One other point remains, which has perplexed the historians and is of extreme interest in romance, and that has to do with the Black Prince's proverbial colour. Was it his armour, or the terror he caused, that made men call him "Black"? Froissart never uses the label at all; but there is evidence of his black armour, and romance dare not now change his coat.
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
In the fourteenth century, when the population of England was estimated at two millions – when our railways were bridle-roads and our cornfields forests, and when the capital was a little town enclosed by an old Roman fortified wall, with towers and turrets – no festival, save Christmas and May Day, was regarded with more interest than Midsummer Eve, or the vigil of St. John the Baptist.
Great was the commotion, much the ceremony, in London on such occasions; and as the shades of evening fell, young and old, high and low, rich and poor, participated in the excitement of the hour. The houses were decorated with branches of green birch, long fennel, St. John's rush, and orpine; and as night closed over the city the inhabitants illuminated their dwellings with clusters of lamps, and made the streets resound with merriment and song.
At the same time, the ceremony of "setting the watch" – a body of armed guards, instituted in the reign of the third Henry to keep the peace, and prevent robberies and outrages – was performed with much show and splendour. On this ceremony, indeed, large sums of money were expended, and the watchmen, arrayed "in bright harness," marched in procession, accompanied by the Lord Mayor and aldermen, the city officers, a crowd of minstrels, giants, and morris-dancers; while blazing cressets and huge torches, borne on men's shoulders, threw a flood of light over the scene, and raised the wonder of the thronging populace.
Meanwhile, a large fire was kindled in the street, and stirred to a blaze, which was intended to typify the patron saint of the day. Around this fire lads and lasses danced and disported themselves merrily to the sound of music. Many and gay were the capers they cut as the flames rose and fell. Sometimes they leaped over the fire amid many shouts, and at others they looked through garlands at the flame, believing that, by so doing, they freed themselves from various pains and diseases, present and prospective.
Not till midnight – sometimes not till dawn – did the dancing cease; and as soon as day broke, while the dew was still on the grass and flowers, the young women went forth to practise certain rites, by which they believed they could assure themselves of the constancy or inconstancy of their wooers. Collecting garlands of flowers, the nymphs bound them on their heads, and according as the dew remained a longer or shorter time on the flowers, they augured more or less favourably of the fidelity of their lovers. Moreover, they secured a snow-white wether, decorated it with garlands, and, enclosing it in a hut of heath, danced and sang around. She who wished to test her fortune stood by the door, and if the wether remained quiet she considered the omen good; but if he pushed his horns through the door of the hut, she concluded that her suitor was to prove false.
Such was the great medieval festival that was being celebrated at the time when our chronicle opens, when Edward III. was King of England, and on the point of undertaking the war with France, which resulted in mighty victories won and splendid conquests achieved against great odds; and when the hero of this story entered upon the remarkable adventures which associated his name with that of the young conqueror of Cressy and Poictiers – Edward, Prince of Wales, popularly known as "the Black Prince."
CHAPTER II
THE FALCON IN GRACECHURCH
It was Midsummer Eve in the year 1344, and the citizens of London were celebrating the festival of St. John the Baptist, when I, then a stripling of fifteen, with a tall figure and a dreamy eye, like that of one indulging much in internal visions, mounted on a little black horse of great speed and high mettle, trotted by the side of my aged grandsire, a tall and still vigorous man, into the capital of England, and alighted at the hostelry known as the Falcon, situated in Gracechurch, and kept by Thomelin of Winchester.
I had journeyed with my grandsire from his homestead at Greenmead, on the border of Windsor Forest, and my eyes were, for the first time, gladdened with a sight of London. Hitherto I had been reared in obscurity; and, except on the occasion of a rare visit to the little town of Windsor, I had seen nothing of life. I was well aware of the disadvantages of my position; for, though brought up in obscurity, my ambition was ardent; and, while seeing little of life, I was constantly regaling my imagination with stirring scenes, in all of which I enacted a conspicuous part.
My excitement on entering a city I had often longed to behold was naturally high; and, as we rode along, I was much impressed with the novelty of the scene. London and the Londoners were that evening in holiday attire, and everything wore a gay aspect. The houses were lighted up; the streets were crowded with the populace; and an unwonted degree of jollity appeared to brighten every face. Even the beggar and the outcast began to think their condition tolerable, as they watched the kindling of the great fire which was to typify the saint of the day, who has been described as "a burning and shining light."
It is not wonderful, indeed, all things considered, that such should have been the case at the period of which I write. During the long and prosperous reign of the first Edward, Englishmen, while enjoying the blessings of freedom and order vigilantly guarded by law, had learned to speak their minds without fear, and with little hesitation; and, albeit nearly forty years had elapsed since the great king had been laid at rest in Westminster Abbey, they had not yet unlearned the lesson that an Englishman's words should be as free as his thoughts. Nor, so far, was public order in any danger from the utmost freedom of speech; for the House of Plantagenet was still so popular, that, had the reigning sovereign deliberately gone among his subjects in disguise, to learn what they thought of him, he would probably have heard nothing more offensive to his ear than complaints as to the rapacity of the royal purveyors. The day which I have lived to see was not yet come when a crazy priest, like John Ball, could rouse a populace to frenzy, or when a rude demagogue, like Wat Tyler, could lead on a rabble to plunder and bloodshed.
"Adam of Greenmead," said the Thomelin of Winchester, as he rose to welcome my grandsire and myself; "old kinsman, I am right glad to see thee and thy grandson too. Body o' me, Arthur, it seems but yesterday when you were cock-bird height, and now you have grown as tall and handsome a lad as the girls would wish to set eyes on."
"And how farest thou, Thomelin?" asked my grandsire, as he seated himself near the host, and I took a place by his side.
"Passing well, kinsman – passing well, the saints be thanked; and it makes me all the better, methinks, since I see thee so hale and hearty."
"For that matter," said my grandsire, with an expression of discontent in his face, "I am hale as a man who has seen threescore and ten years can expect to be, and hearty as a man can hope to be in the days in which we live."
"You are not pleased with the times we live in, kinsman," remarked Thomelin.
"In truth, they are not much to my liking," said my grandsire. "As we rode along, my mind went back to the time when King Edward hammered the stubborn Scots at Falkirk, and to the day when he entered London, and the Londoners kept holiday in honour of his victory."
"Grand times, doubtless," said Thomelin.
"Ay, you may well say so," exclaimed my grandsire, with a tear in his eye. "England was then prosperous and contented. But now King Edward has been thirty-seven years in his tomb, and the world has well-nigh gone to ruin."
"No, no, Adam," protested Thomelin. "Matters are not so bad as you fancy. The world