Heroines That Every Child Should Know Part 14

By order of the tribunal, this new verdict was read publicly in all the cities of France, and first at Rouen, and in the Old Market Place, where she had been cruelly burnt. This was done with great solemnity; processions were made, sermons were preached, and on the site of her martyrdom a stone cross was soon raised to her memory.

The world has no relic of Joan. Her armour, her banner, the picture of herself that she saw at Arras, have all disappeared. We possess but the record of a fair face framed in plentiful dark hair, of a strong and graceful shape, of a sweet woman's voice. And it seems--and yet, indeed, hardly is--a wonder that no worthy poem has been made in her honour. She is one of the few for whom poet and romancer can do little; for as there is nothing in her life that needs either to be hidden or adorned, we see her best in the clear and searching light of history.

VI

CATHERINE DOUGLAS

THE TRAGEDY OF JAMES I. OF SCOTS. 20TH FEBRUARY, 1437

NOTE.--Tradition says that Catherine Douglas, in honour of her heroic act when she barred the door with her arm against the murderers of James the First of Scots, received popularly the name of "Barla.s.s." The name remains to her descendants, the Barlas family, in Scotland, who bear for their crest a broken arm. She married Alexander Lovell of Bolunnie.

A few stanzas from King James's lovely poem, known as _The King's Quhair_, are quoted in the course of this ballad.

I Catherine am a Douglas born, A name to all Scots dear; And Kate Barla.s.s they've called me now Through many a waning year.

This old arm's withered now. 'T was once Most deft 'mong maidens all To rein the steed, to wing the shaft, To smite the palm-play ball.

In hall adown the close-linked dance It has shone most white and fair; It has been the rest for a true lord's head, And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed, And the bar to a King's chambere.

Ay, la.s.ses, draw round Kate Barla.s.s, And hark with bated breath How good King James, King Robert's son, Was foully done to death.

Through all the days of his gallant youth The princely James was pent, By his friends at first and then by his foes, In long imprisonment.

For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir, By treason's murderous brood Was slain; and the father quaked for the child With the royal mortal blood.

I' the Ba.s.s Rock fort, by his father's care, Was his childhood's life a.s.sured; And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke, Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke His youth for long years immured.

Yet in all things meet for a kingly man Himself did he approve; And the nightingale through his prison-wall Taught him both lore and love.

For once, when the bird's song drew him close To the opened window-pane, In her bowers beneath a lady stood, A light of life to his sorrowful mood, Like a lily amid the rain.

And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note, He framed a sweeter Song, More sweet than ever a poet's heart Gave yet to the English tongue.

She was a lady of royal blood; And when, past sorrow and teen He stood where still through his crownless years His Scotish realm had been, At Scone were the happy lovers crowned, A heart-wed King and Queen.

But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, And song be turned to moan, And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate, When the tempest-waves of a troubled State Are beating against a throne.

Yet well they loved; and the G.o.d of Love, Whom well the King had sung, Might find on the earth no truer hearts His lowliest swains among.

From the days when first she rode abroad With Scotish maids in her train, I Catherine Douglas won the trust Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane.

And oft she sighed, "To be born a King!"

And oft along the way When she saw the homely lovers pa.s.s She has said, "Alack the day!"

Years waned, the loving and toiling years: Till England's wrong renewed Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown, To the open field of feud.

'T was when the King and his host were met At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold, The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp With a tale of dread to be told.

And she showed him a secret letter writ That spoke of treasonous strife, And how a band of his n.o.blest lords Were sworn to take his life.

"And it may be here or it may be there, In the camp or the court," she said: "But for my sake come to your people's arms And guard your royal head."

Quoth he, "'Tis the fifteenth day of the siege, And the castle's nigh to yield."

"O face your foes on your throne," she cried, "And show the power you wield; And under your Scotish people's love You shall sit as under your s.h.i.+eld."

At the fair Queen's side I stood that day When he bade them raise the siege, And back to his Court he sped to know How the lords would meet their Liege.

But when he summoned his Parliament, The lowering brows hung round, Like clouds that circle the mountain-head Ere the first low thunders sound.

For he had tamed the n.o.bles' l.u.s.t And curbed their power and pride, And reached out an arm to right the poor Through Scotland far and wide; And marry a lordly wrong-doer By the headsman's axe had died.

'T was then upspoke Sir Robert Graeme, The bold o'ermastering man: "O King, in the name of your Three Estates I set you under their ban!

"For, as your lords made oath to you Of service and fealty, Even in like wise you pledged your oath Their faithful sire to be:

"Yet all we here that are n.o.bly sprung Have mourned dear kith and kin Since first for the Scotish Barons' curse Did your b.l.o.o.d.y rule begin."

With that he laid his hands on his King: "Is this not so, my lords?"

But of all who had sworn to league with him Not one spake back to his words.

Quoth the King: "Thou speak'st but for one Estate, Nor doth it avow thy gage.

Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence!"

The Graeme fired dark with rage: "Who works for lesser men than himself, He earns but a witless wage!"

But soon from the dungeon where he lay He won by privy plots, And forth he fled with a price on his head To the country of the Wild Scots.

And word there came from Sir Robert Graeme To the King at Edinbro': "No Liege of mine thou art; but I see From this day forth alone in thee G.o.d's creature, my mortal foe.

"Through thee are my wife and children lost, My heritage and lands; And when my G.o.d shall show me a way, Thyself my mortal foe will I slay With these my proper hands."

Against the coming of Christmastide That year the King bade call I' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth A solemn festival.

And we of his household rode with him In a close-ranked company; But not till the sun had sunk from his throne Did we reach the Scotish Sea.

That eve was clenched for a boding storm, 'Neath a toilsome moon, half seen; The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high; And where there was a line of the sky, Wild wings loomed dark between.

And on a rock of the black beach-side By the veiled moon dimly lit, There was something seemed to heave with life As the King drew nigh to it.

And was it only the tossing furze Or brake of the waste sea-wold?

Or was it an eagle bent to the blast?

When near we came, we knew it at last For a woman tattered and old.

But it seemed as though by a fire within Her writhen limbs were wrung; And as soon as the King was close to her, She stood up gaunt and strong.