Episodes In The Life Of A Traitor

At the early hour of one o'clock in the morning of September 8, 1523, a

train of men-at-arms and servants, headed by a tall, stern-faced,

soldierly-looking man, rode from the gates of the strong castle of

Chantelle, and headed southward in the direction of Spain. The leader

was dressed in armor, and carried sword by side and battle-axe at his

saddle-bow. Of his followers, some fifteen of them were attired in a

peculiar manner, wearing thick jackets of woollen cloth that seemed as

stiff as iron mail, and jingled metallically as they rode. Mail they

were, capable of turning arrow or spear thrust, but mail of gold, not of

iron, for in those jackets were sewed up thirty thousand crowns of gold,

and their wearers served as the ambulatory treasury of the proud soldier

at their head.



This man was no less a personage than Charles, Duke of Bourbon,

Constable of France, the highest personage in the kingdom next to the

monarch himself, but now in flight from that monarch, and from the

soldiers who were marching to environ Chantelle and carry him as a

prisoner to the king. There had been bad blood between Bourbon and

Francis I., pride and haughtiness on the one side, injustice and

indecision on the other; wrong to the subject, defiance to the king;

and now the "short-tempered" noble and great soldier had made a

moonlight flitting, bent on cutting loose from his allegiance to France,

and on lending the aid of his sword and military skill to her hereditary

foes.



For a month Bourbon and his followers wandered around the provinces of

southern France. Incessantly he changed his road, his costume, his

companions, his resting-place, occasionally falling in with soldiers of

the king who were on their way to take part in the wars in Italy,

seeking in vain for adherents to his cause, and feeling his way by

correspondence to an understanding with the enemies of France. In early

October he entered the domains of the emperor, Charles V., and

definitely cut loose from his allegiance to the king.



The news of this defection filled Francis with alarm. He had, by his

injustice, driven his greatest soldier from the realm, and now sought to

undo the perilous work he had done. He put off his journey to join the

army marching to Italy, and sent a messenger to the redoubtable

fugitive, offering restitution of his property, satisfaction in full of

his claims, and security for good treatment and punctual payment.

Bourbon curtly refused.



"It is too late," he said.



"Then," said the envoy, "I am bidden by the king to ask you to deliver

up the sword of constable and the collar of the order of St. Michael."



"You may tell the king," answered Bourbon, shortly, "that he took from

me the sword of constable on the day that he took from me the command

of the advanced guard to give it to M. d'Alencon. As for the collar of

his order, you will find it at Chantelle under the pillow of my bed."



Francis made further efforts to win back the powerful noble whom he had

so deeply offended, but equally in vain. Bourbon had definitely cut

loose from his native land and was bent on joining hands with its mortal

foes. Francis had offended him too deeply to be so readily forgiven as

he hoped.



It is not the story of the life of this notable traitor that we propose

to tell, but simply to depict some picturesque scenes in his career.

Charles V. gladly welcomed him, and made him his lieutenant-general in

Italy, so that he became leader against the French in their invasion of

that land. We next find him during the siege of Milan by the army of

Francis I., one of whose leaders was Chevalier Bayard, "the good

knight," who was the subject of our last story. The siege was destined

to prove a fatal affair for this noble warrior. The French found

themselves so hard pressed by the imperial army under the Constable de

Bourbon that they fell back to await reinforcements. Near Romagnano, on

the banks of the Sesia, they were thrown into disorder while seeking to

pass the stream, and Bonnivet, their leader, was severely wounded. The

Count de St. Pol and Chevalier Bayard took command. Bayard, always first

in advance and last in retreat, charged the enemy at the head of a body

of men-at-arms. It proved for him a fatal charge. A shot from an

arquebuse gave him a mortal wound.



"Jesus, my God," he cried, "I am dead!"



He took his sword by the handle, kissed its cross-hilt as an act of

devotion, and repeated the Miserere,--"Have pity on me, O God,

according to Thy great mercy!"



In a moment more he grew deathly pale and grasped the pommel of the

saddle to keep him from falling, remaining thus until one of his

followers helped him to dismount, and placed him at the foot of a tree.



The French were repulsed, leaving the wounded knight within the lines of

the enemy. Word of Bayard's plight was quickly brought to Bourbon, who

came up with a face filled with sympathetic feeling.



"Bayard, my good friend, I am sore distressed at your mishap," he said.

"There is nothing for it but patience. Give not way to melancholy. I

will send in quest of the best surgeons in this country, and, by God's

help, you will soon be healed."



Bayard looked up at him with dying eyes, full of pity and reproach.



"My lord, I thank you," he said, "but pity is not for me, who die like a

true man, serving my king; pity is for you, who bear arms against your

prince, your country, and your oath."



Bourbon made no answer. He turned and withdrew, doubtless stung to the

soul by the reproachful words of the noblest and honestest man of that

age. His own conscience must have added a double sting to Bayard's

words. Such is the bitterest reward of treason; it dares not look

integrity in the face.



Bayard lived for two or three hours afterwards, surrounded by his

friends, who would not leave him, though he bade them do so to escape

falling into the enemy's hands. They had nothing to fear. Both armies

mourned the loss of the good knight, with equal grief. Five days after

his death, on May 5, 1524, Beaurain wrote to Charles V.,--



"Sir, albeit Sir Bayard was your enemy's servant, yet was it pity of his

death, for he was a gentle knight, well beloved of every one, and one

that lived as good a life as ever any man of his condition. And, in

truth, he fully showed it by his end, for it was the most beautiful that

I ever heard tell of."



So passed away a man who lived fully up to the principles of chivalry,

and whose honesty, modesty, sympathy, and valor have given him undying

fame. His name survives as an example of what chivalry might have been

had man been as Christian in nature as in name, but of what it rarely

was, except in theory.



The next picture we shall draw belongs to the date of February 24, 1525.

Francis I. had for months been besieging Pavia. Bourbon came to its

relief. A battle followed, which at first seemed to favor the French,

but which Bourbon's skill soon turned in favor of the Imperialists.

Seeing his ranks breaking on all sides, Francis, inspired by fury and

despair, desperately charged the enemy with such knights and men-at-arms

as he could get to follow him. The conflict was fierce and fatal. Around

the king fell his ablest warriors,--Marshal de Foix, Francis of

Lorraine, Bussy d'Amboise, La Tremoille, and many others. At sight of

this terrible slaughter, Admiral Bonnivet, under the king the leader of

the French host, exclaimed, in accents of despair, "I can never survive

this fearful havoc." Raising the visor of his helmet, he rushed

desperately forward where a tempest of balls was sweeping the field, and

in a moment fell beside his slain comrades.



Francis fought on amid the heaps of dead and dying, his soul filled with

the battle rage, his heart burning with fury and desperation. He was

wounded in face, arms, and legs, yet still his heavy sword swept right

and left, still men fell before his vigorous blows. His horse, mortally

wounded, sank under him, dragging him down. In an instant he was up

again, laying about him shrewdly. Two Spaniards who pressed him closely

fell before the sweep of that great blade. Alone among his foes he

fought on, a crowd of hostile soldiers around him. Who he was they knew

not, but his size, strength, and courage, the golden lilies which

studded his coat of mail, the plume of costly feathers which waved from

his helmet, told them that this must be one of the greatest men in the

French array.



Despite the strength and intrepid valor of the king, his danger was

increasing minute by minute, when the Lord of Pomperant, one of

Bourbon's intimate friends, pressed up through the mass and recognized

the warrior who stood like a wounded lion at bay amid a pack of wolves.



"Back! back!" he cried, springing forward, and beating off the soldiers

with his sword. "Leave this man to me."



Pressing to the king's side, he still beat back his foes, saying to

him,--



"Yield, my liege! You stand alone. If you fight longer, I cannot answer

for your life. Look! there is no hope for you. The Duke of Bourbon is

not far off. Let me send for him to receive your sword."



The visor of the king hid the look with which he must have received

these words. But from the helmet's iron depths came in hollow tones the

reply of Francis of France to this appeal.



"No," he cried, sternly, "rather would I die the death than pledge my

faith to Bourbon the traitor! Where is the Viceroy of Naples?"



Lannoy, the viceroy, was in a distant part of the field. Some time was

lost in finding and bringing him to the spot. At length he arrived, and

fell upon one knee before Francis, who presented him his sword. Lannoy

took it with a show of the profoundest respect, and immediately gave him

another in its place. The battle was over, and the king of France was a

prisoner in the hands of his rebellious subject, the Duke of Bourbon.

The wheel of fate had strangely turned.



The captive king had shown himself a poor general, but an heroic

soldier. His victors viewed him with admiration for his prowess. When he

sat at table, after having his wounds, which were slight, dressed,

Bourbon approached him respectfully and handed him a dinner napkin.

Francis took it, but with the most distant and curt politeness. The next

day an interview took place between Bourbon and the king, in reference

to the position of the latter as captive. In this Francis displayed the

same frigidity of manner as before, while he was all cordiality with

Pescara, Bourbon's fellow in command. The two leaders claimed Francis as

their own captive, but Lannoy, to whom he had surrendered, had him

embarked for Naples, and instead of taking him there, sent him directly

to Spain, where he was delivered up to Charles V. Thus ended this

episode in the life of the Constable de Bourbon.



We have still another, and the closing, scene to present in the life of

this great soldier and traitor. It is of no less interest than those

that have gone before. Historically it is of far deeper interest, for it

was attended with a destruction of inestimable material that has rarely

been excelled. The world is the poorer that Bourbon lived.



In Spain he had been treated with consideration by the emperor, but with

disdain by many of the lords, who despised him as a traitor. Charles V.

asked the Marquis de Villena to give quarters in his palace to the duke.



"I can refuse the emperor nothing," he replied; "but as soon as the

traitor is out of my house I shall set it on fire with my own hand. No

man of honor could live in it again."



Despite this feeling, the military record of Bourbon could not be set

aside. He was the greatest general of his time, and, recognizing this,

Charles again placed him in command of his armies in Italy. On going

there, Bourbon found that there was nothing that could be called an

army. Everything was in disorder and the imperial cause almost at an

end. In this state of affairs, Bourbon became filled with hopes of great

conquests and high fame for himself. Filled with the spirit of

adventure, and finding the Spanish army devoted to him, he added to it

some fifteen thousand of German lanzknechts, most of them Lutherans.



Addressing this greedy horde of soldiers of fortune, he told them that

he was now but a poor gentleman, like themselves, and promised that if

they would follow him he would make them rich or die in the attempt.

Finishing his remarks, which were greeted with enthusiastic cheers, he

distributed among them all his money and jewels, keeping little more

than his clothes and armor for himself.



"We will follow you everywhere, to the devil himself!" shouted the wild

horde of adventurers. "No more of Julius Caesar, Hannibal, and Scipio!

Hurrah for the fame of Bourbon!"



Putting himself at the head of this tumultuous array, the duke led them

southward through Italy, halting before Bologna, Florence, and other

towns, with a half-formed purpose to besiege them, but in the end

pushing on without an assault until, on the 5th of May, 1527, his horde

of land pirates came in sight of Rome itself.



The imperial city, after being sacked by the Goths, Vandals, and other

barbarians, had remained without serious damage for a thousand years,

but now another army was encamped under its walls, and one equally bent

on havoc and ruin with those of the past.



"Now is the time to show courage, manliness, and the strength of your

bodies," said Bourbon to his followers. "If in this bout you are

victorious, you will be rich lords and well off for the rest of your

lives. Yonder is the city whereof, in times past, a wise astrologer

prophesied concerning me, telling me that I should die there; but I

swear to you that I care but little for dying there if, when I die, my

corpse be left with endless glory and renown throughout the world."



He then bade them to retire for the night, ordering them to be ready

betimes in the morning for the assault, which would take place at an

early hour on that day. Hardly, indeed, had the stars faded before the

sunrise of May 6, when the soldiers were afoot and making ready for the

assault. Bourbon placed himself at their head, clad all in white that he

might be better seen and known. To the walls they advanced, bearing

scaling ladders, which they hastened to place. On the first raised of

these Bourbon set foot, with the soldier's desire to be the earliest in

the assault. But hardly had he taken two steps up the ladder than his

grasp loosened and he fell backward, with blood gushing from his side.

He had been hit with an arquebuse-shot in the left side and mortally

wounded.



He had but voice enough left to bid those near him to cover his body

with a cloak and take it away, that his followers might not know of his

death. Those were the last words recorded of the Duke of Bourbon. He

died as he had lived, a valiant soldier and a born adventurer, hurling

havoc with his last words on the great city of the Church; for his

followers, not knowing of his death, attacked so furiously that the

walls were soon carried and the town theirs. Then, as news came to them

that their leader had fallen, they burst into the fury of slaughter,

shouting, "Slay, slay! blood, blood! Bourbon! Bourbon!" and cutting down

remorselessly all whom they met.



The celebrated artist, Benvenuto Cellini, tells us in his autobiography

that it was he who shot Bourbon, aiming his arquebuse from the wall of

the Campo Santo at one of the besiegers who was mounted higher than the

rest, and who, as he afterwards learned, was the leader of the assailing

army.



Whoever it was that fired the fatal shot, the slain man was frightfully

avenged, Rome being plundered, ravaged, and devastated by his brutal

followers to a degree not surpassed by the work of the Vandals of old.

For several months the famous city remained in the hands of this

licentious soldiery, and its inhabitants were subjected to every

outrage and barbarity which brutal desire and ungoverned license could

incite, while in none of its former periods of ravage were so many of

the precious relics of antiquity destroyed as in this period of

occupation by men who called themselves the soldiers of civilized and

Christian lands.