gave him his own in return, saying it did not become a monarch to appear unarmed in the presence of a subject. The king was relieved of his helmet by James D'Avila; and the Spanish soldiers, who admired his valour, came crowding around him, and snatched the feathers from it, and, when they were all gone, even cut pieces from his clothes, to keep as memorials that they had fought hand to hand with him. Francis was soon left standing in his jerkin and hose, and, spite of his misfortune, could not help laughing at his situation, and at the eagerness of the soldiers for something belonging to him.
Presently Bourbon presented himself with his sword in his hand, dripping with the blood of his own countrymen. At that sight the king was seized with the deadly paleness of indignation. Bourbon fell on his knees, and requested permission to kiss his sovereign's hand, but Francis turned from him with contempt. "Ah, sire!" exclaimed the constable, bursting into tears, "had you followed my advice in some things, you would not be now in this condition, nor would the plains of Italy be soaked with the best blood of France." There was too much truth in the statement; for Francis had been misled by the arts of a vengeful woman, and Bourbon had been driven by crying injustice into rebellion. But Francis, mounting a horse which was brought him, rode away with Pescara and Lannoy, without deigning another look at the duke. He was conveyed to the fortress of Pizzighitone, where he was strictly guarded, but with all honour, till the pleasure of the emperor should be ascertained. Francis wrote to his mother by Pennalosa, to whom he also gave a passport to pass through France, and convey the news to the emperor. Louise was at Lyons when the messenger arrived there, and delivered the royal letter. It contained simply the words, "Madame, all is lost, except our honour!"
Admiral Bonivet, Marshal de Chabannes, and Richard de la Pole, a pretender to the crown of England, with more than 8,000 of the French army, fell in this action. The titular King of Navarre, the bastard of Savoy, and many distinguished officers, were taken with the king. All the artillery, arms, ammunition, military chest, and baggage of the vanquished army fell into the hands of the allies, who were astounded at the greatness of their victory.
The amazement and consternation which fell on France at the news of this terrible disaster are scarcely to be imagined. Nothing, indeed, could be more melancholy than the situation of that kingdom. Her king was captive, her most distinguished generals and the flower of the army were taken or slain, powerful and triumphant enemies on all sides were ready to seize her as a spoil, and she was equally destitute of allies, of money, of troops, or wise counsel. Scarcely less was the terror of the princes and the states of Italy, for their only safety—the balance of power—was destroyed, and there appeared no defence against the predominant power of the emperor.
Charles himself assumed an air of singular composure and moderation on the receipt of this brilliant news. He had been daily expecting to hear of the defeat of his army, when, on the 10th of March, came the tidings of this great victory. We may imagine, therefore, his real joy. But such was his command of his feelings, that nothing of this appeared in his manner. He perused the despatches with the most perfect composure, affected even to commiserate the fall of his rival, and moralised sagely on the uncertainty of all human greatness. A little time, however, was sufficient to show that all this was dissimulation, and his conduct to Francis was ample proof that he had neither pity nor generosity.
Henry of England, on the contrary, gave freedom to his expressions of joy. Though he was actually on his way to coalesce with Francis against Charles, he saw at once the immense advantages this defeat and capture offered for aggressions on his kingdom, and he therefore ordered the most public rejoicings in London and all his other cities, and rode himself in state to St. Paul's, where the cardinal performed mass, assisted by eleven bishops, in presence of the Court and all the foreign ambassadors; and afterwards "Te Deum" was sung. Henry then posted off Tunstal, Bishop of London, and Sir Richard Wingfield, Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, into Spain to congratulate the emperor on his splendid triumph, and modestly to propose that they should divide France between them. Nay, Henry had the assurance to claim, by the treaty betwixt those two exemplary monarchs, that he should be crowned King of France at Paris, and that Charles should satisfy himself with certain northern and southern provinces. By another article of this treaty it was stipulated that any prince taken prisoner during the war should be delivered over to that sovereign whose territories he had invaded. Henry, therefore, instructed his ambassadors to claim the surrender of Francis to him, on the plea that he had not only invaded Normandy and Guienne, but France itself, which he contended was rightfully his inheritance. These extravagant and absurd demands, which could have risen in the mind of no man who was not puffed up by the most insane vanity, were not very likely to be received with any degree of attention by Charles in the very hour of his triumph, and conscious of the immensely augmented power of his position. To induce Charles to consent to this improbable arrangement, Henry proposed at once to put the Princess Mary, who was betrothed to Charles, into his hands—in fact, to make the exchange of her person for that of Francis. Henry was the more buoyed up in these wild notions by the fact that the ambassador of Charles had just been applying for the delivery of the princess.
So confident was Henry of the cession of his claims by the emperor, that he instantly took measures to raise the money necessary for the invasion of France. As he had resolved to rule without the interference of parliaments, he sent out commissioners to every part of the country to levy the sixth part of the goods of the laity and a fourth of those of the clergy. The scheme was entirely unconstitutional, the commissioners performed their part in a harsh and over-bearing manner, trusting thus to intimidate the people into compliance, and the consequence was a universal resentment and resistance. Clergy and laity, rich and poor, all alike denounced the arbitrary and illegal impost. "How the great men took it," says Hall, "was marvel: the poor cursed, the rich repugned, the lighter sort railed, and, in conclusion, all men execrated the cardinal as the subverter of the laws and liberties of England. For, said they, if men should give their goods
