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.