# The Legend of the Prince's Plume

Historical and legendary ballads and songs. Previously published in All the Year Round, Series 2, Volume 1, May 22, 1869.
The Legend of the Prince's Plume.
A Story of the Battle of Crecy, From Froissart's Chronicles.
I.
White clung the sparkling frost to the long dry weeds in the hedges, The bramble's crimsoning leaf spread crusted and curded with silver; White nets of sparkling thread, the cobwebs hung on the bushes, Where spiders, frozen and dead, were swaying like felons in fetters; Heavy and frozen, the folds hung from the slumbering banners, Muffled, and solemn, and low, came the sound of the sentinels' voices. The old blind king on the hill stood, and the hum of the nations Rose, and, filling the air, gladdened the heart of the monarch; Armed, and wearing a crown, his long hair flowing and snowy, Mixed with his beard as it fell on the steel and gold of his armour; His thin hands leant on a sword that had shone in many a battle, Sceptre and prop of a realm guarded from Mahomet's children; His helm was crested with plumes, spoils of the birds of the desert, A triple white feather and crest glittered high over his visor; At his feet knelt, praying, his son, armed and prepared for the saddle; His charger, pawing the ground, neighed by the open pavilion, Ardent as hound for the chase, eager to leap on the lances. The king spake never a word, but lifted his eyes unto Heaven, And his tears fell trickling fast, as he muttered a prayer and a blessing; But the son, impatient and hot, vaulted at once on his charger, And cried to the banners, "Advance, in the name of the Prince of Bohemia!" Then, with a flourish of horns, and a burst of chivalrous music, The knights swept eagerly on, and bore down the slope of the valley, With ruffle of pennon and flag, and a tossing of threatening lances, As the blind King fell to the ground, and prayed with passionate weeping, Blessing both banner and crest, in the name of St. James the Apostle, The patron saint of his son, the saint of the land of Bohemia.
II.
Then the Bishop of Avignon came, and knelt at the feet of the champion, Prayed him to tarry awhile, and not to lead yet to the battle. "Strike at the English, the knaves!" cried the proud prince, smiling in anger; "This day," said the heir to the throne, "we must win honour or perish." Taking the nag in his hand, he swore to lead on with the foremost;— Close, and deadly, and thick shot the threatening ranks of the archers, Drawing together their shafts, equal in skill and in courage. As the prince rode leisurely on, deep through the flood of the battle. Stripes of crimson and white adorned their numberless trappings: "These are womanly things!" cried the brave young prince of Bohemia; "Away with this gilding and fur, this tinsel unstained by the battle— These chains and jewels and gold, mere marks for the shafts of an archer; Kings in the days of romance wore rude steel forged with the hammer, Close-fitting hauberk of chain, defying the Mussulman sabres; My father's is beaten and bruised, and split with Carpathian arrows, Crimson with blood from the heart of Paynims, slain in the melée; The badge I wear on my shield, was won in the fray with the heathen; These plumes of an Arab fierce torn from the brow of an infidel Soldan, To-day shall glimmer afar o'er the tempest and roar of the onset. Leave women ermines and fur, soft mantles satin and silken; Give me a clothing of steel, and adamant dug from the mountain,
Steel that may laugh at the swords and splinter the lances of iron, Deriding even the stones from the catapults groaning and shrieking." Then the prince he mounted his steed and rode down the hill to the battle: You have read of the knights of romance—Perceforest, Tristram, and Arthur, The giant whose mantle was trimmed with the beards of the kings he had vanquished— Launcelot, knight of the lake, and Percival, slayer of dragons; Yet these, though noble and rich, were clad like labouring peasants Compared to the barons and earls who encircled the Prince of Bohemia.— Gabriel, Count of Bayonne, cried, "To-day is the saddest of any, Knights of Cyprus and Crete, if we beat not these English in battle."
Many the valorous deed as the axes shivered the lances, As helms flashed sparkles of fire like the anvil under the hammer; Flights of arrows and bolts flew thick as the swallows in autumn, 'Gainst the puissant monarch's array, 'gainst the horses blazoned and barded. All the cross-bowmen of France led on the chosen battalion, Close as the hairs of a brush were the numberless heads of the lances, And through them, like roar of the beasts heard by night in a tropical forest, Came cries of "St. Dennis for France," "St. Dennis for France and the Lilies;" As the sun, breaking out of a cloud, shone on the swords and the armour, While the trumpets were sounding, and rang with a merry and chivalrous cadence, As they blew, came flying a dove, and perched on the staff of a banner; Then they knew they were favoured of God, and clamoured, and all moved together. "Advance!" loud shouted the prince, "and bear down these ravening robbers." Chandos, and Talbot, and Scrope, guarding the clusters of archers; The Duke of Athens is down, swept off by the hurrying eddies, And under an oak in a lane, lies stretched Sir Reginald D'Artois. Then, making the sign of the cross, and raising his eyes unto Heaven, "Now is the season for death," cried the prince, and spurred to the rescue; "Neville and Darcy and Scrope are hemming us in with their horses; Strike, for the glory of God, strike, for the flag of St. Dennis! Make us a way through the press, or die in the gap we have cloven; Such is the usage of knights to dig out a grave with their axes; Now, by St. Anthony's head, to the death of a knight or to conquest." Then the prince leaped again on his steed, and hurled in the thick of the battle.
III.
But a traitor and villanous spy ran to the King of Bohemia, Tears in his treacherous eyes, and knelt at the feet of the monarch. "What tidings, Sir Knight, of my son? I fear he is slain in the melée?" "Alas!" said the traitor, "he's fled by the highway leading to Paris, Leaving his barons and flag to the care of his squires and his yeomen." "Nay, then," the monarch replied, "it is fit I should fall in this battle, Not caring an hour to survive this shame and this stain on my honour." As he spoke rolled down on his beard hot tears of anger and sorrow. "I will carry my banner to death through ranks of the insolent foemen; Ah! as God is my help, I will never return from the battle, By him, who weeping for us, died on the tree like a felon, Let us break the van of these slaves. Advance, Sir Knight, with my banner. Ye all are my vassals and friends," cried the king, as he smothered his sorrow; "Ye will not refuse the request of an old man weary and broken; I fain would strike with my sword, if only one blow in this contest, 'Tis better to fall in the field than to die with one's head on the pillow. Tie my steed's bridle to yours, and lead me first with my banner." Then two of the stalwartest knights tied their three bridles together, And slow, and silent, and sad they rode down the hill to the valley.
IV.
"My son, any tidings of him?" said the king, as an archer came running, And fell at the feet of his prince, wounded and feathered with arrows. "How goes the battle below where is my son and his horsemen?"— "Ha! by St. Ives and St. Giles, and the crown of our Lady in Heaven, Schwartzhof and Hoffmann are dead, and half the stout troopers of Binzlau." "And my son?" "By the road that turns hard by the neighbouring valley, I saw him lopping his lance four feet from the wood of the handle, Doffing the spurs from his heels, and standing at bay 'mong the hunters; His eyes half hid by the plumes that covered his brow and his forehead; He had stripped his trappings and gems, his helm was dinted and cloven, His sword was clotted and dark, and dark was his visor and armour, His red beard tangled and long fell on his breast and shoulders, His right hand, wielding an axe, was cleaving a road through the archers; Mowing a path to the tents he trampled the dead and the dying.— Seeing my armour and badge he waved me a proud salutation;— Through flights of arrows and stones, mid the terrible roar of the engine, Through thrustings of lances and blades, and sweepings of two-handed falchions, Through cleavings of gorgets and shields and clouds of gathering banners, Through shriekings, groanings, and cries, and curses, and moanings to Heaven, I came to render thee aid, loving thee chiefest of any." "Go," said the monarch, and sighed. "Thou hast home and a child to inherit. My son is no traitor, thank God, but died in the heart of the onslaught; I am now childless and old, and life is to me but a burden, Go tell the monarch of France how the chief of Bohemia perished." Then slow and silent and sad the old blind king and his courtiers Bound all their bridles together and rode down into the battle.
V.
Deep under mountains of dead, gashed, and smitten, and trampled,
The heralds searching the field, counting the banners and scutcheons,
Found the corpse of the son pierced with arrows and lances;
Above him the old man lay, the old blind King of Bohemia,
One arm round the neck of the youth and one on a gash in his forehead.
The Black Prince pausing to watch the heralds seeking the banners,
Bent, and plucking the crest, the three white plumes of the ostrich,
Placed them, spotted with blood, in the battered peak of his helmet.