After some time a truce was concluded between Sir Charles of Blois and the Countess of Mountfort, their aiders and assisters; and the countess, on the invitation of Edward III., took ship for England, accompanied by the Earls of Richmond, Pembroke, Salisbury, Suffolk, Oxford, the barons Stamford, Spenser, Bourchier, and divers other knights of England, and their companies. When they were off Guernsey they were approached by Sir Loyes of Spain and his fleet. At first the countess supposed it was with a friendly purpose, for Sir Loyes, as the ally of Sir Charles of Blois, was virtually bound by the treaty: but she was soon assured of his unchivalric purpose. The mariners cried to the knights, “Sirs, arm yourselves quickly, for these Genoese and Spaniards will soon attack you.” All in a moment the Englishmen sounded their trumpets, and reared their standards with the great banner of St. George, and marshalled themselves on the decks of the ships, the archers, as on land, being in front.
“Looking far forth into the ocean wide,
A goodly ship with banners bravely dight,
And flag in her top-gallant I espied,
Through the main sea making her merry flight;
Fair blew the wind into her bosom right,
And the heavens look’d lovely all the while,
That she did seem to dance as in delight,
And at her own felicity did smile.”[268]
A.D. 1345.
And in this gallant trim the English fleet bore down upon the superior force of their ungenerous foe. The arrows of the one side, and the cross-bows of the other, did murderous execution; and when the lords, knights, and squires came together, the battle was so dreadful that it furnished matter of song to the minstrels of England and France for years afterwards. The countess that day was worth the bravest knight; she had the heart of a lion, and, with a sharp glaive in her hand, she fought fiercely. They contended till it became so dark that one could scarcely know another. The fleets then separated, the men remaining in their harness, intending to renew the battle next morning. But at midnight a tempest arose so horrible that every one thought the end of the world was approaching; and those very cavaliers who, a few hours before, had gallantly courted death, would now have abandoned their chivalry and their cause, if a safe landing could have been effected.[269] The battle was not renewed the next day; the English fleet sailed to Brittany; the troops landed near Vannes, which they immediately besieged, the countess being always foremost in the press. Soon afterwards Edward III. went to France, in the contest for whose throne the affairs of Brittany were lost, and the noble Countess of Mountfort disappeared from the scene[270], while her husband escaped from prison only to die of a fever at Hennebon.[271]
And of Marzia.
A few years after this beautiful display of the chivalric character of woman in France, the gloom of war in Italy was illuminated by a noble trait of female heroism. Marzia, a lady of the family of the Ubaldini, so celebrated for its virtue and noble gestes, was the wife of Francesco d’Ordelaffi, lord of Forli, the only prince in Romagna who maintained his independence against the tyranny of the papal power. Knowing her firmness and spirit, he entrusted the defence of the town of Cesena to his wife, while he himself maintained the more important position of Forli. In the beginning of the year 1357, Marzia tore herself from her husband, and, throwing aside the gorgeous robe of peaceful power, donned the casque and the cuirass. She stationed herself in Cesena with two hundred soldiers, equipped like knights, and the same number of ordinary troops. She was accompanied also by her son and daughter, and that sage counsellor of the Ordelaffi family, Sgariglino de Pétragudula. An army ten times more numerous than all the defenders of Cesena soon beleaguered the place. At the end of April some of the terrified burgesses opened the gates of the lower part of the town to the enemy; but in that moment of peril Marzia remembered that her husband had declared that, unless the pope would treat with him on honourable terms, he would sustain a siege in every one of his castles, and when he had lost them he would defend the walls of Forli, and then its streets, its squares, his palace, and the last tower of his palace, rather than give his consent to surrender that which was his own. Marzia retreated into the upper part of the town with such of the soldiers and citizens who continued faithful to her. She now discovered that Sgariglino had been a traitor. Justice then had her due, and the head of him whom no feelings of honour or gallantry could preserve in the path of virtue was rolled from the battlements among the besieging army. Marzia relied entirely on her own wisdom and courage; she took on herself all the duties of governor and captain, and, wearing her cuirass both by night and day, she braved all those hardships which, in former moments of happiness and ease, she would have thought herself incapable of supporting. But the besiegers smiled with indifference at her courage, for their miners were slowly and surely effecting her ruin. She was compelled to retreat to the citadel with four hundred soldiers and citizens, who vowed to be faithful to death. The miners persevered, and at length the citadel almost hung in air. The father of Marzia at that moment reached Cesena, and his passage had been facilitated by the legate. He entreated his heroic daughter to surrender, as bravery had accomplished its utmost, and still the besiegers were gradually prevailing. Her reply was simple and firm,—that her husband had given her a duty to perform, and that she must obey, without forming any opinion on the nature of his command. Her heroism was not supported by the people, for they unanimously declared the folly of further resistance. Compelled, then, to surrender, she herself opened the negociations; and so skilfully did she act, so much dreaded was the despair to which she might be tempted, that she obtained from the legate a treaty, whereby it was agreed that all the soldiers who had bravely supported her might return home with their arms and equipments. On the 21st of June she opened the gate of the citadel: she disdained to ask any favour for herself; and the legate, untouched by any chivalric sympathy for female heroism, cast her and her children into prison.[272]
Chivalric titles of ladies.
The honorary titles of ladies in days of chivalry favoured this martial spirit in women. The wife of a knight was often called equitissa or militissa, or chevaliére. In France, too, ladies, as ruling over fiefs, having the right of war, judicature, and coining money, could confer the honour of knighthood. But in general the feudal law opposed the chivalry of women, for a woman alone could not hold a fief, it not being supposed that she could head her vassals or accompany her liege lord into the field. The instances, therefore, that are scattered over the middle ages of the brave gestes of women sprang from the spirit of chivalry and not from any other principle of society. They were always praised, and joyfully remembered; and when the direction of war was entirely usurped by men, the world reverted with a melancholy pleasure to the chivalry of womankind.
“Where is the antique glory now become,
That whilome wont in women to appeare?
Where be the brave atchievements done by some?
Where be the battles, where the shield and spear,
And all the conquests which them high did rear,
That matter made for famous poets verse,
And boastful men so oft abasht to hear?
Be they all dead, and laid in doleful hearse?
Or do they all sleep, and shall again reverse?”[273]
Though ‘meek-eyed women’ were ‘without fear,’ yet this martial disposition was never displayed at the sacrifice of the sex’s milder qualities. The same lady who placed a lance in rest was in her castle gentle and courteous, dispensing hospitality, tending the sick, or reading romance in hall and bower. Her heart was as tender as her’s who was rocked in pleasure’s wanton lap. Spenser’s picture of his martial maid, Britomart, in love, represents the whole class of chivalric heroines: