The Constable De Bourbon

By this time it had become light, and as François galloped forward with the brilliant cortege we have described into the park, he could see the fugitives from the Castle of Mirabello, pursued by the cavalry of Del Vasto. He could also distinguish Pescara’s battalion pouring in through the breach.

“Call forth my men-at-arms, and let the Seneschal d’Armagnac fire upon the insolent foe,” he cried.

Scarcely was the order issued, when D’Armagnac, who had already posted his artillery on a rising ground in the park, opened a terrible fire upon the Spaniards who were passing through the breach, and not only caused great destruction among them, but threw them into such disorder, that they fled for shelter to a hollow where they were safe from the murderous fire.

“Ha! by Saint Denis, they are routed already!” exclaimed the king, laughing. “Charge them!” he added to the Duke d’Alençon, who, on receiving the order, immediately put himself at the head of two companies of horse, and rode towards the hollow, whither the fugitives had retreated.

Meantime, D’Armagnac had kept up such an incessant and well-directed fire, that the entrance of Pescara’s battalion through the breach was effectually checked.

Thus the plan of the Spanish general seemed to be foiled, and if the king had contented himself with crushing the troops of Del Vasto, who were now lodged in the Castle of Mirabello, while the breach was rendered impracticable by the artillery, he might have gained the day. But his valorous and impetuous disposition caused him to reject the counsels of prudence. He burned to mingle with the fight.

“By Saint Louis!” he cried to Bonnivet, who was sheathed from head to foot in glittering mail, and bestrode a powerful charger, “I cannot look tamely on and allow the cannon to do the work for me. I must give battle to the foe. I must punish Bourbon’s presumption.”

“The enemy is half beaten already, sire,” rejoined Bonnivet. “Pescara’s plan has utterly failed. Your majesty has only to strike the blow to complete the victory.”

“I will do it!” exclaimed the chivalrous king. “I should be unworthy of victory if I neglected to ensure it. Bid the army advance. I will give battle to the enemy outside the park.”

“Be advised by me, sire, and remain where you are,” said the Marshal de Chabannes. “Victory is certain. Leave nothing to hazard.”

“By Heaven! I will not remain here another instant! – Montjoye! Saint Denis! – en avant, messeigneurs! – en avant!”

The trumpets sounded loudly, and the king, attended by all his train of knights, nobles, and esquires, moved with the main body of the army towards the breach.

When he perceived this unlucky movement, D’Armagnac, much to his grief, was compelled to cease firing, and the Spaniards, now freed from the murderous discharges he had poured upon them, rallied and prepared to return to the plain.

It was a glorious sight as François, with all his host, passed through the breach and confronted the Imperialists, who were drawn out in battle array on the plain. All his foes were before him. Bourbon was there with his lanz-knechts, reiters, and Burgundian lances – Pescara with his Spaniards and Basques – Castrioto with his light horse – Lannoy with his Neapolitan cavalry.

Bourbon watched the brilliant host as it deployed upon the plain, and as he followed the movements of the king, whose lofty stature and magnificent armour revealed him to all eyes, he thought that the hour of vengeance had come. On either side there was confident anticipation of victory. François made sure of overthrowing his enemies, and punishing the audacious rebel who had invaded his kingdom, while Bourbon felt equally certain of vengeance.

No sooner had the king so imprudently quitted the park with his host, than Del Vasto abandoned the Castle of Mirabello, of which he had taken possession, and, hurrying after them with his three thousand Spanish fantassins, attacked the French rear.

At the same time De Leyva issued from the gates of Pavia with the whole of the garrison and engaged with Chabot de Brion, who had been left to oppose him with a very inferior force.

When drawn up for battle, the French army formed a very extended line, the right wing being commanded by the Marshal de Chabannes, and the left by the Duke d’Alençon. Between the right wing and the main body, with whom was the king, were the Black Bands, commanded by the Duke of Suffolk. On the left was a corps of ten thousand Swiss, commanded by Diesbach.

The Imperial army likewise formed a long line, but was divided into a great number of squadrons all ready to act together, or separately, as circumstances might dictate.

No sooner was his line formed than the fiery French king, who was all impatience for action, bade the trumpets sound, and called to his gendarmes to charge.

Couching his long lance, and closely attended by Bonnivet and all his young nobles and esquires, François hurled himself against Castrioto, who, with his squadron of light horse drawn up in a close square, awaited his attack. The shock was terrific and irresistible. Down went horse and man before the French chivalry, and Castrioto was transfixed by the king’s own lance.

Their leader gone, the horsemen could not rally, but were quickly dispersed, while the victorious king, without pausing, turned his arms against Lannoy and his Neapolitans, almost as speedily routing them as he had done the horse of Castrioto.

“Your majesty seems to have decided the battle with a blow,” remarked Bonnivet, as they stopped to breathe their horses, while the men-at-arms pursued the fugitives.

“At last, I am Duke of Milan,” said François, laughing, and fully persuaded he had gained the victory.

But he was speedily undeceived. Pescara had chosen this moment, when the squadrons of Castrioto and Lannoy were routed, to bring up his Basque arquebussiers. Advancing rapidly within a short distance of the French gendarmes, these unerring marksmen fired with deadly effect, retreating before their opponents, encumbered by their heavy armour, could touch them.

These attacks were renewed till most serious damage was done to the king’s squadron, and many of his brave captains shot, for the aim of the Basques was taken at the leaders.

It was in this terrible conflict with the Basques that the valiant Seigneur de la Trémouille, who had been recalled by the king from Milan, was shot through the head and heart. Galeazzo de San Severino, chief equerry of the king, was slain at the same time. Louis d’Ars was dismounted and trampled to death amid the press, and the Comte de Tonnerre was so hacked to pieces that he could scarcely be recognised. Many other nobles and valiant knights were slain.

Meanwhile, Del Vasto, who had brought his three thousand fantassins into action, profiting by the disorder into which the gendarmes had been thrown, attacked the battalion of Swiss commanded by Jean Diesbach, with whom were the Marshals Montmorency and Fleuranges. But the Swiss did not maintain their former character for bravery on this occasion, and, in spite of the efforts of Montmorency and Fleuranges, both of whom were taken prisoners, they fled, while Diesbach, unable to restrain them, and overcome by shame, sought death amid the enemy.

An important movement was now made by Bourbon. Ordering Von Frundsberg and Sittich to lengthen their battalion, he enveloped the Black Bands under the Duke of Suffolk, and completely exterminated them. Both Suffolk and the Comte de Vaudemont were now slain.

Bourbon next directed his victorious lanz-knechts against the right wing of the French, which had become detached from the main body of the army and enveloped it, as he had done the Black Bands.

In this conflict the brave Clermont d’Amboise was slain, and the veteran Marshal de Chabannes, while rallying his men, had his horse killed under him, and was taken prisoner by a Spanish captain named Castaldo. Chabannes, who was wounded, declared his name and rank to his captor, and desired to be taken to a place of safety. Castaldo agreed, and was removing him from the conflict, when they encountered another Spanish soldier, named Buzarto.

“Hold!” exclaimed the new comer, fiercely. “I claim a share in the prize.”

“Pass on,” rejoined Castaldo. “The prisoner is mine by right of war. I have taken him.”

“You refuse to share him with me?” demanded Buzarto, in a threatening tone.

“I do,” rejoined the other, sternly. “And I counsel you not to meddle with me.”

“And you expect a large ransom – eh?” said Buzarto. “A princely ransom,” rejoined Castaldo, glancing at his prisoner. “I have to do with a marshal of France.”

“A marshal of France!” exclaimed Buzarto, furiously. “Then he shall belong to neither of us.”

And levelling his arquebuss at the noble veteran, who had fought in a hundred battles, he shot him dead – an infamous act, which doomed its perpetrator to general execration.

Meanwhile, the king had thrown himself into the thickest of the fight. His lance having long since been broken, he had drawn his trenchant sword, and, like a paladin of old, dealt blows right and left, and did not refuse a hand-to-hand combat when offered him.

Already, as we have shown, he had slain Castrioto, and now several others fell by his hand. Among them was a knight from the Franche Comté, named Andelot, with whom François had a long conflict.

While drawing breath after this encounter, he heard shouts on the right, and, turning at the sound, beheld the flying bands of the Swiss mercenaries.

“Great Heavens!” he exclaimed, in mingled amazement and indignation, “what means that rush of men?”

“The Swiss are retreating, sire – shamefully retreating – almost without a blow,” rejoined Bonnivet, who was near him.

“Ha, dastards! ha, traitors! do they desert me thus!” cried the king, furiously. “Come with me, Bonnivet.”

And spurring his steed, he dashed after the flying Swiss, striving to rally them, but his efforts were in vain.

At the same juncture, the Duke d’Alençon, alarmed by the destruction of the Black Bands, the rout of the right wing, and the disorder of the main body, sounded a retreat, and withdrew ingloriously from the field.

Vainly did La Roche du Maine, his lieutenant, and the Baron de Trans, try to turn him from his fatal resolution. Finding him immovable, they threw themselves into the main body, towards which the efforts of the enemy were now directed.

Once more the lion-hearted king made a tremendous charge against the Spanish cavalry, led on by Pescara. For a moment it seemed as if this charge would turn the tide of victory, so great was the havoc it occasioned. Pescara himself was wounded by a sword-cut in the cheek, stricken from his steed, and trampled under foot by the enemy. With difficulty he was rescued by his men, and dragged out of the way. Lannoy again brought on his Neapolitans, and was repulsed with heavy loss.

The battle now raged furiously, and the din of arms Was as if a thousand smiths were at work, mingled with the rattle of arquebusses, the shrieks of wounded horses, and the shouts, curses, and groans of the combatants. Terrible was the carnage. On all sides could be seen the bravest and noblest of the French chivalry flocking towards the king’s standard, resolved to win the day or perish with him, for his actions showed that he would never retire.

But the decisive moment had come. Pescara was down, and severely wounded as we have seen, and his squadron shattered by the last charge of the king. Lannoy, who had advanced to sustain him, was likewise repulsed. For a brief space the heroic king persuaded himself that he could retrieve his losses, but his exultation was speedily quelled. He saw a dense dark mass gathering in front that threatened to overwhelm him.

Bourbon was there with his lanz-knechts, his German reiters, and his Burgundian lances. At his right and left wing were Von Frundsberg and Sittich. Fierce and terrible was the joy that lighted up the duke’s haughty features at that moment. He saw the king, who had so deeply wronged him. He saw him surrounded with his peerless knights and nobles. Chaumont was there, the Marshal de Foix, Lambese, Lavedan, the Grand Master of France, and a hundred other noble knights. There also was the hated Bonnivet. He could crush them all.

After gazing at them as the eagle gazes ere swooping upon its prey, Bourbon gave word to charge. The trumpets sounded, and the Burgundian lances and German reiters dashed on, shouting loudly, “Vive Bourbon!”

Clearing the ground between them and the foe, they burst like a thunder-cloud upon the French men-at-arms and knights. Tremendous was the splintering of lances – loud the rattle of musketry – sharp the clash of swords. But the squadron gathered round the king was broken in six places, and could not rally. In the terrific mêlée that ensued, half the gallant knights whom Bourbon had seen were slain. Chaumont was transfixed in the charge – Lavedan cut down – the Grand Master buried beneath a heap of dead.

Vainly the king and those near him essayed to rally the men. They were panic-stricken, and could not be got together again.

If the strife was not yet over, the victory was won, and the decisive blow had been given by Bourbon.

XI. HOW BONNIVET WAS SLAIN BY BOURBON

The lanz-knechts and Burgundians were now wholly occupied in making prisoners and slaughtering the foe. Heaps of slain lay thick on all sides, the plain was deluged in blood, and the knights rode over the dead and dying.

It was at this terrible crisis that the king’s eye, ranging over the field, caught Bonnivet, who instantly rode up to him.

“What orders, sire?” he demanded.

“Hence!” cried François. “Quit my sight for ever. This is your work.”

“Sire,” rejoined Bonnivet, “if I have done wrong it has been unwittingly. Let me die by your side.”

“No, I will not have you near me,” cried François. “Away, false traitor, away!”

“Sire, by Heaven I am no traitor!” rejoined Bonnivet. “But I will not long survive your displeasure.”

And, without a word more, he dashed into the thick of the enemy.

He had not been gone more than a minute, when the Marshal de Foix rode up, his left arm shattered, his armour sullied, and his steed covered with gore. From his ghastly looks it was evident he was mortally wounded, but he had still strength enough to sit his horse.

“Where is Bonnivet, sire?” he demanded. “I thought I saw him with you.”

“He is gone,” rejoined the king. “What would you with him?”

“Slay him – slay him with this sword dyed in the blood of our enemies,” rejoined De Foix. “It is he who has brought this dire calamity on France. But for him this disastrous battle would not have been fought. If I can slay him, I shall die content. Where is he, sire? Show him to me.”

“Ride from the battle while you can, and seek a surgeon – ‘twere best,” said the king.

“No, I will first slay Bonnivet,” rejoined De Foix.

“Then seek him yonder,” said the king, pointing to the thickest part of the strife.

And while De Foix rode off, he himself renewed the combat. Scarcely knowing whither he was going, De Foix was quickly surrounded by several Burgundian lances, when he found himself confronted by a knight in black armour.

“Yield you, De Foix?” said this knight. And, raising his visor, he disclosed the features of Bourbon.

“I yield,” replied the other. “But you had better let your men finish me. There is not an hour’s life in me.”

“Nay, I trust you are not so badly hurt as that,” said Bourbon. “Let him be taken at once to Pavia and carefully tended. Captain Castaldo, I give him in your charge.”

“Bourbon,” said De Foix, “I will forgive you all the wrong you have done to France, if you will slay Bonnivet.”

“‘Tis he I seek,” rejoined Bourbon. “Is he with the king?”

“No,” replied De Foix. “He has gone in that direction,” pointing to another part of the field.

“Then I will find him, if he be not slain,” said Bourbon. “Heaven grant he may be reserved for my hand!”

And, renewing his orders to Castaldo, he rode off.

Casting his eyes round the field of battle, and glancing at the numerous groups of combatants, he discerned a French noble engaged in a conflict with three or four lanz-knechts. From the richness of his armour he knew it to be Bonnivet, and spurred towards him. Before he came up the Admiral had slain one of his assailants, and put the others to flight, and was about to ride off. When Bourbon called out to him, he immediately wheeled round.

“At last I have found you,” cried the duke, with a fierce laugh. “You cannot escape me now.”

“What! is it Bourbon?” cried Bonnivet, glancing at him.

“Ay,” replied the other. “Your mortal enemy. Back on your lives!” he added to the Burgundian lances. “I must settle this matter alone. You see that the victory is won,” he added to Bonnivet, “and you know what that means. François has lost the Milanese, and will lose his kingdom.”

“France will never be yours, vile traitor and rebel,” cried Bonnivet, in an access of rage. “You shall never boast of your triumph over the king. I will avenge him!”

And animated with the deadliest fury of hate, he attacked Bourbon.

The conflict was terrible, but brief. By a tremendous downward blow Bourbon struck his adversary’s weapon from his grasp, and then, seizing his arm thrust the point of his sword into his throat above the gorget.

Bonnivet fell to the ground at the feet of the victor. As Bourbon gazed at his noble lineaments, now disfigured and sullied with gore, a slight sentiment of compassion touched his breast.

“Alas! unhappy man,” he exclaimed. “Your destiny was fatal – fatal to France and to me.”

And he rode back towards the scene of strife and slaughter.

XII. HOW THE KING SURRENDERED TO THE VICEROY OF NAPLES

All the king’s bravest nobles were now gone – slain or made prisoners. Already have we particularised the slain. Among the captives were the valiant Montmorency, Saint Pol, De Lorges, Laval, Ambricourt, Fleuranges, and many other illustrious personages. François alone confronted the enemy. He was wounded in three places, and his armour was hacked with many blows and stained with blood. But his prodigious strength seemed undiminished – nay, the very rage by which he was excited lent force to his arm. His blows were delivered with such fury and rapidity that his assailants seemed to fall around him on all sides.

After sustaining this conflict for some time, finding his foes pressing around him he cut his way through them, and pushed his steed towards a bridge over the little river Vernacula. But ere he could reach it a shot from an arquebuss pierced the brain of his charger, and the noble animal, who had borne him so well, and who, like his master, was wounded in several places, fell to the ground.

The king’s assailants now made certain of capturing him alive. They were led on by a Spanish captain, Diego Avila, and Giovanni d’Urbieta, an Italian, neither of whom, however, recognised François, owing to a gash in his face, but they knew from the richness of his armour that he was a personage of the highest rank, and hoped to obtain a large ransom. Thus they now shouted loudly to him to yield, but he replied by striking at them with his sword, and as soon as he could liberate himself from his charger he renewed the attack, killing and slaying several more of his foes, among whom were Avila and Urbieta.

But almost superhuman as was his force, it was impossible that he could long sustain himself against such tremendous odds. His enemies were closing around him, heavy blows were ringing against his armour, when Pomperant, who was riding near, caught sight of his towering figure amid the throng, and seeing the peril in which he stood, forced his way through the band of soldiers, shouting in a loud voice, “Hold! on your lives! It is the king!”

“The king!” exclaimed the soldiers, falling back at the announcement.

Most opportune was the rescue. In another minute François, who disdained to save his life by proclaiming himself, would have been laid low.

Taking advantage of the pause, Pomperant flung himself from his steed, and prostrating himself before the king, who, with his reeking sword in hand, fiercely confronted his assailants.

“Sire,” cried Pomperant, in the most earnest tones he could command, “I conjure you not to struggle against fate. The battle is utterly lost, and all your valour can only end in your own destruction.”

“I do not desire to survive this fatal day,” rejoined the king, fiercely. “I will not yield. If you would boast that you have slain the King of France, draw your sword and attack me.”

“No, sire. I will never lift my arm against your person,” said Pomperant, respectfully. “But since you have done all that valour can achieve – since you have fought as monarch of France never fought before – since further resistance is in vain, let me implore you to yield to my master, the Duke de Bourbon.”

“Yield to Bourbon! Yield to that rebel and traitor! – never!” exclaimed the king, furiously. “Wert thou not kneeling before me, villain, I would strike thee dead for daring to make the proposition to me. If I surrender to any one, it shall be to the Marquis of Pescara. He is a valiant captain, and loyal to his sovereign.”

“Pescara is wounded, sire, and unable to protect you,” rejoined Pomperant. “But the Viceroy of Naples is at hand.”

“Let him come to me, then,” said François.

Some soldiers were instantly despatched on this errand by Pomperant, who remained standing near the king to protect him. Though smarting from his wounds, François refused all assistance; but feeling faint from loss of blood, he sat down upon the breathless body of his charger, and took off his helmet.

“Fill this with water for me,” he said, giving the casque to a soldier. “I am sore athirst.”

The man hurried to the river, filled the helmet, and brought it to him. François drank eagerly, and breaking off an ornament, bestowed it upon the soldier.

At this moment Lannoy rode up, and, dismounting, knelt before the king, who had risen at his approach, and now assumed a dignified and majestic demeanour. When he spoke, his accents were firm, but full of sadness.

“Here is my sword,” he said, delivering the bloodstained weapon to the Viceroy. “I yield myself prisoner to the Emperor your master. I might have saved myself by flight, but I would have died rather than quit the field dishonourably.”

“Your majesty has held out to the latest moment,” rejoined Lannoy. “Scarce one of your soldiers but has thrown down his arms. Doubt not that you will be worthily treated by the Emperor.”

Lannoy then kissed the hand graciously extended towards him, and drawing his own sword presented it to the king.

“I will take the weapon, though I cannot use it,” said François.

“Your wounds must be tended without delay, sire,” said the Viceroy. “You shall be transported at once to Pavia, where skilful chirurgeons can be obtained.”

“No, not to Pavia,” said François, uneasily. “The inhabitants of that miserable city hate me, and with good reason, for I have shown them scant pity. Let me be taken to the Certosa, where my wounds can be dressed by the monks. They have good chirurgeons among them.”

“Your majesty’s wishes shall be obeyed,” said Lannoy.

A litter was then made with crossed halberds, covered by a cloak, on which the wounded king was placed, and in this manner he was borne on the shoulders of the lanz-knechts towards the Certosa.

On the way thither, many frightful scenes met his gaze. De Leyva and a squadron of cavalry, infuriated against the French, were careering over the battle-field, putting to death all who had survived the fight. Hundreds were thus massacred in this way – hundreds of others, flying for their lives, plunged into the Ticino, and being unable to swim across the rapid stream, were drowned. The shouts of the victors and the cries of the vanquished rang in the monarch’s ear, and filled his breast with anguish.

At one time the progress of the bearers was arrested by a pile of slain, and the soldiers were obliged to turn aside to avoid the obstruction. François remarked that the heap of bodies was caused by the destruction of the Black Bands, and he involuntarily exclaimed, “Ah! if all my soldiers had fought like those brave men, the day would not have gone against me.”

Other interruptions of a like nature occurred. Dead and dying were strewed so thickly on the ground that it was impossible to avoid them. It was utterly impossible, also, to shut the ears to the dismal sounds that smote them.