After the mishap at Mons, the young Princess journeyed to other of her loyal towns,—to Delft, to Leyden, to Amsterdam and Haarlem. Though all these cities paid homage to Jacqueline as their sovereign, and supported her claims to Zealand and Hainault, there was a strong party growing up against her, chiefly on account of her youth, and because she was a girl.
The headquarters of this party was at Dordrecht, the one city which refused to pay homage to Jacqueline. Here in Dordrecht the leaders of the opposing party were joined by one of the uncles of Jacqueline, known as “John the Pitiless,” who was eager to rob his niece of her inheritance. He proposed to be appointed governor, and in this way gradually get into his own hands the whole power.
Now indeed Jacqueline showed that she was strong at heart, for though but sixteen, she immediately took steps in person to suppress all such designs on the part of her uncle, and levied troops, gathered supplies, and started towards rebellious Dordrecht.
Right bravely she looked, our little Princess, as she rode at the head of her troops, and ever from time to time she turned to her mother with a bright smile, and some such word as—
“Courage, dear Madame, ever saw you troops with braver front than ours?”
Or, after a pause,—
“Think you that mine uncle of Burgundy will expect to see us in person, come to defend our rights?”
“Thou art my brave girl. Wouldst that thy father wert here to guard and guide thee!”
But her mother looked anxious, and as she rode in her litter near her daughter, it was she who from time to time called to her side those brave nobles who had espoused her daughter’s cause, and to whose advice she looked to bring the assault to a successful conclusion.
After the first day’s march Jacqueline’s bright confidence was shaken. Wearied with being all day in the saddle and bearing the weight of her suit of armour, even though the shirt was of the finest Milan steel and flexible and light, Jacqueline dismissed all her attendants, and begged her mother to bide with her for a space before going to rest.
When all were gone and they were alone together and the curtains to the tent secured, poor Jacqueline, but a tired girl after all, cast herself down beside her mother, and hid her face in her lap.
“Oh, mother,” cried she, “methinks I’d give all Dordrecht to be once more in our own palace in The Hague, safe sheltered in mine own room, and rid of this armour which chafes me so!”
“Nay, daughter, speak not so loud, bend thy lips to mine ear, for truly it would shame you much should the men-at-arms without hear thy plaints.”
“But, mother—”
“Lower, dear child, speak lower. What! weeping? Countess of Hainault and Daughter of Holland shedding tears?”
“Thy daughter was I, mother, before I was Daughter of Holland. So fearsome am I of those cruel men we go to meet, with their spears and arrows. Methinks that already I feel them in my flesh”; and at the very thought there were fresh showers of tears.
“Can this be my brave Princess? Is this the maid of whom her father said, ‘Brave as a lad, with more wisdom than her years, and better fitted to rule than many an elder one’? Sure, child, the hailstones have in truth bewitched thee!”
“Ah, mother, I will be brave to-morrow, since needs I must. But say thou wilt not leave me this night? Stay with me; the darkness affrights me, mother.”
“Truly I had no thought not to stay with thee, dear child. See, give me thy hand, and I will sit beside thy couch till thou art fast asleep.”
Jacqueline threw herself on the couch which had been hastily spread in her tent, and made soft with the skins of fox and of bear, and drew over her buckskin doublet a cloak of frieze.
“Kiss me, mother, as though I were once more thy little daughter, and leave me not”; and holding her mother’s hand as she had done in babyhood, our poor little Daughter of Holland, from very weariness, fell fast asleep.
Before dawn the next day all the camp was astir. The sound of the armourers at work, the stamping and neighing of horses, the shouts of the soldiers as they hurried about their labour, made a din quite at variance with the quiet of the night, when the only sounds which disturbed the solitude were the cries of the sentries that all was well, and the occasional whinny of some restive horse.
Yet still Jacqueline slept on, and by her side her mother watched, hoping that the sounds from without would penetrate the deep sleep of the weary girl. At last, at the door of the tent itself, sounded the notes of the bugle, and Jacqueline started up, her eyes clear and flashing, as she turned to the patient watcher at her side.
“Once more Countess of Hainault, dearest lady,” she cried, “Jacqueline the little girl has fled back to her childhood.”
Her mother drew a long breath and smiled in return.
“Let us praise St. James for that,” she answered, and pushed aside the hanging folds that covered the opening to the tent, so that the fresh morning air would sweep within.
“Hail, Lady, a bright awakening and a joyous day”; and forward pressed two pages, special attendants to Jacqueline herself, and like her dressed in suits of bright armour. But while theirs glittered as bravely as hers, on her helmet, on her shield, and on any smallest spot which offered a space for the tool of the goldsmith, there were wrought the various heraldic devices which belonged to the Countess by right of her great and royal descent.
The younger of the two pages—so young in fact that his cheek was scarce less rosy and fair than that of his young mistress—bore her sword and spear, which gleamed in the cold beams of the wintry sun. The elder of the two carried her shield and pennon, the last of fine blue silk, showing the arms of Bavaria quartered with those of Hainault-Holland, and watching over these was deftly embroidered the image of the Virgin and Child.
Jacqueline came to the door of her tent, and as her eyes watched the busy scene, she looked both rested and well pleased.
“A fair omen for the Daughter of Holland this day,” she said, and pointed towards where the lad stood with her pennon. The bright clouds in the sky had but touched the faces of the Holy Virgin and the Child, and reflected in the silver threads with which they were wrought, caused them to glow with almost the colours of true flesh and blood.
“The Countess speaks well,” said Eberhard, Lord of Hoogtwoude, than whom Jacqueline had no more faithful follower, and who had just come up from the camp to see how the young Countess had rested.
“A fair sleep and a long one, thanks to my lady mother,” said Jacqueline, turning to her with a loving glance, “who was ever wont to take upon her own shoulders the burden of my humours.”
Full well did Jacqueline repay the kindness of her mother, by her love for that lady which her dignity never caused her for a moment to conceal. Going once more within the tent, she bathed in water fresh and cold, and though the air was a thought too keen, she had the armourer summoned to rivet on her greaves, so that the legs below the knee should be well protected, lest some who were on foot among the enemy might get near and do her harm.
“Bring my helmet,” next she ordered, “and sling it to my saddle bow, for this cap of velvet shall serve me to wear till we near the troops which my false uncle hath gathered.”
Kissing her mother, she whispered in her ear,—
“ON, FOR THE LOVE OF THE DAUGHTER OF HOLLAND, DEATH TO THOSE THAT DENY HER.”
“Fear not, lady, I be a lad this day”; and then placing her spurred foot on the knee of her page, she mounted easily into her saddle. Once on the back of her war-horse, her courage rose higher still, and seizing her pennon in her hand, she drove her horse onward, shouting in her sweet young voice,—
“On, for the love of the Daughter of Holland, and death to those that deny her!”
Across the low bare fields and through the scrubby woods rode the small army, which numbered barely a couple of thousand men. When the sun stood high in the heavens and showed the hour of noon, though the wind was keen and little comfort was to be had, they rested, for the sake of the horses as well as the men.
Whilst they stopped thus, and with fires and food sought to take such ease as they could command, a band of picked men, less than a score, rode forward to gain what news they might of the enemy. Soon they could be seen spurring quickly back, and they brought the welcome news that “John the Pitiless” was encamped just without the town of Grocum, that the men were scattered about as if preparing to halt for the remainder of the day, and that they had learned from some faithful adherents of the Princess Jacqueline’s, that her uncle had been able to muster scarce five hundred men more than were in her own little army.
At this news all sprung to their saddles, since the brief winter’s day was all too short for that which they had to do, and Jacqueline with helmet on head and sword in hand, rode at their head.
Scarce an hour’s brisk riding brought them in sight of the army gathered from among those who opposed the Princess. There was much confusion evident among them, and it seemed as if they had but just learned of the approach of the Daughter of Holland, and were preparing to hold their own as best they might.
Straight as an arrow, forward to where his pennon showed the presence of her uncle, rode Jacqueline.
No need to shout encouragement to the brave men at her back, yet ever and again she would turn and call, “For love of Holland,” or “For the Virgin and St. James,” and ever and anon would come back the answering cry, “For love of Holland,” “For St. James.”
When almost within the flight of an arrow from the enemy, once again did Jacqueline turn, and this time her cry was borne back on the wind with the clearness of a trumpet,—
“For love of the Daughter of Holland.”
At this the hoarse shout that rose among her followers could have been heard a league away. Still keeping her horse’s head straight for that pennon she had marked so well, she sent her pages to the right and left, bidding the soldiers spread in a wide circle, and never draw rein till they had circled the enemy.
On they came like a whirlwind; the enemy, seeming not to know what manner of tactics they were like to meet, formed a compact body.
The rushing mass of men and horses, with Jacqueline at their head, swept madly on, nor paused nor swerved till they had flung themselves against the enemy. In a moment all was frightful confusion, men unhorsed and being trampled underfoot by the riderless steeds, and in many cases the horses suffering themselves from wounds that had fallen on them instead of their masters.
Twice, above all the tumult and din of metal when spear met shield or helmet, could be heard the cry, “For the Daughter of Holland,” and each time it brought the answering shout. At these moments even the enemy seemed to waver, as if they had not dreamed that their hereditary Princess could be there in the thick of battle in her own person.
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.
“Mother, dear lady,” whispered this victorious Countess of sixteen, “I pray you tell no one that last night I wept from fear!”
Her mother smiled as she kissed her, and answered in her gentle voice,—
“Thou hast my promise.”
