Surrounded by the noblest of her kin and those of the highest rank among her party, Jacqueline never gave a thought to her own safety.
From right to left she flew, encouraging here, supporting there, bringing up laggards to harass a weak spot among the enemy’s forces, by the sheer might of her presence striking awe among the foe.
At last one more stolid or more cruel than the rest rode straight at her, his lance thrust at her breast. The good mail shirt she wore and her trusty shield turned aside the blow, but so sharp was the shock that she fell from her horse. Now indeed came in that training in horsemanship on which her father had ever insisted, and in which she had been practised since her earliest years. Still clinging to the bridle, she managed to keep from falling, and with the aid of her faithful pages who kept ever at her saddle, she managed to regain her seat.
“Now, by all I hold dear,” cried she, “no mercy shall be shown the enemies of Holland and my house.”
From that moment with voice and example she inspired her weary men, till with the fall of dusk on that December day they routed those that were still left alive, and sent them flying over the waste country back to Dordrecht.
Many of the enemies of Jacqueline and her house fell during this battle, the most noted, and the most vindictive as well, being that William of Arkell to whom her father desired to wed her in the interests of peace, but who stubbornly refused our little Princess and always remained one of her most bitter foes.
Her uncle, “John the Pitiless,” escaped and returned to Dordrecht with the remnant of his forces. Nor was this the only effort he made to capture her lands, but for years he pursued her relentlessly, and did not hesitate at any means to gain his end.
Involved in endless wars and intrigues both with enemies within her own land as well as those abroad, the battle at Grocum was the only time when Jacqueline, Daughter of Holland, led her troops in person, and no amount of persuasion could induce her to assume command again.
The night of the victory at Grocum, the little army encamped within the city which they had wrested from the Burgundian party, and the celebration of this happy event was accompanied with feasting and much joy. A thousand healths were drunk to Jacqueline, Countess and Commander, and there were toasts to future victories, and the rosiest anticipations of success, the victors imagining that because of one triumph their enemies would be vanquished.
When the Daughter of Holland laid herself down to sleep that night, her mother, with a happy face, bent to kiss her good night.