The Black Prince slept his last sleep in a stately tomb beneath the shadow of Canterbury Cathedral. His terrible father, Edward III., had followed him to the grave, leaving all his mighty schemes of conquest to come to nought. Sir John Chandos had died in battle, as he had always hoped to do; and many another great captain was missing from the ranks of English chivalry. Meanwhile Archbishop William de Wykeham, best and kindliest of scholars and Churchmen, was leaving a more enduring monument than all their blood-won honours, by planting at Winchester the germ of one of England’s noblest schools.
The English crown had passed to the weak and worthless Richard II., in whose early years the whole land was shaken by the terrible convulsion of “Wat Tyler’s Rising.” Of this despairing effort of the downtrodden people to obtain the right to be treated as human beings, the greatest historian of the age coolly wrote: “There happened in England great commotion among the lower ranks of the people, by which England was near ruined without resource, and all through the too great comfort of the commonalty”! What that “too great comfort” was any man who can bear to read “The Vision of Piers Plowman” (written by one who had himself seen all the horrors he described) may judge for himself.
Meanwhile Du Guesclin had found his right place at last. The poor Breton knight who had been the scoff of his own kindred now held the sword of “Constable” (commander-in-chief) of all the armies of France, and was the chosen friend and adviser of a king worthy of him, Charles the Wise.
But only the faint echoes of these great events reached Alured and Hugo de Claremont in their quiet Hampshire home, where they were busied with the welfare of their vassals instead of seeking renown for themselves. Every day the brothers held open court in their hall, and any of their tenants who had a complaint to make, however slight, was sure of a patient hearing and a just award, in the true spirit of the grand old text carved over the door by which the suppliants entered—
“He shall deliver the needy when he crieth, the poor also, and him that hath no helper.”
In fact, the bitter suffering they had themselves endured had taught the two brave men to feel for others, and all their vassals had learned to look up to them, not with awe, but with trustful affection. Was there a family in distress, their eyes turned at once to the castle. Did two neighbours have a dispute which they could not settle, their first thought was to appeal to the decision of their lords. Did strife arise between two hot-headed lads, Alured or Hugo was sure to hear of it, and to blow it away with some hearty jest that set both quarrellers laughing at their own folly. Was a school to be founded, a church built, a poverty-stricken hamlet relieved, a house of refuge established for worn-out labourers or disabled soldiers, who so forward as the “good lords of Claremont”?
So year after year glided by, and the slim youths were now two stately men of middle age.
It was the morning of Christmas Day, 1379, and the lords of Claremont, having attended prayers as usual in the quiet old village church (the chancel of which held the sculptured tombs of their father and his ancestors), were feasting in their castle-hall on boar’s head, venison pasty, roast goose, and other dainties of the season, a goodly portion of which had been sent to every house in the village.
The mirth was at its height, when a trumpet-blast rang from the outer gate, and a serving-man came to report that a knight of Brittany craved lodging for himself and his train, whose name was Sir Olivier de Clisson.
“De Clisson!” echoed Hugo. “Hearest thou, Alured? He was our comrade in many a fray ere he turned to the French party on some displeasure done him by old John of Chandos.”