Now let a tableau lend variety to our pageant. On the dais of a royal pavilion outside the walls of Calais you see a warrior king, his noble countenance transfigured with wrath. Around him are his nobles, and before him kneel six notable citizens of the town, gaunt with long fasting and worn with strife and anxiety. Their heads and feet are bare, and the rope of shame is round their necks. The foremost citizen proffers the keys of the fortress. You are witnessing the surrender of Calais, “the open doorway to France.”

The actual scene which is being re-enacted before you took place more than five and a half centuries ago, and thirty-three years after the battle of Bannockburn. In the interval the English king who fled from that fatal field had been deposed in favour of his young son, who grew up to be one of the most remarkable men of his time. The spirit of the first Edward lived again in Edward the Third, and like a new Alexander he was ever seeking fresh worlds to conquer.

He positively thirsted for martial glory, and above all things he coveted the fair land of France. Through his mother he put forth a claim to the French throne; and though it was scouted by the French lawyers, he meant to see what English bills and bows could do to enforce it. In the year 1345 he shot his bolt, and at CrÉcy his archers won for him one of the most brilliant victories that ever graced English arms. Then he moved on Calais, and laid close siege to it. Outside the walls he reared a temporary village, which he called Newtown the Bold. It had houses and lodgings roofed with reed and broom, streets, and a market-place where flesh and fish, mercery, cloth, bread, and wine were sold.

Eleven long months the siege endured, and many a time and oft the gallant defenders beheld the approach of French armies coming, as they thought, to their succour. But never did the Frenchmen dare to attack King Edward. They came, they saw, they retreated. Lamentable indeed was the state of the besieged; food failed them, starvation gnawed them, and pestilence swept them away. Then came the hour when all hope departed, and they hauled down the standard which had so long floated above their highest tower.

Shortly afterwards news was brought to the king that the governor was on the battlements, and desired a parley with him. Sir Walter de Mauny and Ralph Lord Bisset were sent to confer with the governor. “Sirs,” said he, “ye be right valiant knights in deeds of arms, and ye know well how the king, my master, hath sent me to keep this town in his behoof. We have done all that lieth in our power. Now our succours have failed us, and we be sore strained; we must all die, or else go mad with famine. I therefore entreat that you will beg your king to have compassion on us, and to have the goodness to let us depart in the state we are in; and that he will be satisfied with having possession of the town and castle, with all that is within them.”

Thereupon the two knights returned to the king and told him all that had passed. But the king heeded them not: the men of Calais should surrender, and he would do with them as he listed. Then Sir Walter braved the royal wrath and told his sovereign that he was setting a very bad example by his severity. All the other nobles who were present pleaded with the king, and at length he yielded in some degree. “Sir Walter,” said he, “you will inform the governor that the only grace he must expect from me is, that six of the principal citizens of Calais march out of the town with bare heads and feet, with ropes round their necks, and the keys of the town and castle in their hands. These six must yield themselves to my will, and to the rest I will show mercy.”

Sir Walter returned to the battlements and told the governor what grace he had been able to obtain from the king. “I beg of you,” said he, “to remain here a little, while I go into the town and tell the townsmen your king’s conditions.” So he went to the market-place, the bell was sounded, and immediately a multitude of men and women gathered in the town hall to hear what he had to say. When they learnt the sad news they began to weep and to show such distress that the hardest heart would have had compassion on them. Even the governor himself was moved to tears.

At last the richest burgess in the town, by name Eustace de St. Pierre, rose up and said, “Sirs, high and low, it would be grievous for so many people to die of famine when there is a means to save them. I think they who should save them from such a pass would have great merit in the eyes of our Lord God. For my part I have so great a trust in Him that I will be the first to offer myself for the rest.” When he had said this, the people rose up and almost worshipped him, many casting themselves at his feet with tears and groans. Then another rich citizen arose and said, “I will keep company with my comrade Eustace.” His name was John Daire. After him, James Wisant, who was also very rich in merchandise, said he would hold company with his two cousins; as also did Peter Wisant, his brother. Then two others offered themselves, and the six citizens, having apparelled themselves as the King of England desired, marched towards the gate.

When Sir Walter Mauny had presented the citizens to the king they fell on their knees and with uplifted hands cried, “Most gallant king, we bring you the keys of the castle and of the town. We surrender ourselves to your absolute will and pleasure, in order to save the remainder of the people of Calais, who have suffered such great pain. Sir, we beseech your grace to have mercy and pity upon us.”

All the barons, knights, and squires that were assembled around wept at the sight. But the king, remembering their piracies, eyed them with angry looks, for he greatly hated the men of Calais. Then he commanded that their heads should be struck off. All present entreated the king that he would be merciful to them, but he would not listen. At last the good Sir Walter made yet another appeal for grace. “Noble king,” he cried, “let me beseech you to restrain your anger. You are rightly famed for greatness of soul; do not tarnish it by such an act as this. Henceforth every man will speak of your great cruelty, if you put to death these burgesses, who have of their own free will offered their lives for their fellow-citizens.”

At this the king scowled and bade them send for the headsman. “These knaves,” said he, “have slain many of my men, and they shall die for it.”

At this moment the good Queen Philippa, who had been weeping bitterly, cast herself upon her knees before her pitiless lord. “Ah! gentle sir,” she cried, “since I have crossed the sea in great peril I have never asked you one favour; now I humbly beg you, in the name of the Son of the Virgin Mary, and for your love of me, that you be merciful to these six men.”

The king looked upon her in silence for a moment, and then replied, “Lady, I would that you had not been here. You have begged of me so earnestly that I cannot refuse you, though it grieves me sore to yield. I give them to you; do with them as you will.”

Joyous and glad was the queen that she had moved the king to pity. She rose from her knees, and bidding the citizens rise too, ordered the ropes to be taken from their necks, and caused them to be new clothed. Then she took them to her own apartments and gave them a plentiful dinner, after which she presented each of them with six nobles and set them at liberty. The town was surrendered, and the English king fed the starving multitudes liberally.

Merciful queen, your generous pity for the stricken foe shall ever be the brightest jewel in your crown. In ages to come men will cherish the fame of your womanly tenderness, and will tell their children in many a tale and song the glorious story of your gracious clemency.