Chapter XIV: Book V: The Battle of Pavia (3)

“Here is my sword,” he said, delivering the bloodstained weapon to the Viceroy. “I yield myself prisoner to the Emperor your master. I might have saved myself by flight, but I would have died rather than quit the field dishonourably.”

“Your majesty has held out to the latest moment,” rejoined Lannoy. “Scarce one of your soldiers but has thrown down his arms. Doubt not that you will be worthily treated by the Emperor.”

Lannoy then kissed the hand graciously extended towards him, and drawing his own sword presented it to the king.

“I will take the weapon, though I cannot use it,” said François.

“Your wounds must be tended without delay, sire,” said the Viceroy. “You shall be transported at once to Pavia, where skilful chirurgeons can be obtained.”

“No, not to Pavia,” said François, uneasily. “The inhabitants of that miserable city hate me, and with good reason, for I have shown them scant pity. Let me be taken to the Certosa, where my wounds can be dressed by the monks. They have good chirurgeons among them.”

“Your majesty's wishes shall be obeyed,” said Lannoy.

A litter was then made with crossed halberds, covered by a cloak, on which the wounded king was placed, and in this manner he was borne on the shoulders of the lanz-knechts towards the Certosa.

On the way thither, many frightful scenes met his gaze. De Leyva and a squadron of cavalry, infuriated against the French, were careering over the battle-field, putting to death all who had survived the fight. Hundreds were thus massacred in this way--hundreds of others, flying for their lives, plunged into the Ticino, and being unable to swim across the rapid stream, were drowned. The shouts of the victors and the cries of the vanquished rang in the monarch's ear, and filled his breast with anguish.

At one time the progress of the bearers was arrested by a pile of slain, and the soldiers were obliged to turn aside to avoid the obstruction. François remarked that the heap of bodies was caused by the destruction of the Black Bands, and he involuntarily exclaimed, “Ah! if all my soldiers had fought like those brave men, the day would not have gone against me.”

Other interruptions of a like nature occurred. Dead and dying were strewed so thickly on the ground that it was impossible to avoid them. It was utterly impossible, also, to shut the ears to the dismal sounds that smote them.

Presently the king was taken past a spot where the dead lay thickest, and here it was evident, from the rich accoutrements of the slain, that the flower of his young nobility had fallen while fighting so valiantly in his defence. The spoilers were already at work stripping them of their valuables. It was a sad sight to François, and lacerated his heart so severely, that he wished he were lying amongst them.

As he averted his gaze from this painful spectacle, his eye alighted upon a knight accoutred in black armour, who had just ridden up. As this warrior had his visor down, François could not distinguish his features.

“Halt!” exclaimed the knight, authoritatively. And the soldiers immediately obeyed.

The knight then raised his beaver, and disclosed the dark lineaments of Bourbon, now flushed with triumph.

“Ha! by Saint Denis! I felt that a traitor was nigh!” exclaimed the wounded king, raising himself, and gazing fiercely at the other. “Are you come to insult me?”

“No, sire,” replied Bourbon. “I have no such design. This is not the moment, when we have changed positions, that I would exult in your defeat. Were it possible, I would soothe the bitterness of your feelings.”

“You would soothe them by telling me I have lost my kingdom,” cried François, fiercely. “You would soothe them by reminding me that I am a captive. You would soothe them by pointing out all those valiant nobles and captains who have died for me. You would soothe them by telling me how many you yourself have slain. Whose blood dyes your sword?”

“The blood of one who has brought all these misfortunes upon you, sire,” rejoined Bourbon.

“You would have me understand that Bonnivet has died by your hand? ha!” demanded François.

“Even so, sire,” rejoined Bourbon. “His guilty soul has just gone to its account. In avenging my own wrongs upon his head, I have avenged you.”

“He has much to answer for,” exclaimed the king. “But Heaven forgive him, even as I forgive him.”

“I will not trouble you with my presence further, sire,” said Bourbon. “I have only intruded upon you now to give you the assurance that we shall never forget what is due to your exalted rank, and that our victory will be used with moderation and generosity.”

“What generosity can I expect from the Emperor, or from you?” cried François, bitterly. “Answer me one question ere you go. How many men have you lost in the battle?”

“Our total losses, as far as we can estimate them, are under seven hundred men, sire,” replied Bourbon.

“And mine! how many have I lost?” demanded the king. “Fear not to speak,” he added, seeing Bourbon hesitate; “I would know the exact truth.”

“Sire,” replied Bourbon, in a sombre tone, “it is impossible to compute your losses at this moment, but I shall not overstate them in saying that eight thousand of your soldiers have fallen upon this plain. Twenty of your proudest nobles are lying within a few paces of us.”

Groaning as if his heart would burst, François sank backwards.

Bourbon signed to the soldiers to proceed with their burden, and then rode off with his Burgundian lances.

François did not again unclose his eyes, and scarcely, indeed, manifested any signs of consciousness, until he was taken into the court of the Certosa.

When he was there set down, the prior with the principal monks came forth to meet him, and would have conveyed him to the interior of the convent, but François refused to have his wounds dressed till he had prayed to Heaven, and desired the prior to conduct him at once to the church.

His injunctions were complied with, and the prior gave him his arm, for he could not walk without assistance. On entering the magnificent fabric, he was taken to the nearest chapel, and ere he knelt down his eye fell upon this inscription on the wall:

_BONUM MIHI QUIA HUMILIA STI ME, UT DISCAM JUSTIFICATIONES TUAS._

The unfortunate king could not fail to apply these Words to his own situation. Profoundly touched, he humbled himself before Heaven, acknowledging his manifold and great offences, and imploring forgiveness.

His devotions ended, he was taken to the principal chamber of the monastery, where his wounds were carefully dressed.

For three days he remained at the Certosa, the monastery being strictly guarded by the Spanish soldiery, and during his detention there he was visited by the Viceroy of Naples, the Marquis del Vasto, and Pescara, who had only partially recovered from the wounds he had received in the battle.

The king was then removed to the fortress of Pizzighettone, under the charge of the vigilant Captain Alarcon, with a guard of two hundred cavalry and twelve hundred fantassins, there to be kept a close prisoner till the Emperor's pleasure concerning him could be ascertained.

Before his departure from the Certosa, François announced his defeat to his mother in these memorable words:

“Madame, tout est perdu, fors l'honneur.”

END OF THE FIFTH BOOK.