end of 1445, our doughty squire was traversing the cathedral of Notre
Dame of Antwerp, and was on the point of cursing the singers for their
bad voices, just as one might be almost justified in doing now, so
execrable are they; he was there and thus engaged, when a Sicilian
knight, named Bonifazio, came jingling his spurs along the transept,
and looking jauntingly and impertinently as he passed by. Jacques
looked boldly at this “pretty fellow” of the time, and remarked that
he wore a golden fetter ring on his left leg, held up by a chain of
the same metal fastened to a circlet above his knee. His shield bore
the device, “Who has fair lady, let him look to her well!” “It’s an
impertinent device,” said Jacques, touching the shield, by way of token
that he would fight the bearer for carrying it. “Thou art but a poor
squire, albeit a bold man,” said the Sicilian, with the air of one who
was half inclined to chastise the Hainaulter for his insolence. Toison
d’Or, the herald, whispered in the ear of the Hainaulter; thereupon,
Jacques exclaimed, “If my master, Duke Philip, will give me permission
to fight, thou darest not deny me, on his Grace’s territory.” Bonifazio
bowed by way of assent. The permission was gained, and the encounter
came off at Ghent. The first day’s combat was a species of preliminary
struggle on horseback, in which Jacques showed himself so worthy of
the spurs he did not yet wear, that Philip fastened them to his heels
the next day, and dubbed him Knight in solemn form. As the combatants
strode into the lists, on the second day, the Duke of Orleans remarked
to his Duchess, that Jacques was not so “gent as the Sicilian.” The
Duchess smiled, as Guinever smiled when she looked on Sir Launcelot,
while her husband, King Arthur, commented upon him; and she said, in
phrase known to all who read Spenser, “he loves a lady gent;” and she
added, with more of the smile and less of the blush, “he is a better
man than the Sicilian, and, to my thinking, he will this day prove it.”
“We shall see,” remarked the Duke carelessly.
“We shall see,” re-echoed the Duchess, with the sunniest of smiles.
Jacques, like the chivalric “gent” that he was, did honor to the
testimony of the Duchess. The combatants went at it, like stout men.
Jacques belabored his antagonist with a staff, the Sicilian answered by
thrusting a javelin at his adversary’s uncovered face. They then flung
away their arms and their shields, and hewed at each other with their
battle-axes. Having spoiled the edges of these, and loosened them from
their handles, by battering at each other’s skulls, they finally drew
their lusty and well-tempered swords, and fought so fiercely that the
gleaming of their swiftly manœuvred blades made them seem as if they
were smiting each other with lightning. Jacques had well-nigh dealt a
mortal thrust at the Sicilian, when, at the intervention of the Duke
of Orleans, Philip the Good flung his truncheon into the lists, and so
saved the foreign knight, by ending the fray. The Duchess reproved her
consort for being over-intrusive, but she smiled more gleesomely than
before. “Whither away, Sir Jacques?” asked she, as the latter modestly
bowed on passing her--the multitude the while rending the welkin with
their approving shout. “To the chapel in the wood,” replied Jacques,
“to render thanks for the aid vouchsafed to me by our Lady.” “Marry,”
murmured the Duchess, “we will be there too.” She thought it not less
edifying to see knight at his devotions than at beholding him in the
duello. “I am grateful to the Lady of Good Succor,” said Jacques. “And
thou doest right loyally,” was the comment of the Duchess.
The victory of the Belgian cavalier over the Sicilian gained for him
the distinctive name which he never lost, that of “the Good Knight.” To
maintain it, he proceeded to travel from court to court, as pugilists
itinerate it from fair to fair, to exhibit prowess and to gather
praise. The minor pugilist looks to pence as well as praise, and the
ancient knight had an eye to profit also--he invariably carried off
the horse, armor, and jewels of the vanquished. As Sir Jacques deemed
himself invincible, he looked to the realization of a lucrative tour.
“Go on thy way, with God’s blessing,” exclaimed his sire. “Go on thy
way, Jacques,” murmured his mother through her tears; “thou wilt
find ointment in thy valise, to cure all bruises. Heaven send thee a
surgeon, and thou break thy bones.”
Across the French frontier merrily rode Sir Jacques, followed by
his squire, and attended by his page. From his left arm hung a
splendidly-wrought helmet, by a chain of gold--the prize offered
by him to any one who could overcome him in single combat. Jacques
announced that, in addition, he would give a diamond to any lady or
demoiselle indicated to him by his conqueror. He stipulated that
whichever combatant first dropped his axe, he should bestow a bracelet
upon his adversary; and Jacques would only fight upon the condition
that neither knight should be fastened in his saddle--a regulation
which I should never think of seeing insisted upon anywhere, except by
equestrian aldermen when they amble on Mr. Batty’s horses, to meet the
Sovereign at Temple Bar. For the rest Jacques put his trust in God,
and relied upon the strength given him in the love of “the fair lady
who had more power over him than aught besides throughout the entire
world.” A hundred ladies fair, matrons and maids, who heard of this
well-advertised confidence, did not hesitate to exclaim, “Delicious
fellow! He means _me_!”
It was the proud boast of Jacques, that he traversed the capital, and
the provincial cities of France, without meeting with a knight who
would accept his defiance. It would be more correct to say--a knight
who _could_ take up his challenge. Charles VII. forbade his chivalry
from encountering the fierce Hainaulter anywhere but at the festive
board. In the South of France, then held by the English, he met with
the same civility; and he rode fairly into Spain, his lance in rest,
before his onward career was checked by the presence of an adversary.
That adversary was Don Diego de Guzman, Grand-master of Calatrava, and,
although he knew it not, ancestor to a future Empress of the French.
The Don met the Belgian on the borders of Castile, and accepted his
published challenge out of mere love, as the one silly fellow said of
the other, out of mere love for his “_très aimée dame_.” The “_dames_”
of those days enjoyed nothing so much as seeing the gentlemen thwack
each other; and considering what a worthless set these latter, for the
most part, were, the ladies had logically comic reasons to support
their argument.
It was necessary, however, for Don Diego to obtain the consent of his
sovereign to encounter in mortal combat a knight of the household of
Burgundy, then in alliance with Spain. The Sovereign was absent from
the country, and while an answer was being expected from him to the
application duly made, Jacques, at the head of a most splendid retinue,
trotted leisurely into Portugal, to tempt the Lusitanian knights to
set their lances against him. He rode forward to the capital, and was
greeted by the way, as if he had been as illustrious a monarch as
his ducal master. It was one ovation, from the frontier to Lisbon,
where he was welcomed by the most crowded of royal balls, at which
the King (Alphonso XV.) invited him to foot it with the Queen. The
King, however, was but an indifferent master of the ceremonies. The
late Mr. Simpson of Vauxhall, or the illustrious Baron Nathan of
Rosherville, would never have dreamed of taking the lady to introduce
her to the gentleman. This uncourteous process was, however, the one
followed by Alphonso, who taking his consort by the hand, led her to
Sire Jacques, and bad him tread a measure with her. Messire Jacques
consented, and there was more than enough of dancing, and feasting, and
pleasure-seeking, but no fighting. Lisbon was as dull to the Belgian
as Donnybrook Fair without a skrimmage used to be to all its lively
_habitués_. “I have had a turn with the Queen,” said Jacques, “let me
now have a tourney with your captains.” “Burgundy is my good friend,”
answered the King--and he was right in a double sense, for Burgundy
was as dear to him as Champagne is to the Czar’s valet, Frederick
William, who resides at Berlin. “Burgundy is our good friend,” answered
Alphonso, “and Heaven forbid that a knight from such a court should be
roughly treated by any knights at mine.” “By St. George! I defy them!”
exclaimed Jacques. “And even so let it rest,” said the monarch; “ride
back to Castile, and do thy worst upon the hard ribs of the Guzman.”
Jacques adopted the suggestion; and on the 3d of February, 1447, there
was not a bed in Valladolid to be had “for love or money;” so crowded
was that strong-smelling city with stronger-smelling Spaniards, whose
curiosity was even stronger than the odors they distilled, to witness
the “set-to” between the Belgian Chicken and the Castile Shaver!
I will not detail the preliminary ceremonies, the processions to the
field, the entry of the sovereigns, the fluttering of the ladies,
the excitement of the knights, and the eagerness of the countless
multitude. Jacques was on the ground by ten o’clock, where Guzman
kept him waiting till three; and then the latter came with an axe so
much longer than that wielded by the Belgian, that even the Spanish
umpires forbade its being employed. Don Diego’s own “godfather” for
the occasion was almost minded to thump him with the handle; and there
was all the trouble in the world to induce him to select another.
This being effected, each knight was conducted to his tent, with the
understanding that he was not to issue therefrom until the clarions
had thrice sounded by way of signal. At the very first blast, however,
out rushed the Guzman, looking as ferocious as a stage Richard who
has killed five false Richmonds, and is anxiously inquiring for the
real one wherewith to finish the half-dozen. The too volatile Don was
beckoned back by the chief herald as haughtily as when the sempiternal
Widdicombe points out with his whip some obvious duty to be performed
by Mr. Merryman. Diego retired muttering, but he again appeared in
front of his tent at the second note of summons from the trumpet, and
only withdrew after the king had assailed him “with an ugly word.” At
the third “flourish,” the two champions flew at each other, battle-axe
in hand. With this weapon they hammered at each other’s head, until
there was little sense left in either of them. At length, Diego was
disarmed; then ensued a contest made up partly of wrestling and
partly of boxing; finally, they had recourse to their swords, when
the king, perceiving that murder was likely to ensue, to one or both,
threw his bâton into the lists, put an end to the combat, and refused
permission to the adversaries to continue the struggle on horseback.
The antagonists shook hands, and the people shouted. The Spanish knight
is deemed, by Belgian chroniclers, as having come off “second best” in
the struggle; but it is also clear that Diego de Guzman was by far
the “toughest customer” that ever confronted Jacques de Lelaing. There
was some jealousy on the part of the Iberian, but his behavior was,
altogether, marked by generosity. He praised the prowess of Jacques,
and presented him with an Andalusian horse covered with the richest
trappings; and de Lelaing, as unwilling to be outdone in liberality
as in fight, sent to Guzman, by a herald, a magnificent charger, with
coverings of blue velvet embroidered in gold, and a saddle of violet
velvet, to be seated in which, was of itself a luxury. Much dancing at
court followed; and finally, the “good knight” left Valladolid loaded
with gifts from the king, praises from men, and love from the ladies,
who made surrender of more hearts than he had time to accept.
In Navarre and in Aragon he challenged all comers, but in vain. Swords
slept in scabbards, and battle-axes hung quietly from saddle-bows, and
there was more feasting than fighting. At length Jacques, after passing
through Perpignan and Narbonne, arrived at Montpelier, where he became
the guest of the famous Jacques Cœur, the silversmith and banker of
Charles VII. Old Cœur was a hearty old host, for he offered the knight
any amount of money he would honor him by accepting; and he intimated
that if De Lelaing, in the course of his travels had found it necessary
to pawn any of his plate or jewelry, _he_ (Jacques Cœur) would redeem
it free of expense. “My good master, the Duke of Burgundy,” replied the
errant chevalier, “provides all that is necessary for me, and allows
me to want for nothing;” and thereupon he went on his way to the court
of Burgundy, where he was received with more honor than if he had been
executing a mission for the especial benefit of humanity.
But these honors were little, compared with the rejoicings which took
place when the “good knight” revisited his native château, and the
parents who therein resided. His sire hugged him till his armor was
warm again; and his lady mother walked about the halls in a state of
ecstacy and thanksgiving. Finally, the rafters shook at the efforts of
the joyous dancers, and many a judicious matron instructed her daughter
how Jacques, who subdued the stoutest knights, might be himself subdued
by the very gentlest of ladies. The instruction was given in vain. The
good chevalier made love alike to young widows, wives, and daughters,
and having broken more hearts than he ever broke lances, he suddenly
left home in search of new adventures.
Great was the astonishment, and _that_ altogether of a pleasurable
sort, when the herald Charolais appeared at the Scottish court in
July, 1449, and delivered a challenge from Jacques to the whole of the
Douglases. It was accepted in their name by James Douglas, the brother
of the lieutenant-general of the kingdom; and in December of the year
last named, Jacques, with a retinue of fighting uncles, cousins, and
friends, embarked at Ecluse and set sail for Caledonia. The party were
more battered about by the sea than ever they had been by enemy on
land; and when they arrived at Leith, they looked so “shaky,” were so
pale and haggard, and had so little of a “slashing” look, wrapped up
as they were in surcoats and comforters, that the Scottish cavaliers,
observing the draggled condition of the strangers and of the plumes
which seemed to be moulting from their helmets, fairly asked them
what motive induced them to come so far in so sorry a plight, for
the mere sake of getting bruised by knights ashore after having been
tossed about, sick and sorry, during whole nights at sea. When the
northern cavaliers heard that honor and not profit had moved the
Belgian company, they marvelled much thereat, but prepared themselves,
nevertheless, to meet the new-comers in dread encounter at Stirling.
James II. presided at the bloody fray, in which three fought against
three. What the Scottish chroniclers say of the struggle, I can not
learn, but the Belgian historians describe their champions as having
been eminently victorious with every arm; and, according to them, the
Douglases were not only soundly drubbed, but took their beating with
considerable sulkiness. But there is much poetry in Belgian history,
and probably the doughty Douglas party may not have been so thoroughly
worsted as the pleasant chroniclers in question describe them to have
been. No doubt the conquerors behaved well, as we know “les braves
Belges” have never failed to do, if history may be credited. However
this may be, Jacques and his friends hurried from Scotland, appeared at
London before the meek Lancastrian king, Henry VI.; and as the latter
would not license his knights to meet the Burgundians in the lists,
the foreign fighting gentlemen had their passports _visé_, and taking
passage in the fast sailer “Flower of Hainault,” duly arrived at home,
where they were hailed with enthusiasm.
Jacques had short space wherein to breathe. An English knight, named
Thomas Karr, speedily appeared at the court of Philip the Duke, and
challenged De Lelaing, for the honor of old England. This affair caused
a great sensation, and the lists were dressed in a field near Bruges.
The English knight was the heavier man in flesh and armor, but Jacques,
of course, was the favorite. Dire was the conflict. The adversaries
strove to fell each other with their axes, as butchers do oxen. Karr
paralyzed, if he did not break, the arm of Jacques; but the Belgian,
dropping his axe, closed with his foe, and after a struggle, fell
with and upon him. Karr was required, as a defeated man, to carry the
gauntlet of the victor to the lady pointed out by him. But obstinate
Tom Karr protested against this, as he had only fallen on his elbow.
The umpires declared that he had had a full fall, “head, belly, arms,
and legs;” Jacques, however, was generous and would not insist. On the
contrary, adverting to the fact that he had himself been the first to
drop his own axe, he presented Karr with a rich diamond, as the forfeit
due by him who first lost a weapon in the combat.
Karr had terribly wounded Jacques, and the wound of the latter took
long to cure. The Duke Philip hastened his convalescence by naming
him counsellor and chamberlain; and as soon as the man so honored by
his master, had recovered from his wounds, he repaired to Chalons
on Saone, where he opened a “tourney,” which was talked of in the
country for many a long year afterward. Jacques had vowed that he would
appear in the closed lists thirty times before he had attained his
thirtieth year; and this tourney at Chalons was held by him against
all comers, in order the better to enable him to fulfil his vow. The
detail would be tedious; suffice it to say that the affair was of
barbarian magnificence, and that knights smashed one another’s limbs,
for personal honor, ladies’ love, and the glory of Our Lady in Tears!
Rich prizes were awarded to the victors, as rich forfeits were exacted
from the vanquished, and there was not only a sea of good blood spilt
in this splendidly atrocious fray, but as much bad blood made as
there was good blood shed. But then there was empty honor acquired,
a frail sort of affection gained, and an impalpable glory added to
the non-existent crown of an imaginary Venus Victrix, decorated with
the name of Our Lady of Tears! What more could true knights desire?
Chivalry was satisfied; and commonplace men, with only common sense
to direct them, had to look on in admiring silence, at risk of being
cudgelled if they dared to speak out.
Jacques was now at the height of his renown. He was “the good knight
without fear and without doubt;” and Duke Philip placed the last rose
in his chaplet of honor, by creating him a knight of the illustrious
order of the Golden Fleece. Thus distinguished, he rode about Europe,
inviting adversaries to measure swords with him, and meeting with none
willing to accept the invitation. In 1451 he was the embassador of
Burgundy at Rome, charged to negotiate a project of crusade against
the Turks. M. Alexander Henne, the author of the best compendium,
gathered from the chronicles, of the deeds of Jacques de Lelaing--says
that after the knight’s mission to Rome, he appeared at a passage of
arms held in the park at Brussels, in honor of the Duke of Burgundy’s
son, the Count of Charolais, then eighteen years of age, and about to
mate his first appearance in the lists. The Duchess, tender of her
son as the Dowager Czarina who kept her boys at home, and had not a
tear for other mothers, whose children have been bloodily sacrificed
to the savage ambition of Nicholas--the Duchess careful of the young
Count, was desirous that he should make essay before he appeared in
the lists. Jacques de Lelaing was accordingly selected to run a lance
with him. “Three days before the fete, the Duke, the Duchess, and the
Court repaired to the park of Brussels, where the trial was to be made.
In the first onset, the Count de Charolais shattered his lance against
the shield of Jacques, who raised his own weapon, and passed without
touching his adversary. The Duke perceived that the good knight had
spared his young adversary; he was displeased thereat, and sent Jacques
word that if he intended to continue the same course, he would do well
to meddle no further in the matter. Other lances were then brought,
and Jacques, running straight against the Count, both lances flew into
splinters. At this incident, the Duchess, in her turn, gave expression
to her discontent; but the Duke only laughed; and thus mother and
father were of different opinions; the one desiring a fair trial, the
other security for her son.” On the day of the great tourney, there
were assembled, with the multitude, on the great square at Brussels,
not less than two hundred and twenty-five princes, barons, knights,
and squires. Some of the noblest of these broke a lance with, and
perhaps the limbs of, their adversaries. The Count de Charolais broke
eighteen lances on that day, and he carried off the the prize, which
was conferred upon him by the ladies.
This was the last of the show-fights in which Jacques de Lelaing
exhibited himself. The bloodier conflicts in which he was subsequently
engaged, were far less to his credit. They formed a part of the savage
war which the despotic Duke and the nobles carried on against the free
and opulent cities, whose spirit of liberty was an object of hatred,
and whose wealth was an object of covetous desire, to the Duke and his
body of gentleman-like assassins. Many a fair town was devastated by
the Duke and his followers, who affected to be inspired by religious
feelings, a desire for peace, and a disinclination to make conquests.
Whereby it may be seen that the late Czar was only a Burgundian
duke enlarged, impelled by much the same principle, and addicted to
a similar sort of veracity. It was a time of unmitigated horrors,
when crimes enough were committed by the nobles to render the name
of aristocracy for ever execrable throughout Belgium; and atrocities
were practised by the enraged commons, sufficient to insure, for the
plebeians, the undying hatred of their patrician oppressors. There
was no respect on either side for age, sex, or condition. The people,
of every degree, were transformed into the worst of fiends--slaying,
burning, violating, and plundering; and turning from their accursed
work to kneel at the shrine of that Mary whose blessed Son was the
Prince of Peace. Each side slaughtered, hung, or drowned its prisoners;
but the nobles gave the provocation by first setting the example,
and the commons were not cruel till the nobility showed itself alike
destitute of honor and of mercy. The arms of the popular party were
nerved by the infamy of their adversaries, but many an innocent man
on either side was condemned to suffer, undeservedly, for the sins
of others. The greatest efforts were made against the people of the
district and city of Ghent, but all Flanders sympathized with them in
a war which was considered national. In the struggle, the Duke won no
victory over the people for which the latter did not compel him to pay
a frightful price; he was heartily sick of the war before it was half
concluded--even when his banner was being most successfully upheld by
the strong arm and slender scruples of Jacques de Lelaing.
The good knight was however, it must be confessed, among the few--if
he were not the only one--of the betterminded nobles. He had been
commissioned by the Duke to set fire to the Abbey of Eenaeme, and he
obeyed without hesitation, and yet with reluctance. He destroyed the
religious edifice with all which it contained, and which could be made
to burn; but having thus performed his duty as a soldier, he forthwith
accomplished his equally bounden duty, as a Christian--and, after
paying for three masses, at which he devoutly assisted, he confessed
himself to a predicant friar, “making a case of conscience,” says
one of his biographers, “of having, out of respect for discipline,
committed an act which the uprightness of his heart compelled him to
condemn as criminal.” Never was there a better illustration of that
so-called diverse condition of things which is said to represent a
distinction without a difference.