THE VOWS OF THE HERON
A week before May Day Hugh de Moreville reached Paris, and did all that
he could, on the part of the Anglo-Norman barons, to hasten the
preparations, and hurry the departure of Prince Louis. Matters, however,
did not go so satisfactorily as he could have wished. Philip Augustus
was grave and reluctant; Louis, like his paternal grandfather, was
pompous, slow, and somewhat sluggish; and the only person whose ideas on
the subject moved as rapidly as those of De Moreville was Blanche of
Castile, who inherited energy and intellect that would have made her, if
of the other sex, quite equal to the occasion. As it was, however, De
Moreville found much difficulty in persuading Louis to take the ultimate
step which might expose him to the censures of the Church; and, on the
eve of a great banquet, he conceived the project of surprising the
prince into one of the vows of chivalry considered too serious to be
broken or treated with indifference.
Now among the vows of chivalry in fashion at that period the most solemn
were known as “the vow of the peacock,” “the vow of the pheasant,” “the
vow of the swans,” and “the vow of the cranes.” All these birds were
esteemed noble; and the peacock was, in a particular manner, accounted
proper food for the valiant and the amorous; and, when the vow was about
to be made the bird was roasted, decked in its most beautiful feathers,
and made its appearance on a basin of gold and silver, and was carried
by ladies, magnificently dressed, to the assembled knights, who with all
formality, made their vows over the bird in the presence of the company.
But it was neither the vow of the peacock, nor the pheasant, nor the
swans, nor the cranes, with which Hugh de Moreville was about to
surprise the heir of France.
On the morning before the royal banquet was to be given on May Day in
the palace which Philip Augustus, while embellishing and paving Paris,
had built beside the great tower of the Louvre, Hugh de Moreville rode
out of the city with a little falcon on his wrist, and a spaniel running
at his horse’s feet, as if to recreate himself with sport, and went
fowling along the banks of the Seine till he caught a heron, which was
the bird of which he was in search. Returning to Paris with the heron,
he ordered it to be cooked, and placed between two dishes of silver;
and, having pressed into his service two fiddlers, and a man who played
the guitar, and secured the assistance of two young ladies--the
daughters of a count--to carry the dishes, and to sing songs, he, at the
hour appointed for the banquet, proceeded to the Louvre, and entered the
great hall, where Louis and Blanche of Castile were presiding at a
board, surrounded by young nobles of great name, and dames and
demoiselles celebrated for grace and elegance. The prince had what is
called the Capet face, with the large, long, straight nose, slanting
forward, and hanging over the short upper lip, and was no beauty; but
the princess inherited the features of her maternal ancestors, and was
fair and fascinating to behold as in the days when, in her youthful
widowhood, she won the heart and inspired the muse of Thibault of
Champagne. Among the company were the Count of Perche, the Viscount of
Melun, the Count of Nevers, and the young Lord Enguerraud De Coucy, one
of that proud house whose chiefs had on their banners the motto
disclaiming the rank of king:--
“Je suis ni roi, ni prince aussi--
Je suis le Seigneur De Couci.”
“Open your ranks, good people,” cried Hugh de Moreville in a loud voice,
as he entered the hall of the Louvre, with the two fiddlers and the man
who played the guitar and the two noble demoiselles carrying the heron;
“I have a heron which my falcon has caught, and which, methinks, is
fitting food for the knights who are subject to the ladies, who have
such delicate complexions. My lords, there should be no coward sitting
at this board, except the gentle lovers; yet I have with me the bird
which is the most cowardly of all others; for such is the heron by
nature, that, as soon as it sees its own shadow, it is astonished, and
gives way to fear; and, since the heron is so timorous, and the timid
ought to make their vows on it, I opine that I ought to give it to my
Lord Louis, who is so faint-hearted that he allows himself to be
deprived of England, the noble country of which his lady and companion
is the rightful heir; and, seeing that his heart has failed him, she is
like to die disinherited. However, he must vow on the heron to take some
step befitting the occasion.”
Louis reddened perceptibly as De Moreville and the demoiselles stood
before him with the heron, and his eye flashed with pride and ire.
“By St. Denis!” said he, solemnly, “since I am charged with
timorousness, and the word coward is almost thrown in my face, I must
needs prove my worth. I do vow and promise that, before this year is
past, I will cross the sea, my father’s subjects with me, and defy King
John; and, if he does come against me, I will fight him, let him be sure
of that. With my oath have I taken this vow; and, if I live long enough,
I will perform it, or die in labouring to accomplish it--so help me God
and St. Denis!”
When Hugh de Moreville heard the words of Prince Louis, he smiled with
the anticipation of triumph.
“Now, in truth,” exclaimed he, “matters will go right; and, for my part,
I ought to have joy that, through this heron I have caught, victory will
be ours; and I swear by St. Moden that I will attend the Lord Louis to
England, and act as marshal of his army, and do all that in me lies to
set him on the throne, which is his lady’s by right; and, if I live, I
will accomplish the vow I have taken.”
Again Hugh de Moreville moved on with the two silver dishes, and while
the fiddles and the guitar played, and the demoiselles sang, he carried
the heron to the Count of Nevers, and the Count of Perche, and the Lord
de Coucy, and to each of the knights and barons present, who each took
the vow, and then to the Viscount of Melun, who, however hostile to King
John and England, was not much gratified with the scene that was being
enacted before his eyes.
“Sir,” said De Moreville, pausing before the viscount, “vow to the
heron, I pray thee.”
“At your will,” replied the viscount, sighing deeply; “but I marvel
greatly at so much talk. Boasting is nothing worth unless it be
accomplished. When we are in taverns or in festive halls, drinking the
strong wines, and looked upon by ladies drawing the kerchiefs round
their smooth necks, every man is eager for war and glory. Some, at such
times, in imagination conquer Yaumont and Aguilant, and others Roland
and Oliver; but when we are in the field, on our steeds, our limbs
benumbed with cold, with our shields round our necks, and our spears
lowered, and the enemy approaches, then we wish we had never made such
vows. For such boasts, in truth, I would not give a bezant; not that I
say this to excuse myself; for I vow and promise, by the finger of St.
John the Baptist, which was of late brought from Constantinople, that if
our lord, Louis, will cross the sea, and enter England, I will accompany
him with all my forces, and do my devoir in aiding him to gain the realm
which is by right his lady’s.”
Hugh de Moreville smiled grimly as the Viscount of Melun made his vow,
and took the dishes, and again moving, with the fiddles and guitar
playing, and the demoiselles singing, he knelt before Blanche of
Castile, and said that “the heron he would distribute in time, but
meanwhile he implored her to say that which her heart would dictate;”
and the princess, having vowed, in case of need, to embark for the war
which Louis and his lords had sworn to undertake, the bird was cut up
and eaten, and the ceremony closed.
And now Louis of France delayed no longer. Next day he presented himself
to Philip Augustus, and begged that his voyage might not be obstructed,
for that he was under a vow which he could not break; and the king,
though somewhat against his inclination, granted his son’s request; and
Louis, with his lords and knights, and Hugh de Moreville, hastened to
Calais.
At that time, one of the most remarkable of naval heroes was a Fleming
by birth, who had originally been in a convent, and who was popularly
known as Eustace the Monk. It is said that, on the death of his brother
without children, Eustace cast the cowl, and threw aside the monk’s
habit, and abandoned the convent to inherit the property. But, be that
as it may have been, he had become a captain of pirates, and made his
name terrible on the sea. Allured into the service of Louis, Eustace had
fitted out at Calais a fleet to transport the French army to the English
coast; and the prince, having embarked with his fighting men, put to
sea. The voyage was not particularly prosperous. The winds were stormy,
and the mariners of the Cinque Ports were eager and earnest in their
attacks on the French armament. Louis, however, escaped all perils, and
on the 26th of May, 1216, landed at Sandwich.
But no sooner did he set foot in England than the legate excommunicated
him, and the pope, on hearing that he had crossed the Channel,
exclaimed, significantly--
“Sword, sword, spring from the scabbard, and sharpen thyself to kill!”