This was immaterial, however, for they narrate that next day a letter signed with John Copeland’s name was found pinned to the front of Neville’s tent.  I cite a passage therefrom:  “I will not give up my royal prisoner to a woman or a child, but only to my own lord, Sire Edward, for to him I have sworn allegiance, and not to any woman.  Yet you may tell the Queen she may depend on my taking excellent care of King David.  I have poulticed his nose, as she directed.”

Here was a nonplus, not without its comical side.  Two great realms had met in battle, and the king of one of them had vanished like a soap-bubble.  Philippa was in a rage,—­you could see that both by her demeanor and by the indignant letters she dictated; true, none of these letters could be delivered, since they were all addressed to John Copeland.  Meanwhile, Scotland was in despair, whereas the traitor English barons were in a frenzy, because they did not know what had become of their fatal letters to the Bruce, or of him either.  The circumstances were unique, and they remained unchanged for three feverish weeks.

We will now return to affairs in France, where on the day of the Nativity, as night gathered about Calais, John Copeland came unheralded to the quarters of King Edward, then besieging that city.  Master Copeland entreated audience, and got it readily enough, since there was no man alive whom Sire Edward more cordially desired to lay his fingers upon.

A page brought Master Copeland to the King, that stupendous, blond and incredibly big person.  With Sire Edward were that careful Italian, Almerigo di Pavia, who afterward betrayed Sire Edward, and a lean soldier whom Master Copeland recognized as John Chandos.  These three were drawing up an account of the recent victory at Creci, to be forwarded to all mayors and sheriffs in England, with a cogent postscript as to the King’s incidental and immediate need of money.

Now King Edward sat leaning far back in his chair, a hand on either hip, and with his eyes narrowing as he regarded Master Copeland.  Had the Brabanter flinched, the King would probably have hanged him within the next ten minutes; finding his gaze unwavering, the King was pleased.  Here was a novelty; most people blinked quite honestly under the scrutiny of those fierce big eyes, which were blue and cold and of an astounding lustre.  The lid of the left eye drooped a little:  this was Count Manuel’s legacy, they whispered.

The King rose with a jerk and took John Copeland’s hand.  “Ha!” he grunted, “I welcome the squire who by his valor has captured the King of Scots.  And now, my man, what have you done with Davie?”

John Copeland answered:  “Highness, you may find him at your convenience safely locked in Bamborough Castle.  Meanwhile, I entreat you, sire, do not take it amiss if I did not surrender King David to the orders of my lady Queen, for I hold my lands of you, and not of her, and my oath is to you, and not to her, unless indeed by choice.”