THE good squire did not make his inhospitable remark in regard to the
monk because he had any dislike for monks or priests in general. He had
as high an opinion of the members of the clergy as any one, but he had a
very strong dislike for this particular prior. To understand his reasons
for this feeling, we must know that, not very long before the period at
which our story begins, and soon after the Queen Regent had conquered
the rebellious provinces, and so consolidated the kingdom, there was
established in the city of Toulouse that terrible tribunal of the Romish
Church known as the Holy Inquisition. Here persons suspected of holding
opinions in opposition to the doctrines taught by the Church were tried,
often subjected to tortures in order to induce them to confess the
crimes with which they were charged, and punished with great severity if
found guilty. This inquisition was under the charge of the Dominican
friars, of which order the man who had just passed out of the little
gate was a member.
For several weeks the frequent visits of this prior to the Countess of
Viteau had given a great deal of uneasiness to Bernard. The man was not
one of the regular religious instructors of the family, nor had he
anything to do with the education of the boys. There was some particular
reason for his visits to the chateau, and of this the household at large
knew nothing; but the fact of his being a Dominican, and therefore
connected with the Inquisition, made him an unpleasant visitor to those
who saw his comings and goings, but who did not know their object.
Squire Bernard thought that he knew why this Brother Anselmo came so
often to the chateau, but he could not be certain that he was right. So
he kept his ideas to himself, and did no more than hope that each visit
of the friar might be the last.
When the two brothers entered the chateau, they went directly to their
mother's apartments. They found her in a large room, the floor of which
was covered with soft rushes, for there were no carpets in those days.
There was an abundance of furniture, but it was stiff and heavy, and on
the walls there hung various pieces of tapestry, of silk or wool, most
of which the good lady had embroidered herself.
The Countess of Viteau was a woman of about thirty-five years of age,
and of a sweet but dignified appearance and demeanor. She was evidently
very fond of her children, and they were equally fond of her. She had a
book in her hand when the boys entered (it should be remembered that she
was one of the very few ladies of that day who read books), but she laid
it down, and drew her sons to her, one on each side.
"Mother," said Louis, as she leaned over to kiss the young fellow who
was to leave her the next day for such a long, long time,—"Mother, I
wish you would write a letter to the Count de Barran, and ask him to
have me taught falconry as soon as possible, and also to get me a hawk
of my own, and have him trained."
"What put that into your head?" asked his mother, who could not help
smiling at this absurd idea on the part of a boy who was going to begin
life as a page, but who expected to enter at once into the sports and
diversions of the grown-up nobility.
"It was Raymond's falcon that made me think of it," said Louis. "I
suppose I shall not see that bird fly,—at least, not for ever so
long,—and so I want one of my own."
"I did not intend you should know anything about Raymond's falcon," said
his mother, "for I knew it would fill your head so full that there would
be no room for anything else. But we will not talk of falcons now. I
have a great deal to say to my little boy——"
"Not so very little either," said Louis, drawing himself up to his full
height.
"Who is going away," continued his mother, "to learn to be a page, a
squire, and a Christian knight."
We need not know what she said to him, but the three were together until
the room grew dark, and there was no treasure that Louis could take with
him which could be so valuable as the motherly advice he received that
afternoon.
Louis was to start for Barran's castle in the forenoon of the next day,
and was to be accompanied by Bernard and a small body of archers, for,
although there were no wars going on at that time, there was always
danger from robbers. All over France, and in many other parts of Europe,
there were well-organized bands of men who made a regular business of
pillaging travelers on the highways. So it was necessary that Louis
should have with him enough men to defend him against an attack by these
brigands.
Very early in the morning,—earlier than any one else in the chateau,
excepting a few servants,—Louis arose and dressed himself. He did this
very quietly, so as not to wake his brother. Then he stole softly down
to a room in the lower part of the building, where he knew Bernard kept
the falcon he was training. The door of this room was shut, but not
locked, and Louis slipped in without waking the squire, who slept
soundly in a chamber just across the passage-way.
He closed the door, and looking around the room, into which a little
light came from a small, high window, he soon perceived the falcon
sitting on a wooden perch, in a corner. The bird was unhooded, but was
tied by the leg, with a short cord, to the perch. On a small table near
by lay the hood. As Louis approached the falcon, it turned its head
quickly towards him and slightly raised its wings. This threatening
gesture made the boy hesitate; he did not want to be bitten or
scratched. Drawing back, and looking about him, he saw a cloth lying
upon a bench. Seizing this, he quickly threw it over the bird, untied
the cord, and, muffling with the cloth a little bell which was fastened
to one of the falcon's legs, Louis snatched up the hood from the table,
and, with the bird under his arm, he hurried out of the room, carefully
closing the door behind him.
Out-of-doors, he quickly made his way to the little gate at the bottom
of the grounds, and, through this, passed out into the road. When he
reached a spot where he could not be seen from the chateau, he sat down,
carefully uncovered the head of the falcon, and clapped over it the
little hood. Then he threw aside the cloth, and set the bird upon his
wrist, where it perched contentedly, although not finding it quite so
firm a support as the strong hand of Bernard. While wearing the hood,
which completely covered its eyes, it would not attempt to fly.
"Now, then," said he to himself, "I shall try what this fine bird can
do; and when I have had an hour's sport, I shall take it back and put it
on its perch, and no one will be any the worse for it. If I meet
Bernard, as I go back, I shall not care. I shall have had my bit of
falconry, and he can have his falcon. There must be herons, or some kind
of birds, down in that field by the wood, where we saw Bernard
yesterday."
When Louis reached the field, he gazed eagerly into the air and all
about him for some flying creature, after which he could send his falcon
in chase. But nothing, excepting a few small birds, could he discover,
and he was not to be content with such game as they. If he had had dogs
with him, or knew how himself to arouse the birds from their covers, he
might have had a chance to send his falcon after a long-legged heron, or
a pheasant; but no large bird chose to make its appearance, and poor
Louis began to think that he would lose the one chance he had of seeing
Raymond's falcon in pursuit of its prey.
Suddenly, from under some bushes near the edge of the wood, a large hare
leaped out, and went jumping across an open space towards a little copse
a short distance beyond the spot where Louis stood. Our young hunter
knew that falcons chased hares, and such small animals, as well as
winged game, and he instantly jerked the hood from the head of his bird,
and cast it off toward the flying hare.
But, to his amazement, the falcon did not pursue the hare, which, in a
few moments, disappeared in the copse. Louis did not know that hawks or
falcons were not always trained to chase both hares and birds, and that
this one had been accustomed to fly after winged game only.
Instead of swooping upon the hare, which, it is probable, it did not
see, the falcon rose into the air, and began to soar around in a great
circle.
"Perhaps it will see some game for itself," thought Louis, "and that
will do just as well."
But the falcon did not appear to be in pursuit of anything. It only flew
around and around, apparently rising higher and higher each moment.
Louis now became anxious for it to come down, so that he could try again
in some other place to scare up some game, and he began to whistle and
call, as he had heard the falconers do when they wished their birds to
descend.
But the falcon paid no attention to his calls, and, after rising to a
great height, it flew away to the south, and presently was lost to
sight.
Poor Louis was overwhelmed with grief. It seemed to him that he could
never hear anything so dismal as the last tinkle of the little bell on
the falcon's leg, nor see anything so sad as the dark speck which he
watched until it appeared to melt away into the distant sky.
For some minutes Louis stood gazing up into the air, and then he hung
his head, while a few tears came into his eyes. But he was a sturdy boy
in mind and body, and he did not cry much. He slowly turned, and, with
the hood of the falcon in his hand, went back to the house.
"If they ask me about it, I shall tell them," he said to himself, "but I
hope they will not find it out just as I am starting away."
It was yet quite early when Louis reached his room, where he found his
brother still asleep, and there was soon so much hurry and bustle, in
the preparation for the departure of the little expedition, that the
absence of the falcon did not seem to have been discovered.
After a prolonged leave-taking, and a great many tears from his mother
and brother, and from many of the retainers and servants of the chateau,
Louis set forth for the castle of Barran. He rode his mother's palfrey,
a small and gentle horse, and was followed by quite a train of archers
and men-at-arms, headed by the trusty Bernard.
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