u have a horde of half-naked savages, a
shrewd master holding them in leash till the moment be auspicious; on
the other, a housewife at the head of a tiny force lieutenanted by
perjurers, by men already purchased. God knows what dreams she had of
miraculous victories, while her barons trafficked in secret with the
Bruce. It is recorded that, on the Saturday before Michaelmas, when
the opposing armies marshalled in the Bishop's Park, at Auckland, not
a captain on either side believed the day to be pregnant with battle.
There would be a decent counterfeit of resistance; afterward the
little English army would vanish pell-mell, and the Bruce would be
master of the island. The farce was prearranged, the actors therein
were letter-perfect.

That morning at daybreak John Copeland came to the Queen's tent, and
informed her quite explicitly how matters stood. He had been drinking
overnight with Adam Frere and the Earl of Gage, and after the third
bottle had found them candid. "Madame and Queen, we are betrayed. The
Marquess of Hastings, our commander, is inexplicably smitten with a
fever. He will not fight to-day. Not one of your lords will fight
to-day." Master Copeland laid bare such part of the scheme as
yesterday's conviviality had made familiar. "Therefore I counsel
retreat. Let the King be summoned out of France."

Queen Philippa shook her head, as she cut up squares of toast and
dipped them in milk for the Regent's breakfast. "Sire Edward would be
vexed. He has always wanted to conquer France. I shall visit the
Marquess as soon as Lionel is fed,--do you know, John Copeland, I am
anxious about Lionel; he is irritable and coughed five times during
the night,--and then I will attend to this affair."

She found the Marquess in bed, groaning, the coverlet pulled up to his
chin. "Pardon, Highness," said Lord Hastings, "but I am an ill man. I
cannot rise from this couch."

"I do not question the gravity of your disorder," the Queen retorted,
"since it is well known that the same illness brought about the death
of Iscariot. Nevertheless, I bid you get up and lead our troops
against the Scot."

Now the hand of the Marquess veiled his countenance. "I am an ill
man," he muttered, doggedly. "I cannot rise from this couch."

There was a silence.

"My lord," the Queen presently began, "without is an army
prepared--yes, and quite able--to defend our England. The one
requirement of this army is a leader. Afford them that, my lo