A CAREFUL observer will scarcely fail to be struck by the frequency with which the date October 12th, 1319, appears upon the quaint little mural tablets of the Early-English churches in York and the villages around. The old ecclesiastical chronicle, too, refers to the founding of chantries with special statutes regulating the form of mass to be sung on that day. Evidently this twelfth of October was regarded by the Yorkshire people in the olden times as a dies funesta; indeed the epithet "ill-fated " is more than once applied to it: still, in our history, there is no mention of any great disaster having occurred at that time. The year 1319 was а terrible one from first to last, but October does not seem to have been more fatal than the other months, or the twelfth than the other days. A diligent search through the county records of the century shows, however, that on October 12th, 1319, a battle was fought, of no great national importance it is true-some half dozen lines at most are all the modern historian devotes to it-but one the old chronicler describes carefully, minutely, lingering over its most trifling details with a tender, loving hand. Nor is this strange; Yorkshire has been the scene of many a fierce encounter and tragic struggle, but not one of the great contests that have been fought there can vie with the little White Battle in its record of pathetic heroism.

At Brunanburgh, Wakefield, and Marston, the combatants were soldiers meeting soldiers, men trained for war meeting their fellows; and, no matter how great the inequality in numbers might be, both sides were fighting with the hope of victory before their eyes, victory that would give them glory, power, booty, all things they

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loved. But the Yorkshire men who fought in the White Battle had no hope of conquering. Like Joshua's little host they went forth with their lives in their hands, conscious that God's miracles alone could save them, conscious, too, that the age for miracles was past. It is the utter hoplessness of attackers that gives the strangely piteous touch to the narrative: they had faith neither in God, themselves, nor their cause. Mahomet's followers, secure in the favour of Allah, could face death without flinching: the Covenanters, firm in the faith of the righteousness of their cause, rushed into battle with shouts of triumph; but there was no fanatic enthusiasm to lighten the burden of those men who, with sorrowful hearts and boweddown heads, made their way along the banks of the Ouse on that dark October morning more than five hundred years ago. They knew, none better, that as they passed out of the city gates they were leaving behind them life, that easy, pleasant, sensual life they loved so well, and were going out to captivity or death. For what chance could they have, weak and untrained as they were, against soldiers whose daring prowess was the wonder of Europe?

This second decade of the thirteenth century was a dark epoch in our history. A heavy cloud was hanging over the land: loyalty to the sovereign, reverence for women, were as things dead; and on all sides were heard rumours of conspiracy and treason. Yet just when England seemed most prostrate and degraded, this strangely heroic battle was fought, fought, too, by the men from whom we should least expect deeds of chivalry, lazy priests, luxurious monks, easeloving citizens. Early in the year

1319 the news spread through England that Robert, King of Scotland, had started on an expedition into Ireland to help his brother to conquer that country. There were loud rejoicings at the English Court when this was known, for, Robert Bruce once out of the way, the task of rescuing Berwick seemed to lose half its formidableness; nay, before many days had passed, it began to be whispered abroad that the king had no longer any intention of stopping at the frontier, but was planning an invasion of Scotland. The gibes and sneers of the barons, it seems, had at length succeeded, when weighty argument and patriotic appeal had failed, in inspiring Edward and his friends with a fierce longing to avenge Bannockburn, let the cost be what it might. It was not probable the fates would ever again throw in their way the chance of fighting the Scots without their leader; therefore, once convinced that the much-dreaded Robert had really sailed, they strained every nerve to raise an army. the greater barons and the people in the south, instead of hailing the announcement of a Scottish war with enthusiasm as the king had expected, stood sullenly aloof; for Hugh le Despenser was to be one of the commanders of the expedition, and their hatred of the foreign foe, bitter though it was, was as nothing in comparison with the utter loathing they felt for this second royal favourite that had been promoted above their heads. Kindly nature seems to have gifted Edward II. with a perennial hopefulness which disaster was powerless to eradicate; for, in spite of lack of troops and money, he set out for York, firmly convinced that as he advanced northwards, men would flock by the thousand to his standard. It was not the first time the king had visited his northern dominions: in 1311 he had celebrated Christmas in York with great state and magnificence. While there, taking advantage of the absence of Black

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Faced Lancaster, he had recalled Piers Gaveston from banishment; and as the civic chronicler tells us, "had received him as a gift from heaven." There was wild revelry and rejoicing in the old city in honour of the royal favourite's return; but there is no record of high festivity or stately pageant to mark King Edward's second visit, for he had come fugitive, fleeing before a victorious army, and the flower of his nation lay dead on the field of Bannockburn.

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In spite, however, of all that had passed Edward met with a warm reception when in 1319 he arrived in his northern capital, one of the few towns perhaps where the old attachment for the person of the sovereign still lingered. But it was soon clear that the soldiers he stood so sorely in need of were not to be found in Yorkshire. Corn for the ten previous years had been selling at forty marks the quarter; and as usual plague had followed famine, whilst the ceaseless incursions of the Scots had still further thinned the population. What few men there were went willingly to the war, for the disgrace of Bannockburn lay heavily on the sturdy Yorkshiremen, and their hearts beat high at the thought that the insolence of the Scots, which had grown unbearable of late, was at length going to be punished and restrained. There was scarcely a stalwart man of-arms left in the whole county when Edward set out for Berwick, with flying colours and sounding trumpets. Isabel, the beautiful, high-spirited young queen, who had chafed so cruelly at her husband's cowardly sloth, rode by his side. It had been arranged that she should accompany him on his journey to Berwick, and then come back to York to await his triumphant return.

It was the twelfth of October; the old city had again assumed its wonted air of sleepy tranquillity, for ten days. had elapsed since the king and his army had departed. Two good-sized barges had sailed up the Ouse that morning, bringing Dutch merchandize

to delight the hearts of the Yorkshirewomen; and the whole of the little population was down on the quay-side, thronging around the foreigners, who were striving vigorously by means of look and gesture, for their speech was unintelligible, to barter away their wares. Suddenly the noise of an alarm-trumpet rang through the air; and, seized with a sudden terror, the crowd rushed to the city gate to discover the reason of this unwonted sound. A soldier, one of the queen's guards, was standing there, white and trembling, his horse lying on the ground exhausted and covered with foam. The people stood for a moment as if stupified, wondering vaguely what fresh misfortune had fallen upon their unhappy land as for the soldier, he seemed as one possessed, shrieking wildly "Fortify the city! The queen is in danger! Shut the gates!" It was some time before he was calm enough to tell them what had occurred. Robert Bruce, it seemed, had indeed sailed for Ireland, but he had left a goodly army under Thomas Randolph, Earl of Murray, to harry the English Border in his absence. The very day King Edward, with all the ostentatious display of warlike preparation, had begun the siege of Berwick, Murray and his forces had entered England; and, having cunningly avoided all encounter with the English army, were at that very moment marching for York, laying waste the land as they came.

The man had scarcely finished his story when Queen Isabel appeared at the gate. She had not a dozen soldiers with her. King Edward put a much higher value upon his own safety than upon that of his wife-and they all looked weary and depressed.

Not so

the queen her face was flushed, her lips compressed, and a fierce, cruel light was burning in her eyes. To fly before the Scots was for her a new experience, and one which her haughty nature could ill brook. Beyond a scornful glance she took no notice of the crowd of trembling, terror-stricken citizens that pressed around her: Lâches! was

the only word she uttered, as, motioning aside by a contemptuous gesture those who would have helped her to dismount, she sprang from her horse, and, rushing to her apartment, flung herself on the ground, cursing the day she had first trod English soil.

Meanwhile the Archbishop, William de Melton, "a reverend, grave old divine," had assumed the command of the city; and, by his orders, the gates were shut, and guards-such guards!

placed on the walls of the city and in the barbicans. Only just in time tco, for, within an hour, the Scottish army demanded admittance at the Marygate. This was of course а mere form, for Earl Murray had too often put to the test the strength of its fortifications not to know that York was impregnable to any attacks he could make upon it: it could not be taken without a long siege; and that, of course, with an English army at Berwick, was out of the question.

The Scottish troops, furious at the thought that so rich a prize as York should lie beyond their reach, thronged around the gates, laughing and gibing at the men who sheltered themselves behind strong walls, and at priests who assumed the cassock through fear of the cuirass. This was hard to bear: a sullen anger began to burn in the hearts of even the most sluggish of the priests, and no man dared to look into the eyes of his fellows, fearing what he might read there. At length a bold-faced young Scotsman, more imprudent even than the rest, rushing up close to the Micklegate, hurled insulting epithets at the queen, accusing her of gross immorality, and challenging any man within the city walls to

clear her fame.

For one moment the old Archbishop stood as if turned into stone; perhaps he was thinking of all the misery these wild hordes had wrought, how they had murdered his flock and made his land desolate. Then all the fiery indignation that for years had been smouldering in his breast sprang to the fore; and forgetting his age, his

vows, his priestly consecration, conscious only that he, a de Melton, his nation, his own townsmen, and above all a woman-that woman, too, his queen! had been insulted and covered with shame, he swore that vengeance should be his not the Lord's

-that day. He made a speech to the people assembled there. We have no record of what he said, nor of the arguments he used; but we have a convincing proof that for his hearers his eloquence was irresistible; for before he had finished speaking, there was not a man in that crowd, from the boy-apprentice to the aged monk, who did not feel that he would rather face a thousand deaths than allow those insolent Celts to escape unpunished. There was not a moment to be lost, for the Scots were already in full retreat, burning and murdering as they went.

An old Scotch historian writes that the Archbishop, "more for the indignity of the affront than any hope of success, took up arms and assembled such forces as he could, composed of clergymen, monks, canons, and other spiritual men of the Church, with a confused heap of husbandmen, labourers, artificers and tradesmen." In the whole army there were not twenty soldiers; and what were the rest? Priests, whose idea of exercise was a gentle saunter in sheltered cloisters; monks, whose lives had been passed within the narrow precincts of an abbey; aged beadsmen; traders, accustomed more to chaffering than fighting; and apprentice-boys who in their lives had never handled a sword. And this was the army with which William de Melton, Archbishop of York, set off in pursuit of twenty thousand of Robert Bruce's soldiers, men before whom, Froissart tells us with enthusiasm, the most renowned knights of Christendom had fallen as wheat before the reaper; bold, hardy, well-trained troops, glorying in the memory of former triumphs, firm in the faith that they were the Chosen People, the rulers of the future. They had a leader, too, in whom they

had implicit trust; for Thomas Randolph had proved himself on more than one occasion a skilful strategist and consummate soldier. Opposed to such a general and such an army, the Yorkshiremen were powerless as moths against fire.

They knew it; and yet, so strong was the sense of the duty they owed to their country and to their honour, that, when the Archbishop declared every effort must be made to overtake the Scots, not a single murmur was heard. Every man prepared to march. There was no time for tedious leave-takings: just a whispered word-some charge, perhaps, with regard to the merchandize arrived that day-and then the good wives of York must stand aside helpless, and watch their husbands, fathers, sons and brothers go forth to death. Little wonder if some of the bolder of the dames cursed the day when their gates had first been opened to admit this king, whose footsteps misfortune dogged with such relentless persistency. Perhaps, too, some asked why their men must avenge the injuries of a woman whose own husband showed so little zeal in her cause. But, in those days, though women had tongues and probably used them, they had little influence on the course of events; no one ever dreamed of asking them what they thought; they might, it is true, help to do deeds of folly, but they were powerless to prevent their being done.

The Bishop of Ely, the Lord-HighChancellor of the kingdom, chanced to be in York at that time, and he rode by the side of the Archbishop at the head of the troop of motley warriors ; but he, too, was an old man, and one who, although well versed in Court intrigues, knew nothing of the tactics of war. Nicholas Flemming, the Lord Mayor of York, and Sir John de Paveham rode behind the spiritual lords, and then came the crowd. Some of them were on horses, others on mules, but most on foot, keeping together as best they might, as they hurried down the wide road that winds by the Ouse.

Moved by some subtle sense of what was fitting, the priests had donned their surplices, which, fluttering in the wind as they walked, gave a ghastly aspect to the little army. The monks, too, all wore the dress of their order, whilst the Church dignitaries were arrayed in full canonicals. All the ecclesiastics, keeping to the letter if not to the spirit of the law, were armed only with maces or clubs; but the citizens had seized whatever weapon came first to hand, and flourished in the air rusty old swords, antiquated bows, pokers, bludgeons, and knives and sticks of every description; whilst the few peasants that came to swell the ranks as the little force hurried northward, had only pikes and spades to fight with.

There is no scope for ambushes or surprises on the great Yorkshire plain: for miles on either side of the Ouse the ground scarcely curves, and the trees and bushes are too stunted to afford any shelter. The city gate had scarcely closed upon the Yorkists before the Scots knew they were coming. At first, ignorant of the nature of the troops that were following them, they hurried on; but, when they reached Myton, a hamlet that stands at the juncture of the Swale with the Ouse, the Scots crossed the river, and established themselves in a strong position. A long line of hay-stacks lay immediately to the south of the ground which they had taken up, and to these they set fire as soon as they saw the Yorkshiremen drawing near. The wind was due north that day, and the smoke therefore from the burning ricks blew straight into the faces of the Archbishop's little army as the men, blinded and half suffocated as they were, and exhausted by their long march, strove manfully to make their way through the fire. Earl Murray's force was drawn up in battle array to receive them, and a terrible encounter ensued. The Yorkshiremen fought like madmen; the priests with their

heavy maces beating in the skulls of the Scots, whilst the apprentice-lads hacked and cut at all whom they met. All that fierce unflinching heroism could do they did, but the odds against them were too heavy before an hour had passed four thousand Englishmen lay dead upon the field. Not a man would have escaped if it had not been that Earl Murray, struck with admiration for the heroic folly that had prompted such a venture, touched too, perhaps, with shame at the thought of his strong warriors waging war against aged monks and helpless traders, gave orders that the slaughter should cease. Then, the excitement of the battle once stilled, the sight of those whitesurpliced priests, lying there dead or dying, sent a thrill of horror through the hearts of the victors, and, possessed by some superstitious dread of terrible retribution in the future, they, moved by one common impulse, turned and fled to their own land.

The news of the disaster was soon carried to York; and the women who had passed the long weary hours on the city walls, waiting with strained eyes and beating hearts for tidings, rushed to the battle-field to seek out their wounded and their dead. Of the former, the number was small, for the blows of the Scots had been sure and heavy, and such do not bruise, but kill. The body of Nicholas Flemming, the Lord Mayor, was found in the thick of the slain, and brought back to the city with touching marks of reverence and love. Nor was he the only civic dignitary who fell at Myton; scarcely an alderman, or a sidesman, was left in York; whilst, as for the cathedral, three quarters of the stalls stood without an occupant, and it was years before the choir had again its complement of voices. Twenty years later the old monks in the Yorkshire abbeys still cast sorrowful glances at the vacant chairs around their refectory table as they told to chance visitors the story of Myton.