in its tiniest syllable, and the single difficulty was to convey it to John Copeland, for as to his whereabouts neither Neville nor any one else had the least notion.
This was immaterial, however, for they narrate that next day a letter signed with John Copeland's name was found pinned to the front of Neville's tent. I cite a passage therefrom: 'I will not give up my royal prisoner to a woman or a child, but only to my own lord, Sire Edward, for to him I have sworn allegiance, and not to any woman. Yet you may tell the Queen she may depend on my taking excellent care of King David. I have poulticed his nose, as she directed.'
Here was a nonplus, not perhaps without its comical side. Two great realms had met in battle, and the king of one of them had vanished like a soap-bubble. Philippa was in a rage—you could see that both by her demeanor and by the indignant letters she dictated; true, they could not be delivered, since they were all addressed to John Copeland. Meanwhile, Scotland was in despair, whereas the English barons were in a frenzy, because, however willing you may be, you cannot well betray your liege-lord to an unlocatable enemy. The circumstances were unique, and they remained unchanged for three feverish weeks.
We will now return to affairs in France, where on the day of the Nativity, as night gathered about Calais, John Copeland came unheralded to the quarters of King Edward, then besieging that city. Master Copeland entreated audience, and got it readily enough, since there was no man alive whom Sire Edward more cordially desired to lay his fingers upon.
A page brought Master Copeland to the King, a stupendous person, blond and incredibly big. With him were a careful Italian, that Almerigo di Pavia who afterward betrayed Sire Edward, and a lean soldier whom Master Copeland recognized as John Chandos. These three were drawing up an account of the recent victory at Cregi, to be forwarded to all mayors and sheriffs in England, with a cogent postscript as to the King's incidental and immediate need of money.
Now King Edward sat leaning far back in his chair, a hand on either hip, and his eyes narrowing as he regarded Master Copeland. Had the Brabanter flinched, the King would probably have hanged him within the next ten minutes; finding his gaze unwavering, the King was pleased. Here was a novelty; most people blinked quite genuinely under the scrutiny of those fierce big eyes, which were blue and cold and of an astounding lustre, gemlike as the March sea.
The King rose with a jerk and took John Copeland's hand. 'Ha!' he grunted, 'I welcome the squire who by his valor has captured the King of Scots. And now, my man, what have you done with Davie?'
John Copeland answered: 'Highness, you may find him at your convenience safely locked in Bamborough Castle. Meanwhile, I entreat you, sire, do not take it amiss if I did not surrender King David to the orders of my lady Queen, for I hold my lands of you, and not of her, and my oath is to you, and not to her, unless indeed by choice.'
'John,' the King sternly replied, 'the loyal service you have done us is considerable, whereas your excuse for kidnapping Davie is a farce. Hey, Almerigo, do you and Chandos avoid the chamber! I have something in private with this fellow.' When they had gone, the King sat down and composedly said, 'Now tell me the truth, John Copeland.'
'Sire,' he began, 'it is necessary you first understand I bear a letter from Madame Philippa—'
'Then read it,' said the King. 'Heart of God! have I an eternity to waste on you Brabanters!'
John Copeland read aloud, while the King trifled with a pen, half negligent, and in part attendant.
Read John Copeland:
'My DEAR LORD,—
