Faint the din of battle bray'd
Distant down the heavy wind;
War and terror fled before,
Wounds and death were left behind.
MICKLE.
Arthur, left alone, and desirous perhaps to cover the retreat of Count
Albert, rode towards the approaching body of Burgundian cavalry, who
were arrayed under the Lord Contay's banner.
"Welcome, welcome," said that nobleman, advancing hastily to the young
knight. "The Duke of Burgundy is a mile hence, with a body of horse to
support the reconnoitring party. It is not half an hour since your
father galloped up, and stated that you had been led into an ambuscade
by the treachery of the Stradiots, and made prisoner. He has impeached
Campo-basso of treason, and challenged him to the combat. They have
both been sent to the camp, under charge of the Grand Marshal, to
prevent their fighting on the spot, though I think our Italian showed
little desire to come to blows. The Duke holds their gages, and they
are to fight upon Twelfth Day."
"I doubt that day will never dawn for some who look for it," said
Arthur; "but if it do, I will myself claim the combat, by my father's
permission."
He then turned with Contay, and met a still larger body of cavalry
under the Duke's broad banner. He was instantly brought before
Charles. The Duke heard, with some apparent anxiety, Arthur's support
of his father's accusations against the Italian, in whose favour he
was so deeply prejudiced. When assured that the Stradiots had been
across the hill, and communicated with their leader just before he
encouraged Arthur to advance, as it proved, into the midst of an
ambush, the Duke shook his head, lowered his shaggy brows, and
muttered to himself,--"Ill will to Oxford, perhaps--these Italians are
vindictive."--Then raising his head, he commanded Arthur to proceed.
He heard with a species of ecstasy the death of Rudolph Donnerhugel,
and, taking a ponderous gold chain from his own neck, flung it over
Arthur's.
"Why, thou hast forestalled all our honours, young Arthur--this was
the biggest bear of them all--the rest are but suckling whelps to him!
I think I have found a youthful David to match their huge thick-headed
Goliath. But the idiot, to think his peasant hand could manage a
lance! Well, my brave boy--what more? How camest thou off? By some
wily device or agile stratagem, I warrant."
"Pardon me, my lord," answered Arthur. "I was protected by their
chief, Ferrand, who considered my encounter with Rudolph Donnerhugel
as a personal duel; and desirous to use fair war, as he said,
dismissed me honourably, with my horse and arms."
"Umph!" said Charles, his bad humour returning; "your Prince
Adventurer must play the generous--Umph--well, it belongs to his
part, but shall not be a line for me to square my conduct by. Proceed
with your story, Sir Arthur de Vere."
As Arthur proceeded to tell how and under what circumstances Count
Albert of Geierstein named himself to him, the Duke fixed on him an
eager look, and trembled with impatience as he fiercely interrupted
him with the question--"And you--you struck him with your poniard
under the fifth rib, did you not?"
"I did not, my Lord Duke--we were pledged in mutual assurance to each
other."
"Yet you knew him to be my mortal enemy?" said the Duke. "Go, young
man, thy lukewarm indifference has cancelled thy merit. The escape of
Albert of Geierstein hath counterbalanced the death of Rudolph
Donnerhugel."
"Be it so, my lord," said Arthur, boldly. "I neither claim your
praises, nor deprecate your censure. I had to move me in either case
motives personal to myself--Donnerhugel was my enemy, and to Count
Albert I owe some kindness."
The Burgundian nobles who stood around were terrified for the effect
of this bold speech. But it was never possible to guess with accuracy
how such things would affect Charles. He looked around him with a
laugh--"Hear you this English cockerel, my lords--what a note will he
one day sound, that already crows so bravely in a prince's presence?"
A few horsemen now came in from different quarters, recounting that
the Duke Ferrand and his company had retired into their encampment,
and the country was clear of the enemy.
"Let us then draw back also," said Charles, "since there is no chance
of breaking spears to-day. And thou, Arthur de Vere, attend me
closely."
Arrived in the Duke's pavilion, Arthur underwent an examination, in
which he said nothing of Anne of Geierstein, or her father's designs
concerning him, with which he considered Charles as having nothing to
do; but he frankly conveyed to him the personal threats which the
count had openly used. The Duke listened with more temper, and when he
heard the expression, "That a man who is desperate of his own life
might command that of any other person," he said, "But there is a life
beyond this, in which he who is treacherously murdered, and his base
and desperate assassin, shall each meet their deserts." He then took
from his bosom a gold cross, and kissed it, with much appearance of
devotion. "In this," said he, "I will place my trust. If I fail in
this world, may I find grace in the next.--Ho, Sir Marshal!" he
exclaimed. "Let your prisoners attend us."
The Marshal of Burgundy entered with the Earl of Oxford, and stated
that his other prisoner, Campo-basso, had desired so earnestly that he
might be suffered to go and post his sentinels on that part of the
camp intrusted to the protection of his troops, that he, the Marshal,
had thought fit to comply with his request.
"It is well," said Burgundy, without further remark. "Then to you, my
Lord Oxford, I would present your son, had you not already locked him
in your arms. He has won great los and honour, and done me brave
service. This is a period of the year when good men forgive their
enemies;--I know not why,--my mind was little apt to be charged with
such matters,--but I feel an unconquerable desire to stop the
approaching combat betwixt you and Campo-basso. For my sake, consent
to be friends, and to receive back your gage of battle, and let me
conclude this year--perhaps the last I may see--with a deed of peace."
"My lord," said Oxford, "it is a small thing you ask of me, since your
request only enforces a Christian duty. I was enraged at the loss of
my son. I am grateful to Heaven and your Grace for restoring him. To
be friends with Campo-basso is to me impossible. Faith and treason,
truth and falsehood, might as soon shake hands and embrace. But the
Italian shall be to me no more than he has been before this rupture;
and that is literally nothing. I put my honour in your Grace's
hands;--if he receives back his gage, I am willing to receive mine.
John de Vere needs not be apprehensive that the world will suppose
that he fears Campo-basso."
The Duke returned sincere thanks, and detained the officers to spend
the evening in his tent. His manners seemed to Arthur to be more
placid than he had ever seen them before, while to the Earl of Oxford
they recalled the earlier days in which their intimacy commenced, ere
absolute power and unbounded success had spoiled Charles's rough but
not ungenerous disposition. The Duke ordered a distribution of
provisions and wine to the soldiers, and expressed an anxiety about
their lodgings, the cure of the wounded, and the health of the army,
to which he received only unpleasing answers. To some of his
counsellors, apart, he said, "Were it not for our vow, we would
relinquish this purpose till spring, when our poor soldiers might
take the field with less of suffering."
Nothing else remarkable appeared in the Duke's manner, save that he
inquired repeatedly after Campo-basso, and at length received accounts
that he was indisposed, and that his physician had recommended rest;
he had therefore retired to repose himself, in order that he might be
stirring on his duty at peep of day, the safety of the camp depending
much on his vigilance.
The Duke made no observation on the apology, which he considered as
indicating some lurking disinclination, on the Italian's part, to meet
Oxford. The guests at the ducal pavilion were dismissed an hour before
midnight.
When Oxford and his son were in their own tent, the Earl fell into a
deep reverie, which lasted nearly ten minutes. At length, starting
suddenly up, he said, "My son, give orders to Thiebault and thy yeomen
to have our horses before the tent by break of day, or rather before
it; and it would not be amiss if you ask our neighbour Colvin to ride
along with us. I will visit the outposts by daybreak."
"It is a sudden resolution, my lord," said Arthur.
"And yet it may be taken too late," said his father. "Had it been
moonlight, I would have made the rounds to-night."
"It is dark as a wolf's throat," said Arthur. "But wherefore, my lord,
can this night in particular excite your apprehensions?"
"Son Arthur, perhaps you will hold your father credulous. But my
nurse, Martha Nixon, was a northern woman, and full of superstitions.
In particular, she was wont to say, that any sudden and causeless
change of a man's nature, as from licence to sobriety, from temperance
to indulgence, from avarice to extravagance, from prodigality to love
of money, or the like, indicates an immediate change of his
fortunes--that some great alteration of circumstances, either for good
or evil (and for evil most likely, since we live in an evil world), is
impending over him whose disposition is so much altered. This old
woman's fancy has recurred so strongly to my mind, that I am
determined to see with mine own eyes, ere to-morrow's dawn, that all
our guards and patrols around the camp are on the alert."
Arthur made the necessary communications to Colvin and to Thiebault,
and then retired to rest.
It was ere daybreak of the first of January 1477, a period long
memorable for the events which marked it, that the Earl of Oxford,
Colvin, and the young Englishman, followed only by Thiebault and two
other servants, commenced their rounds of the Duke of Burgundy's
encampment. For the greater part of their progress they found
sentinels and guards all on the alert and at their posts. It was a
bitter morning. The ground was partly covered with snow,--that snow
had been partly melted by a thaw, which had prevailed for two days,
and partly congealed into ice by a bitter frost, which had commenced
the preceding evening, and still continued. A more dreary scene could
scarcely be witnessed.
But what were the surprise and alarm of the Earl of Oxford and his
companions, when they came to that part of the camp which had been
occupied the day before by Campo-basso and his Italians, who,
reckoning men-at-arms and Stradiots, amounted to nigh two thousand
men--not a challenge was given--not a horse neighed--no steeds were
seen at picket--no guard on the camp. They examined several of the
tents and huts--they were empty.
"Let us back to alarm the camp," said the Earl of Oxford; "here is
treachery."
"Nay, my lord," said Colvin, "let us not carry back imperfect tidings.
I have a battery an hundred yards in advance, covering the access to
this hollow way; let us see if my German cannoneers are at their post,
and I think I can swear that we shall find them so. The battery
commands a narrow pass, by which alone the camp can be approached, and
if my men are at their duty, I will pawn my life that we make the pass
good till you bring up succours from the main body."
"Forward, then, in God's name!" said the Earl of Oxford.
They galloped, at every risk, over broken ground, slippery with ice in
some places, incumbered with snow in others. They came to the cannon,
judiciously placed to sweep the pass, which rose towards the artillery
on the outward side, and then descended gently from the battery into
the lower ground. The waning winter moon, mingling with the dawning
light, showed them that the guns were in their places, but no sentinel
was visible.
"The villains cannot have deserted!" said the astonished Colvin. "But
see, there is light in their cantonment. Oh, that unhallowed
distribution of wine! Their usual sin of drunkenness has beset them. I
will soon drive them from their revelry."
He sprang from his horse, and rushed into the tent whence the light
issued. The cannoneers, or most of them, were still there, but
stretched on the ground, their cups and flagons scattered around them;
and so drenched were they in wassail, that Colvin could only, by
commands and threats, awaken two or three, who, staggering, and
obeying him rather from instinct than sense, reeled forward to man the
battery. A heavy rushing sound, like that of men marching fast, was
now heard coming up the pass.
"It is the roar of a distant avalanche," said Arthur.
"It is an avalanche of Switzers, not of snow," said Colvin. "Oh, these
drunken slaves! The cannon are deeply loaded and well pointed--this
volley must check them if they were fiends, and the report will alarm
the camp sooner than we can do. But, oh, these drunken villains!"
"Care not for their aid," said the Earl; "my son and I will each take
a linstock, and be gunners for once."
They dismounted, and bade Thiebault and the grooms look to the horses,
while the Earl of Oxford and his son took each a linstock from one of
the helpless gunners, three of whom were just sober enough to stand by
their guns.
"Bravo!" cried the bold master of ordnance, "never was a battery so
noble. Now, my mates--your pardon, my lords, for there is no time for
ceremony,--and you, ye drunken knaves, take heed not to fire till I
give the word, and, were the ribs of these tramplers as flinty as
their Alps, they shall know how old Colvin loads his guns."
They stood breathless, each by his cannon. The dreaded sound
approached nearer and more near, till the imperfect light showed a
dark and shadowy but dense column of men, armed with long spears,
pole-axes, and other weapons, amidst which banners dimly floated.
Colvin suffered them to approach to the distance of about forty yards,
and then gave the word, Fire! But his own piece alone exploded; a
slight flame flashed from the touch-hole of the others, which had been
spiked by the Italian deserters, and left in reality disabled, though
apparently fit for service. Had they been all in the same condition
with that fired by Colvin, they would probably have verified his
prophecy; for even that single discharge produced an awful effect, and
made a long lane of dead and wounded through the Swiss column, in
which the first and leading banner was struck down.
"Stand to it yet," said Colvin, "and aid me if possible to reload the
piece."
For this, however, no time was allowed. A stately form, conspicuous in
the front of the staggered column, raised up the fallen banner, and a
voice as of a giant exclaimed, "What, countrymen! have you seen Murten
and Granson, and are you daunted by a single gun?--Berne--Uri--Schwitz
--banners forward! Unterwalden, here is your standard!--Cry your
war-cries, wind your horns; Unterwalden, follow your Landamman!"
They rushed on like a raging ocean, with a roar as deafening, and a
course as impetuous. Colvin, still labouring to reload his gun, was
struck down in the act. Oxford and his son were overthrown by the
multitude, the closeness of which prevented any blows being aimed at
them. Arthur partly saved himself by getting under the gun he was
posted at; his father, less fortunate, was much trampled upon, and
must have been crushed to death but for his armour of proof. The human
inundation, consisting of at least four thousand men, rushed down into
the camp, continuing their dreadful shouts, soon mingled with shrill
shrieks, groans, and cries of alarm.
A broad red glare rising behind the assailants, and putting to shame
the pallid lights of the winter morning, first recalled Arthur to a
sense of his condition. The camp was on fire in his rear, and
resounded with all the various shouts of conquest and terror that are
heard in a town which is stormed. Starting to his feet, he looked
around him for his father. He lay near him senseless, as were the
gunners, whose condition prevented their attempting an escape. Having
opened his father's casque, he was rejoiced to see him give symptoms
of reanimation.
"The horses, the horses!" said Arthur. "Thiebault, where art thou?"
"At hand, my lord," said that trusty attendant, who had saved himself
and his charge by a prudent retreat into a small thicket, which the
assailants had avoided that they might not disorder their ranks.
"Where is the gallant Colvin?" said the Earl. "Get him a horse, I will
not leave him in jeopardy."
"His wars are ended, my lord," said Thiebault; "he will never mount
steed more."
A look and a sigh as he saw Colvin, with the ramrod in his hand,
before the muzzle of the piece, his head cleft by a Swiss battle-axe,
was all the moment permitted.
"Whither must we take our course?" said Arthur to his father.
"To join the Duke," said the Earl of Oxford. "It is not on a day like
this that I will leave him."
"So please you," said Thiebault, "I saw the Duke, followed by some
half-score of his guards, riding at full speed across this hollow
watercourse, and making for the open country to the northward. I think
I can guide you on the track."
"If that be so," replied Oxford, "we will mount and follow him. The
camp has been assailed on several places at once, and all must be over
since he has fled."
With difficulty they assisted the Earl of Oxford to his horse, and
rode, as fast as his returning strength permitted, in the direction
which the Provençal pointed out. Their other attendants were dispersed
or slain.
They looked back more than once on the camp, now one great scene of
conflagration, by whose red and glaring light they could discover on
the ground the traces of Charles's retreat. About three miles from the
scene of their defeat, the sound of which they still heard, mingled
with the bells of Nancy, which were ringing in triumph, they reached a
half-frozen swamp, round which lay several dead bodies. The most
conspicuous was that of Charles of Burgundy, once the possessor of
such unlimited power--such unbounded wealth. He was partly stripped
and plundered, as were those who lay round him. His body was pierced
with several wounds, inflicted by various weapons. His sword was still
in his hand, and the singular ferocity which was wont to animate his
features in battle still dwelt on his stiffened countenance. Close
behind him, as if they had fallen in the act of mutual fight, lay the
corpse of Count Albert of Geierstein; and that of Ital Schreckenwald,
the faithful though unscrupulous follower of the latter, lay not far
distant. Both were in the dress of the men-at-arms composing the
Duke's guard, a disguise probably assumed to execute the fatal
commission of the Secret Tribunal. It is supposed that a party of the
traitor Campo-basso's men had been engaged in the skirmish in which
the Duke fell, for six or seven of them, and about the same number of
the Duke's guards, were found near the spot.
The Earl of Oxford threw himself from his horse, and examined the body
of his deceased brother-in-arms, with all the sorrow inspired by early
remembrance of his kindness. But as he gave way to the feelings
inspired by so melancholy an example of the fall of human greatness,
Thiebault, who was looking out on the path they had just pursued,
exclaimed, "To horse, my lord! here is no time to mourn the dead, and
little to save the living--the Swiss are upon us."
"Fly thyself, good fellow," said the Earl; "and do thou, Arthur, fly
also, and save thy youth for happier days. I cannot and will not fly
farther. I will render me to the pursuers; if they take me to grace,
it is well; if not, there is one above that will receive me to His."
"I will not fly," said Arthur, "and leave you defenceless; I will stay
and share your fate."
"And I will remain also," said Thiebault; "the Switzers make fair war
when their blood has not been heated by much opposition, and they have
had little enough to-day."
The party of Swiss which came up proved to be Sigismund, with his
brother Ernest, and some of the youths of Unterwalden. Sigismund
kindly and joyfully received them to mercy; and thus, for the third
time, rendered Arthur an important service, in return for the kindness
he had expressed towards him.
"I will take you to my father," said Sigismund, "who will be right
glad to see you; only that he is ill at ease just now for the death of
brother Rudiger, who fell with the banner in his hand, by the only
cannon that was fired this morning. The rest could not bark:
Campo-basso had muzzled Colvin's mastiffs, or we should many more of
us have been served like poor Rudiger. But Colvin himself is killed."
"Campo-basso, then, was in your correspondence?" said Arthur.
"Not in ours--we scorn such companions--but some dealing there was
between the Italian and Duke Ferrand; and having disabled the cannon,
and filled the German gunners soundly drunk, he came off to our camp
with fifteen hundred horse, and offered to act with us. 'But no, no!'
said my father,--'traitors come not into our Swiss host;' and so,
though we walked in at the door which he left open, we would not have
his company. So he marched with Duke Ferrand to attack the other
extremity of the camp, where he found them entrance by announcing them
as the return of a reconnoitring party."
"Nay, then," said Arthur, "a more accomplished traitor never drew
breath, nor one who drew his net with such success."
"You say well," answered the young Swiss.
"The Duke will never, they say, be able to collect another army?"
"Never, young man," said the Earl of Oxford, "for he lies dead before
you."[14]
Sigismund started; for he had an inherent respect, and somewhat of
fear, for the lofty name of Charles the Bold, and could hardly believe
that the mangled corpse which now lay before him was once the
personage he had been taught to dread. But his surprise was mingled
with sorrow when he saw the body of his uncle, Count Albert of
Geierstein.
"Oh, my uncle!" he said--"my dear uncle Albert! has all your greatness
and your wisdom brought you to a death, at the side of a ditch, like
any crazed beggar?--Come, this sad news must be presently told to my
father, who will be concerned to hear of his brother's death, which
will add gall to bitterness, coming on the back of poor Rudiger's. It
is some comfort, however, that father and uncle never could abide each
other."
With some difficulty they once more assisted the Earl of Oxford to
horseback, and were proceeding to set forward, when the English lord
said,--"You will place a guard here, to save these bodies from further
dishonour, that they may be interred with due solemnity."
"By Our Lady of Einsiedlen! I thank you for the hint," said Sigismund.
"Yes, we should do all that the Church can for uncle Albert. It is to
be hoped he has not gambled away his soul beforehand, playing with
Satan at odds and evens. I would we had a priest to stay by his poor
body; but it matters not, since no one ever heard of a demon appearing
just before breakfast."
They proceeded to the Landamman's quarters, through sights and scenes
which Arthur, and even his father, so well accustomed to war in all
its shapes, could not look upon without shuddering. But the simple
Sigismund, as he walked by Arthur's side, contrived to hit upon a
theme so interesting as to divert his sense of the horrors around
them.
"Have you further business in Burgundy, now this Duke of yours is at
an end?"
"My father knows best," said Arthur; "but I apprehend we have none.
The Duchess of Burgundy, who must now succeed to some sort of
authority in her late husband's dominion, is sister to this Edward of
York, and a mortal enemy to the House of Lancaster, and to those who
have stood by it faithfully. It were neither prudent nor safe to tarry
where she has influence."
"In that case," said Sigismund, "my plan will fadge bravely. You shall
go back to Geierstein, and take up your dwelling with us. Your father
will be a brother to mine, and a better one than uncle Albert, whom he
seldom saw or spoke with; while with your father he will converse from
morning till night, and leave us all the work of the farm. And you,
Arthur, you shall go with us, and be a brother to us all, in place of
poor Rudiger, who was, to be sure, my real brother, which you cannot
be: nevertheless, I did not like him so well, in respect he was not so
good-natured. And then Anne--cousin Anne--is left all to my father's
charge, and is now at Geierstein--and you know, King Arthur, we used
to call her Queen Guenover."
"You spoke great folly then," said Arthur.
"But it is great truth--For, look you, I loved to tell Anne tales of
our hunting, and so forth, but she would not listen a word till I
threw in something of King Arthur, and then I warrant she would sit
still as a heath-hen when the hawk is in the heavens. And now
Donnerhugel is slain, you know you may marry my cousin when you and
she will, for nobody hath interest to prevent it."
Arthur blushed with pleasure under his helmet, and almost forgave that
new-year's morning all its complicated distresses.
"You forget," he replied to Sigismund, with as much indifference as he
could assume, "that I may be viewed in your country with prejudice on
account of Rudolph's death."
"Not a whit, not a whit; we bear no malice for what is done in fair
fight under shield. It is no more than if you had beat him in
wrestling or at quoits--only it is a game cannot be played over
again."
They now entered the town of Nancy. The windows were hung with
tapestry, and the streets crowded with tumultuous and rejoicing
multitudes, whom the success of the battle had relieved from great
alarm for the formidable vengeance of Charles of Burgundy.
The prisoners were received with the utmost kindness by the Landamman,
who assured them of his protection and friendship. He appeared to
support the death of his son Rudiger with stern resignation.
"He had rather," he said, "his son fell in battle, than that he should
live to despise the old simplicity of his country, and think the
object of combat was the gaining of spoil. The gold of the dead
Burgundy," he added, "would injure the morals of Switzerland more
irretrievably than ever his sword did their bodies."
He heard of his brother's death without surprise, but apparently with
emotion.
"It was the conclusion," he said, "of a long tissue of ambitious
enterprises, which often offered fair prospects, but uniformly ended
in disappointment."
The Landamman further intimated that his brother had apprised him that
he was engaged in an affair of so much danger that he was almost
certain to perish in it, and had bequeathed his daughter to her
uncle's care, with instructions respecting her.
Here they parted for the present, but shortly after, the Landamman
inquired earnestly of the Earl of Oxford what his motions were like to
be, and whether he could assist them.
"I think of choosing Bretagne for my place of refuge," answered the
Earl, "where my wife has dwelt since the battle of Tewkesbury expelled
us from England."
"Do not so," said the kind Landamman, "but come to Geierstein with the
countess, where, if she can, like you, endure our mountain manners and
mountain fare, you are welcome as to the house of a brother, to a soil
where neither conspiracy nor treason ever flourished. Bethink you, the
Duke of Bretagne is a weak prince, entirely governed by a wicked
favourite, Peter Landais. He is as capable--I mean the minister--of
selling brave men's blood, as a butcher of selling bullock's flesh;
and you know, there are those, both in France and Burgundy, that
thirst after yours."
The Earl of Oxford expressed his thanks for the proposal, and his
determination to profit by it, if approved of by Henry of Lancaster,
Earl of Richmond, whom he now regarded as his sovereign.
To close the tale, about three months after the battle of Nancy, the
banished Earl of Oxford resumed his name of Philipson, bringing with
his lady some remnants of their former wealth, which enabled them to
procure a commodious residence near to Geierstein; and the Landamman's
interest in the state procured for them the right of denizenship. The
high blood and the moderate fortunes of Anne of Geierstein and Arthur
de Vere, joined to their mutual inclination, made their marriage in
every respect rational; and Annette with her bachelor took up their
residence with the young people, not as servants, but mechanical aids
in the duties of the farm; for Arthur continued to prefer the chase to
the labours of husbandry, which was of little consequence, as his
separate income amounted, in that poor country, to opulence. Time
glided on, till it amounted to five years since the exiled family had
been inhabitants of Switzerland. In the year 1482, the Landamman
Biederman died the death of the righteous, lamented universally, as a
model of the true and valiant, simple-minded and sagacious chiefs who
ruled the ancient Switzers in peace, and headed them in battle. In the
same year, the Earl of Oxford lost his noble countess.
But the star of Lancaster, at that period, began again to culminate,
and called the banished lord and his son from their retirement, to mix
once more in politics. The treasured necklace of Margaret was then put
to its destined use, and the produce applied to levy those bands which
shortly after fought the celebrated battle of Bosworth, in which the
arms of Oxford and his son contributed so much to the success of Henry
VII. This changed the destinies of De Vere and his lady. Their Swiss
farm was conferred on Annette and her husband; and the manners and
beauty of Anne of Geierstein attracted as much admiration at the
English court as formerly in the Swiss chalet.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Note III.
AUTHOR'S NOTES.
Note I. p. 201.--THE TROUBADOURS.
The smoothness of the Provençal dialect, partaking strongly of the
Latin, which had been spoken for so many ages in what was called for
distinction's sake the Roman Province of Gaul, and the richness and
fertility of a country abounding in all that could delight the senses
and soothe the imagination, naturally disposed the inhabitants to
cultivate the art of poetry, and to value and foster the genius of
those who distinguished themselves by attaining excellence in it.
Troubadours, that is, _finders_ or _inventors_, equivalent to the
northern term of _makers_, arose in every class, from the lowest to
the highest, and success in their art dignified men of the meanest
rank, and added fresh honours to those who were born in the patrician
file of society. War and love, more especially the latter, were
dictated to them by the chivalry of the times as the especial subjects
of their verse. Such, too, were the themes of our northern minstrels.
But whilst the latter confined themselves in general to those
well-known metrical histories in which scenes of strife and combat
mingled with adventures of enchantment, and fables of giants and
monsters subdued by valiant champions, such as best attracted the ears
of the somewhat duller and more barbarous warriors of northern France,
of Britain, and of Germany--the more lively Troubadours produced poems
which turned on human passion, and on love, affection, and dutiful
observance, with which the faithful knight was bound to regard the
object of his choice, and the honour and respect with which she was
bound to recompense his faithful services.
Thus far it cannot be disputed that the themes selected by the
Troubadours were those on which poetry is most naturally exerted, and
with the best chance of rising to excellence. But it usually happens,
that when any one of the fine arts is cultivated exclusively, the
taste of those who practise and admire its productions loses sight of
nature, simplicity, and true taste, and the artist endeavours to
discover, while the public learn to admire, some more complicated
system, in which pedantry supersedes the dictates of natural feeling,
and metaphysical ingenuity is used instead of the more obvious
qualifications of simplicity and good sense. Thus, with the unanimous
approbation of their hearers, the Troubadours framed for themselves a
species of poetry describing and inculcating a system of metaphysical
affection as inconsistent with nature as the minstrel's tales of
magicians and monsters; with this evil to society, that it was
calculated deeply to injure its manners and its morals. Every
Troubadour, or good Knight, who took the maxims of their poetical
school for his rule, was bound to choose a lady love, the fairest and
noblest to whom he had access, to whom he dedicated at once his lyre
and his sword, and who, married or single, was to be the object to
whom his life, words, and actions were to be devoted. On the other
hand, a lady thus honoured and distinguished was bound, by accepting
the services of such a gallant, to consider him as her lover, and on
all due occasions to grace him as such with distinguished marks of
personal favour. It is true that, according to the best authorities,
the intercourse betwixt her lover and herself was to be entirely of a
Platonic character, and the loyal swain was not to require, or the
chosen lady to grant, anything beyond the favour she might in strict
modesty bestow. Even under this restriction, the system was like to
make wild work with the domestic peace of families, since it
permitted, or rather enjoined, such familiarity betwixt the fair dame
and her poetical admirer; and very frequently human passions, placed
in such a dangerous situation, proved too strong to be confined within
the metaphysical bounds prescribed to them by so fantastic and
perilous a system. The injured husbands on many occasions avenged
themselves with severity, and even with dreadful cruelty, on the
unfaithful ladies, and the musical skill and chivalrous character of
the lover proved no protection to his person. But the real spirit of
the system was seen in this, that in the poems of the other
Troubadours, by whom such events are recorded, their pity is all
bestowed on the hapless lovers, while, without the least allowance for
just provocation, the injured husband is held up to execration.
Note II. p. 203.--HIGH AND NOBLE PARLIAMENT OF LOVE.
In Provence, during the flourishing time of the Troubadours, Love was
esteemed so grave and formal a part of the business of life, that a
Parliament or High Court of Love was appointed for deciding such
questions. This singular tribunal was, it may be supposed, conversant
with more of imaginary than of real suits; but it is astonishing with
what cold and pedantic ingenuity the Troubadours of whom it consisted
set themselves to plead and to decide, upon reasoning which was not
less singular and able than out of place, the absurd questions which
their own fantastic imaginations had previously devised. There, for
example, is a reported case of much celebrity, where a lady sitting in
company with three persons, who were her admirers, listened to one
with the most favourable smiles, while she pressed the hand of the
second, and touched with her own the foot of the third. It was a case
much agitated and keenly contested in the Parliament of Love, which of
these rivals had received the distinguishing mark of the lady's
favour. Much ingenuity was wasted on this and similar cases, of which
there is a collection, in all judicial form of legal proceedings,
under the title of _Arrêts d'Amour_ (Adjudged Cases of the Court of
Love).
Note III. p. 344.
The following very striking passage is that in which Philip de
Commines sums up the last scene of Charles the Bold, whose various
fortunes he had long watched with a dark anticipation that a character
so reckless, and capable of such excess, must sooner or later lead to
a tragical result:--
"As soon as the Count de Campo-basso arrived in the Duke
of Lorrain's army, word was sent him to leave the camp
immediately, for they would not entertain, nor have any
communication with, such traytors. Upon which message he
retir'd with his party to a Castle and Pass not far off,
where he fortified himself with carts and other things as
well as he could, in hopes, that if the Duke of Burgundy
was routed, he might have an opportunity of coming in for
a share of the plunder, as he did afterwards. Nor was this
practice with the Duke of Lorrain the most execrable
action that Campo-basso was guilty of; but before he left
the army he conspir'd with several other officers (finding
it was impracticable to attempt anything against the Duke
of Burgundy's person) to leave him just as they came to
charge, for at that time he suppos'd it would put the Duke
into the greatest terror and consternation, and if he
fled, he was sure he could not escape alive, for he had
order'd thirteen or fourteen sure men, some to run as soon
as the Germans came up to charge 'em, and others to watch
the Duke of Burgundy, and kill him in the rout, which was
well enough contrived; I myself have seen two or three of
those who were employed to kill the Duke. Having thus
settled his conspiracy at home, he went over to the Duke
of Lorrain upon the approach of the German army; but
finding they would not entertain him, he retired to Condé.
"The German army marched forward, and with 'em a
considerable body of French horse, whom the King had given
leave to be present at that action. Several parties lay in
ambush not far off, that if the Duke of Burgundy was
routed, they might surprise some person of quality, or
take some considerable booty. By this every one may see
into what a deplorable condition this poor Duke had
brought himself, by his contempt of good counsel. Both
armies being joyn'd, the Duke of Burgundy's forces having
been twice beaten before, and by consequence weak and
dispirited, and ill provided besides, were quickly broken
and entirely defeated: Many sav'd themselves and got off;
the rest were either taken or kill'd; and among 'em the
Duke of Burgundy himself was killed on the spot. One
Monsieur Claude of Bausmont, Captain of the Castle of Dier
in Lorrain, kill'd the Duke of Burgundy. Finding his army
routed, he mounted a swift horse, and endeavouring to swim
a little river in order to make his escape, his horse fell
with him, and overset him: The Duke cry'd out for quarter
to this gentleman, who was pursuing him, but he being
deaf, and not hearing him, immediately kill'd and stripp'd
him, not knowing who he was, and left him naked in the
ditch, where his body was found the next day after the
battle; which the Duke of Lorrain (to his eternal honour)
buried with great pomp and magnificence in St. George's
Church, in the old town of Nancy, himself and all his
nobility, in deep mourning, attending the corpse to the
grave. The following epitaph was sometime afterwards
ingrav'd on his tomb:--
'_Carolus hoc busto Burgundæ gloria gentis
Conditur, Europæ qui fuit ante timor._'
I saw a seal ring of his, since his death, at Milan, with
his arms cut curiously upon a sardonix that I have seen
him often wear in a ribbon at his breast, which was sold
at Milan for two ducats, and had been stolen from him by a
rascal that waited on him in his chamber. I have often
seen the Duke dress'd and undress'd in great state and
formality, and attended by very great persons; but at his
death all this pomp and magnificence ceas'd, and his
family was involv'd in the same ruin with himself, and
very likely as a punishment for his having deliver'd up
the Constable not long before, out of a base and
avaricious principle; but God forgive him. I have known
him a powerful and honourable Prince, in as great esteem,
and as much courted by his neighbours (when his affairs
were in a prosperous condition), as any Prince in Europe,
and perhaps more; and I cannot conceive what should
provoke God Almighty's displeasure so highly against him,
unless it was his self-love and arrogance, in
appropriating all the success of his enterprises, and all
the renown he ever acquir'd, to his own wisdom and
conduct, without attributing anything to God. Yet to speak
truth, he was master of several good qualities: No Prince
ever had a greater ambition to entertain young noblemen
than he, nor was more careful of their education: His
presents and bounty were never profuse and extravagant,
because he gave to many, and had a mind everybody should
taste of it. No Prince was ever more easie of access to
his servants and subjects. Whilst I was in his service he
was never cruel, but a little before his death he took up
that humour, which was an infallible sign of the shortness
of his life. He was very splendid and curious in his
dress, and in everything else, and indeed a little too
much. He paid great honours to all ambassadors and
foreigners, and entertain'd them nobly: His ambitious
desire of fame was insatiable, and it was that which
induced him to be eternally in wars, more than any other
motive. He ambitiously desir'd to imitate the old Kings
and Heroes of antiquity, whose actions still shine in
History, and are so much talked of in the world, and his
courage was equal to any Prince's of his time.
"But all his designs and imaginations were vain and
extravagant, and turn'd afterwards to his own dishonour
and confusion, for 'tis the conquerors and not the
conquer'd that purchase to themselves renown. I cannot
easily determine towards whom God Almighty shew'd his
anger most, whether towards him who died suddenly without
pain or sickness in the field of battle, or towards his
subjects who never enjoy'd peace after his death, but were
continually involv'd in wars, against which they were not
able to maintain themselves, upon account of the civil
dissentions and cruel animosities that arose among 'em;
and that which was the most insupportable, was, that the
very people, to whom they were now oblig'd for their
defence and preservation, were the Germans, who were
strangers, and not long since their profess'd enemies. In
short, after the Duke's death, there was not a
neighbouring state that wished them to prosper, nor even
Germany that defended 'em. And by the management of their
affairs, their understanding seem'd to be as much
infatuated as their master's, for they rejected all good
counsel, and pursued such methods as directly tended to
their destruction; and they are still in such a condition,
that though they have at present some little ease and
relaxation from their sorrows, yet 'tis with great danger
of a relapse, and 'tis well if it turns not in the end to
their utter ruin.
"I am partly of their opinion who maintain, that God gives
Princes, as he in his wisdom thinks fit, to punish or
chastise the subjects; and he disposes the affection of
subjects to their Princes, as he has determin'd to raise
or depress 'em. Just so it has pleas'd him to deal with
the House of Burgundy; for, after a long series of riches
and prosperity, and six-and-twenty years' peace under
three Illustrious Princes, predecessors to this Charles
(all of 'em excellent persons, and of great prudence and
discretion), it pleas'd God to send this Duke Charles, who
involv'd them in bloody wars, as well winter as summer, to
their great affliction and expense, in which most of their
richest and stoutest men were either kill'd, or utterly
undone. Their misfortunes continu'd successively to the
very hour of his death; and after such a manner, that at
the last, the whole strength of their country was
destroy'd, and all kill'd or taken prisoners who had any
zeal or affection for the House of Burgundy, and had power
to defend the state and dignity of that family; so that in
a manner their losses were equal to, if not over balanc'd
their former prosperity; for as I have seen those Princes
heretofore puissant, rich, and honourable, so it fared the
same with their subjects; for I think, I have seen and
known the greatest part of Europe; yet I never knew any
province, or country, tho' perhaps of a larger extent, so
abounding in money, so extravagantly fine in furniture for
their horses, so sumptuous in their buildings, so profuse
in their expenses, so luxurious in their feasts and
entertainments, and so prodigal in all respects, as the
subjects of these Princes, in my time: but it has pleased
God at one blow to subvert and ruin this illustrious
family. Such changes and revolutions in states and
kingdoms God in his providence has wrought before we were
born, and will do again when we are in our graves; for
this is a certain maxim, that the prosperity or adversity
of Princes are wholly at his disposal."
COMMINES, Book V. Chap. 9.
Editor's Notes.
(_a_) p. 114. "The good King René." There is a biography of this
prince, by the Comte de Villeneuve Bargemont. René of Anjou, descended
from the second son of John of Valois, King of France, inherited the
duchy of Lorraine in right of his wife, daughter of Charles II., Duke
of Lorraine. His claim was contested by Antoine, Comte de Vaudémont,
representing a collateral male branch of the earlier line. This
claimant was backed by Philip the Good, of Burgundy. René was
defeated, in 1431, at Bulgueville, and passed some years as a captive
in Dijon. Here, like Charles d'Orleans in England, and James I. in the
same country, he amused himself with poetry and art. He succeeded to
the crown of Provence, a remnant of the Neapolitan domains of Anjou,
and his daughter, Yolande, married the son of his rival of Vaudémont.
Lorraine was entailed on them and their issue, failing male issue of
René. After an expedition to Naples he ceded Lorraine to his son, and
passed his time in a pleasing pastoral manner, in Provence. In his old
age Lorraine fell to his grandson René, and the unlucky region was
drawn into disputes of France and Burgundy, between which it lay.
Burgundy conquered Lorraine. Old René negotiated for Burgundian
protection, and for Charles's succession to Provence, which on René's
death would make Burgundy "a Middle Kingdom conterminous with Germany
and France." But the conquest of Lorraine was the last of Charles's
successes: the end of the novel before us tells the story of his fall.
(_b_) p. 116. "Edward of York has crossed the Sea." The date is 1475.
Louis and Edward met on the bridge over the Somme, at Pequigny, and
made terms. The scheme of Oxford, in the novel, for an invasion of
England during Edward's absence, was thus rendered impossible.
(_c_) p. 125. "Henry Colvin." Comines calls this soldier "Cohin," in
the oldest texts "Colpin." He commanded three hundred English, and
was killed by a cannon shot: "great loss to the Duke, for a single man
may save his master, though he be of no great lineage, so he have but
sense and virtue."
(_d_) p. 262. "Granson." The Burgundian defeat is described in
Comines, book v. ch. i. Of Charles, Comines says, "il perdit honneur
et chevance ce jour." Morat he describes in book v. ch. iii. The
narrative of Charles's despair, and the detail of his drinking
_tisane_ in place of wine, is borrowed from Comines, book v. ch. v.,
in the sixteenth chapter of the novel. The treachery of Campobasso is
recorded in Comines's sixth-ninth chapter. Mr. Kirk's version of
Charles's last fight is written with much spirit.
ANDREW LANG.
May 1894.
GLOSSARY.
=Abettance=, support, encouragement.
=Abye=, to pay the penalty of, to atone for.
=Adjected=, appended, added.
=Albe=, a long white linen robe worn by priests.
=Ariette=, a little song.
=Arquebusier=, a soldier armed with an arquebuse, an early
form of musket.
=Assoilzied=, pardoned.
=Astucious=, astute, shrewd, cunning.
=Baaren-hauter=, a nickname for a German private soldier.
=Ban=, an imperial edict; the laws of the Empire.
=Ban-dog=, a large fierce dog.
=Barbed=, clad in armour.
=Beauffet=, a sideboard.
"=Blink out of=," to evade, to escape.
=Bordel=, a brothel.
=Botargo=, the roe of the mullet or tunny, salted and dried.
=Brache=, a kind of sporting dog.
=Bretagne=, Brittany.
=Broad-piece=, an old English gold coin.
=Bruit=, rumour.
"=Buon campagna=," open country.
=Caravansera=, an inn.
=Carbonado=, a piece of meat or game, seasoned and broiled.
=Caviare=, the roe of the sturgeon pickled in salt.
=Chaffron=, =chamfron=, the armoured frontlet of a horse.
=Chalumeau=, a reed or pipe made into an instrument of
music.
=Coif=, a woman's headdress.
=Corso=, the chief street or square in an Italian town.
"=Côte roti=," wine grown on a sunny slope.
=Dalmatic=, =dalmatique=, a long ecclesiastical robe.
=Debonair=, affable, courteous.
=Dishabille=, undress, negligent dress.
=Dorf=, a village.
=Ducat=, an old gold coin, worth about 9_s._ 4_d._
=Entrechat=, a caper.
=Fadge=, to succeed, to turn out well.
=Galilee=, a porch or chapel beside a monastery or church,
in which the monks received visitors, where processions
were formed, penitents stationed, and so forth.
=Gear=, business, affair; property.
=Geierstein=, vulture-stone.
=Grave=, a count.
=Gutter-blooded=, of the meanest birth.
=Hagbut=, a musket.
=Halidome=, on my word of honour.
=Hypocaust=, a stove, heating apparatus.
=Jongleur=, a minstrel-poet of Northern France.
=Lauds=, a daily service of the Roman Catholic Church.
=Los=, praise.
=Morgue=, the proud, disdainful look of a superior to an
inferior.
=Morisco=, a Moor of Spain.
=Pardoner=, a licensed seller of papal indulgences.
=Pavin=, a stately Spanish dance.
=Pennoncelle=, a little flag fixed to a lance.
=Peste!= plague on't!
=Piastre=, a silver coin, worth 4_s._
=Plump=, a clump, collection.
"=Poz element=," a German oath.
=Questionary=, a pedlar of relics or indulgences.
=Rebeck=, an instrument resembling the violin.
=Reiter=, a horse-soldier.
=Rhein-Thal=, the valley of the Rhine.
=Ritter=, a knight.
=Rote=, a kind of harp, played by turning a wheel.
=Samite=, a textile made of gold cloth or satin.
"=Sapperment der Teufel!="--a German oath.
=Schwarz-reiter=, a German mercenary horse-soldier.
"=Sibylline leaf=," the oracular or precious saying.
=Stadtholder=, the emperor's deputy in ancient Westphalia.
=Stell=, to mount or plant (a cannon).
=Strick-kind=, the child of the cord--the prisoner on trial
before the Vehmic Tribunal.
=Stube=, a sitting-room, a public room.
=Talliage=, a subsidy, a tax.
"=Tiers état=," the third estate, or representatives of the
people.
=Turnpike-stair=, a spiral or winding staircase.
=Vambrace=, the piece of armour that covered the forearm.
=Violer=, a player on a viol, a kind of violin.
=Visard=, a mask to cover the face.
=Wass-ail=, ale or wine sweetened and flavoured with spices.
=Wassel-song=, a drinking or carousing song.
=Welked=, marked with protuberances or ridges.
=Yungfrau=, =Jungfrau=, a young girl.
=Yung-herren=, =Jung-herren=, =Junker=, the sons of a German
minor noble.
=Zechin=, a Venetian gold coin, worth from 9_s._ to 10_s._
END OF VOL. II.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
Edinburgh and London