as he would have met on the Thames at Oxford. The English loss was comparatively slight, but it is said to have included four of the ladies whom the king was taking with him to join the queen at Ghent.

The sea fight which took place ten years later is mainly memorable as a picturesque example of the lawlessness of the times. Characteristically enough, we owe our best account of it to Froissart, and it was just such a battle as he loved—a fine example of high-born daring, love of adventure, and, it is to be added, of total absence of scruple. To understand this battle, it is necessary to remember that the sea-borne commerce between the North and South of Europe was conducted in fleets which came up in spring from the south, and, after unloading and reloading at the great marts of Flanders, returned towards the end of summer. For the reasons already stated, they were subject to plunder on the way, and they were apt to retaliate. The king had cause of complaint against the Spanish, that is to say, the Basque traders, who are known to have plundered ten English ships coming from France. So, without wasting time in diplomacy, which would indeed have brought him little save delays and counter claims, he resolved to do himself justice. A fleet was collected at Winchelsea, and there the king, accompanied by some of his most famous knights, and by his still youthful sons, the Black Prince and John of Gaunt, lay in wait for the traders who must pass on their way home. The Basques were warned of what was preparing for them, but, confident in the size of their ships and their own courage, they were resolved to force a passage. They hired at Antwerp one of those gangs of fighting men who were then to be found in every marketplace in Europe, ready to serve any master who would pay, and any cause which promised booty. Then they sailed, well provided with weapons, and ready for the fray.

King Edward had taken up his quarters in an abbey near Winchelsea, with his queen and the ladies of his household. By day he visited his ships. By night there was feasting and dancing. When he knew that the Spaniards must be at hand, he went on board his flagship to be ready for them. It appears that no cruisers were stationed on the offing, and that the English fleet lay at anchor in the expectation that the Spaniards would seek them. If the southern traders had not been so unduly confident in their own strength, they might have passed in safety by keeping well out at sea. But, relying on the size of their vessels, and on "all kinds of artillery wonderful to think of," with which they were provided, they sought for battle, and therefore steered well in with the coast.

On the afternoon of the day of the fight, the 28th August 1350, the king was sitting on the deck of his vessel, the cog Thomas, wearing a black velvet overcoat over his armour and a black felt hat "which became him well." To pass the time, Sir John Chandos was singing the German dances he had learned on a visit to that country, and the minstrels played. While the knights and squires were amusing themselves with the gaiety of men who lived mainly for battle, the look-out in the top hailed the deck with "I see one, two, three, four—I see so many, so help me God, I cannot count them." Then the king called for his helmet, and for wine. His knights drank to the king, and to one another, and went to their stations. The fleet stood to sea. Its movements must have been seen by Queen Philippa, who remained in the abbey to pray for her husband and her two sons. The young John of Gaunt, then Earl of Richmond, and afterwards Duke of Lancaster, refused to leave his brother, the Prince of Wales. He was a boy of only ten, but King Edward and the Black Prince were the last men in the world to balk his very proper desire to be in a battle.

The Spaniards came sweeping along from east to west with a good breeze. They were fewer in number than the English, but heavier ships. "It was passing beautiful to see, or to think of," says Froissart, who loved the pomp and circumstance of war. Their tops were glittering with armed men, and "their streamers bearing their coats of arms, and marked with their bearings, danced and quivered and lept in the wind." Coming out from the anchorage of Winchelsea, King Edward's ships struck on the Spaniards, who were advancing in a line, at an angle. His own vessel was steered into one of the biggest of the enemy. The two met with such a crash that "it was as if a tempest had suddenly burst upon them." They recoiled from the shock, and then crashed together again. Their spars became entangled, and one of the Spaniard's tops was broken off. All in it were hurled into the water and drowned. If the king's ship had not been stout, she would have been broken to pieces against the bulk of her opponent. As it was, she had enough. Her seams gaped, and the water rushed in. The Spaniard, being the less injured of the two, gathered way and stood on. King Edward ordered his men to lay her aboard again, but was answered, "No, sir, you cannot have this one, but you shall have another." It would, as his shipmen knew, but probably had not the time to explain, have been impossible to overtake the enemy with a vessel already in danger of sinking. The only chance was to run into one of those coming up behind and carry her by boarding. We may presume that the shipmen did their best to pick a smaller one. It was done, and only just in time, for the king's ship sank almost immediately after he and his crew had forced their way on to the Spaniard's deck.

King Edward's adventure was an example of what happened all along the line. The Prince of Wales was in great peril beside a tall Spaniard, for his ship too began to sink, and he could not scale the high sides of the enemy. From this pass he was rescued by his cousin Henry, Earl of Derby. The two got possession of the Spaniard. Then the prince's vessel sank, so that "he and his knights could more perfectly consider the danger in which they had just been." The most extreme danger was run by Robert of Namur, a Flemish noble, and a partisan of King Edward's, who in after times was the patron of Froissart, and probably his main authority for the battle. The king had given him the command of the Salle du Roi, the vessel which carried those members of his household who could not find quarters with himself. Robert of Namur was grappled by a big enemy, who began to drag him along. His crew shouted, "Rescue for the Salle du Roi!" but to no purpose, for it was now getting dark, "and they were not heard, and if they had been heard, they would not have been rescued." The Fleming was saved by the desperate valour of his squire, Hanekin, who forced his way into the Spaniard and cut her halyards. Then Robert of Namur boarded, and the Spaniards "were all slain and thrown into the sea."

It was a desperate battle, for the English fought most valiantly, and the Spaniards "gave them plenty to do." The English archers had a great share in the victory. The enemy's crossbowmen, and others who were appointed to hurl bars of metal or heavy stones over the bulwarks of the tops and sides, were compelled to expose themselves to take aim, and were shot through the head or neck by the clothyard shafts, while thus uncovered. Seventeen Spaniards were taken in all. Against this we had to set off the loss of several of our smaller vessels and of many men. The booty must have been considerable. There was no pursuit, partly because the victors were eager to rifle the prizes, but partly also, no doubt, because they had suffered much rough usage. The king returned to Winchelsea Abbey to celebrate his victory by festivities.

The battle with the Spaniards off Winchelsea marks the culmination of King Edward's naval power. In the gloomy closing years of his reign all these glories hastened to decay. His