They narrate that next day the troops marched for Durham, where the Queen took up her quarters.  The Bruce had pillaged and burned his way to a place called Beaurepair, within three miles of the city.  He sent word to the Queen that if her men were willing to come forth from the town he would abide and give them battle.

She replied that she accepted his offer, and that the barons would gladly risk their lives for the realm of their lord the King.  The Bruce grinned and kept silence, since he had in his pocket letters from most of them protesting they would do nothing of the sort.

Here is comedy.  On one side you have a horde of half-naked savages, a shrewd master holding them in leash till the moment be auspicious; on the other, a housewife at the head of a tiny force lieutenanted by perjurers, by men already purchased.  God knows what dreams she had of miraculous victories, while her barons trafficked in secret with the Bruce.  It is recorded that, on the Saturday before Michaelmas, when the opposing armies marshalled in the Bishop’s Park, at Auckland, not a captain on either side believed the day to be pregnant with battle.  There would be a decent counterfeit of resistance; afterward the little English army would vanish pell-mell, and the Bruce would be master of the island.  The farce was prearranged, the actors therein were letter-perfect.

That morning at daybreak John Copeland came to the Queen’s tent, and informed her quite explicitly how matters stood.  He had been drinking overnight with Adam Frere and the Earl of Gage, and after the third bottle had found them candid.  “Madame and Queen, we are betrayed.  The Marquess of Hastings, our commander, is inexplicably smitten with a fever.  He will not fight to-day.  Not one of your lords will fight to-day.”  Master Copeland laid bare such part of the scheme as yesterday’s conviviality had made familiar.  “Therefore I counsel retreat.  Let the King be summoned out of France.”

Queen Philippa shook her head, as she cut up squares of toast and dipped them in milk for the Regent’s breakfast.  “Sire Edward would be vexed.  He has always wanted to conquer France.  I shall visit the Marquess as soon as Lionel is fed,—­do you know, John Copeland, I am anxious about Lionel; he is irritable and coughed five times during the night,—­and then I will attend to this affair.”

She found the Marquess in bed, groaning, the coverlet pulled up to his chin.  “Pardon, Highness,” said Lord Hastings, “but I am an ill man.  I cannot rise from this couch.”

“I do not question the gravity of your disorder,” the Queen retorted, “since it is well known that the same illness brought about the death of Iscariot.  Nevertheless, I bid you get up and lead our troops against the Scot.”

Now the hand of the Marquess veiled his countenance.  “I am an ill man,” he muttered, doggedly.  “I cannot rise from this couch.”

There was a silence.