We must now change the scene, and, leaving wilds and mountains, come
to a more busy though still a rural view. From the small, narrow
windows of the ancient château of Compiègne might be seen, on the one
side, the forest with its ocean of green and waving boughs; and on the
other, a lively little town on the banks of the Oise, the windings of
which river could be traced from the higher towers, far beyond its
junction with the Aisne, into the distant country. Yet,
notwithstanding that it was a town, Compiègne scarcely detracted from
the rural aspect of the picture. It had, even in those days, its
gardens and its fruit-trees, which gave it an air of verdure, and
blended it, as it were, insensibly with the forest, that waved against
its very walls. The green thatches, too, of its houses, in which slate
or tile was unknown, covered with moss, and lichens, and flowering
houseleek, offered not the cold, stiff uniformity of modern roofs; and
the eye that looked down upon those constructions of art in its
earliest and rudest form found all the picturesque irregularity of
nature.
Gazing from one of the narrow windows of a large square chamber, in
the keep of the château, were two beings, who seemed to be enjoying,
to the full, those bright hours of early affection, which are well
called "the summer days of existence," yielding flowers, and warmth,
and sunshine, and splendour;--hours that are so seldom known;--hours
that so often pass away like dreams;--hours which are such strangers
in courts, that, when they do intrude with their warm rays into the
cold precincts of a palace, history marks their coming as a
phenomenon, too often followed by a storm.
Alone, in the solitude of that large chamber, those two beings were as
if in a world by themselves. The fair girl, seemingly scarce nineteen
years of age, with her light hair floating upon her shoulders in large
masses of shining curls, leaned her cheek upon her hand, and gazing
with her full, soft, blue eyes over the far extended landscape,
appeared lost in thought; while her other hand, fondly clasped in that
of her companion, pointed out, as it were, how nearly linked he was to
her seemingly abstracted thoughts.
The other tenant of that chamber was a man of thirty-two or
thirty-three years of age, tall, well-formed, handsome, of the same
fair complexion as his companion, but bronzed by the manly florid hue
of robust health, exposure, and exercise. His nose was slightly
aquiline, his chin rounded and rather prominent, and his blue eyes
would have been fine and expressive, had they not been rather nearer
together than the just proportion, and stained, as it were on the very
iris, by some hazel spots in the midst of the blue. The effect,
however, of the whole was pleasing; and the very defect of the eyes,
by its singularity, gave something fine and distinguished to the
countenance; while their nearness, joined with the fire that shone out
in their glance, seemed to speak that keen and quick sagacity, which
sees and determines at once, in the midst of thick dangers and
perplexity.
The expression, however, of those eyes was now calm and soft, while
sometimes holding her hand in his, sometimes playing with a crown of
wild roses he had put on his companion's head, he mingled one rich
curl after another with the green leaves and the blushing flowers;
and, leaning with his left arm against the embrasure of the window,
high above her head, as she sat gazing out upon the landscape, he
looked down upon the beautiful creature, through the mazes of whose
hair his other hand was straying, with a smile strangely mingled of
affection for her, and mockery of his own light employment.
There was grace, and repose, and dignity, in his whole figure, and the
simple green hunting tunic which he wore, without robe, or hood, or
ornament whatever, served better to show its easy majesty, than would
the robes of a king--and yet this was Philip Augustus.
"So pensive, sweet Agnes!" said he, after a moment's silence, thus
waking from her reverie the lovely Agnes de Meranie, whom he had
married shortly after the sycophant bishops of France had pronounced
the nullity of his unconsummated marriage with Ingerburge,[7] for whom
he had conceived the most inexplicable aversion:--"So pensive," he
said. "Where did those sweet thoughts wander?"
--------------------
[Footnote 7: Philip Augustus, after the death of his first wife, being
still a very young man, married Ingerburge, sister of Canute, King of
Denmark; but on her arrival in France, he was seized with so strong a
personal dislike to her, that he instantly convoked a synod of the
clergy of France, who, on pretence of kindred in the prohibited
degrees, annulled the marriage. Philip afterwards married the
beautiful Agnes, or Mary, as she is called by some, daughter of the
Duke of Istria and Meranie, a district it would now be difficult to
define, but which comprehended the Tyrol and its dependencies, down to
the Adriatic.--See Rigord Gud. Brit. Lit. Innoc. III. Cart Philip II.
&c.]
--------------------
"Far, far, my Philip!" replied the queen, leaning back her head upon
his arm, and gazing up in his face with a look of that profound,
unutterable affection, which _sometimes_ dwells in woman's heart for
her first and only love:--"far from this castle, and this court;--far
from Philip's splendid chivalry, and his broad realms, and his fair
cities; and yet with Philip still. I thought of my own father, and all
his tenderness and love for me; and of my own sweet Istria! and I
thought how hard was the fate of princes, that some duty always
separated them from some of those they love, and----"
"And doubtless you wished to quit your Philip for those that you love
better," interrupted the king, with a smile at the very charge which
he well knew would soon be contradicted.
"Oh, no! no!" replied Agnes; "but, as I looked out yonder, and thought
it was the way to Istria, I wished that my Philip was but a simple
knight, and I a humble demoiselle. Then should he mount his horse, and
I would spring upon my palfrey; and we would ride gaily back to my
native land, and see my father once again, and live happily with those
we loved."
"But tell me, Agnes," said Philip, with a tone of melancholy that
struck her, "if you were told, that you might to-morrow quit me, and
return to your father, and your own fair land, would you not go?"
"Would I quit you?" cried Agnes, starting up, and placing her two
hands upon her husband's arm, while she gazed in his face with a look
of surprise that had no small touch of fear in it:--"would I quit you?
Never! And if you drove me forth, I would come back and be your
servant--your slave; or would watch in the corridors but to have a
glance as you passed by;--or else I would die," she added, after a
moment's pause, for she had spoken with all the rapid energy of
alarmed affection. "But tell me, tell me, Philip, what did you mean?
For all your smiling, you spoke gravely. Nay, kisses are no answers."
"I did but jest, my Agnes," replied Philip, holding her to his heart
with a fond pressure. "Part with you! I would sooner part with life!"
As he spoke, the door of the chamber suddenly opened, the hangings
were pushed aside, and an attendant appeared.
"How now," cried the king, unclasping his arms from the slight,
beautiful form round which they were thrown. "How now, villain! Must
my privacy be broken at every moment? How dare you enter my chamber
without my call?" And his flashing eye and reddened cheek spoke that
quick impatient spirit which never possessed any man's breast more
strongly than that of Philip Augustus. And yet, strange to say, the
powers of his mind were such, that every page of his history affords a
proof of his having made even his most impetuous passions subservient
to his policy;--not by conquering them, but by giving vent to them in
such direction as suited best the exigency of the times, and the
interest of his kingdom.
"Sire," replied the attendant with a profound reverence, "the good
knight Sir Stephen Guerin has just arrived from Paris, and prays an
audience."
"Admit him," said Philip; and his features, which had expanded like an
unstrung bow while in the gentler moments of domestic happiness, and
had flashed with the broad blaze of the lightning under the effect of
sudden irritation, gradually contracted into a look of grave thought
as his famous and excellent friend and minister Guerin approached.
He was a tall, thin man, with strong marked features, and was dressed
in the black robe and eight-limbed cross of the order of Hospitallers,
which habit he retained even long after his having been elected bishop
of Senlis. He pushed back his hood, and bowed low in sign of reverence
as he approached the king; but Philip advanced to meet, and welcomed
him with the affectionate embrace of an equal, "Ha! fair brother!"
said the king. "What gives us the good chance of seeing you, from our
town of Paris? We left you full of weighty matters."
"Matters of still greater weight, beau sire," replied the Hospitaller,
"claiming your immediate attention, have made me bold to intrude upon
your privacy. An epistle from the good pope Celestin came yesterday by
a special messenger, charging your highness----"
"Hold!" cried Philip, raising his finger as a sign to keep silence.
"Come to my closet, brother; we will hear the good bishop's letter in
private.--Tarry, sweet Agnes! I have vowed thee three whole days,
without the weight of royalty bearing down our hearts; and this shall
not detain me long."
"I would not, my lord, for worlds," replied the queen, "that men
should say my Philip neglected his kingdom, or his people's happiness,
for a woman's smile. I will wait here for your return, be your
business long as it may, and think the time well spent.--Rest you
well, fair brother," she added, as it were in reply to a beaming smile
that for a moment lighted up the harsh features of the hospitaller;
"cut not short your tale for me."
The minister bowed low, and Philip, after having pressed his lips on
the fair forehead of his wife, led the way through a long passage with
windows on either side, to a small closet in one of the angular
turrets of the castle. It was well contrived for the cabinet of a
statesman, for, placed as it was, a sort of excrescence from one of
the larger towers, it was cut off from all other buildings, so that no
human ear could catch one word of any conversation which passed
therein. The monarch entered; and, making a sign to his minister to
close the door, he threw himself on a seat, and stretched forth his
hand, as if for the pontiff's letter. "Not a word before the queen!"
said he, taking the vellum from the hospitaller,--"not a word before
the queen, of all the idle cavilling of the Roman church. I would not,
for all the crowns of Charlemagne, that Agnes should dream of a flaw
in my divorce from Ingerburge--though that flaw be no greater a matter
than a moat in the sore eyes of the church of Rome.--But let me see!
What says Celestin?"
"He threatens you, royal sir," replied the minister, "with
excommunication, and anathema, and interdict."
"Pshaw!" cried Philip, with a contemptuous smile; "he has not vigour
enough to anathematise a flea! 'Tis a good mild priest; somewhat
tenacious of his church's rights,--for, let me tell thee, Stephen, had
I but craved my divorce from Rome, instead of from my bishops of
France, I should have heard no word of anathema or interdict. It was a
fault of policy, so far as my personal quiet is concerned; and there
might be somewhat of hasty passion in it too; but yet, good knight,
'twas not without forethought. The grasping church of Rome is
stretching out her thousand hands into all the kingdoms round about
her, and snatching, one by one, the prerogatives of the throne. The
time will come,--I see it well,--when the prelate's foot shall tread
upon the prince's crown; but I will take no step to put mine beneath
the scandal of St. Peter. No! though the everlasting buzzing of all
the crimson flies in the conclave should deafen me outright.--But let
me read."
The hospitaller bowed, and silently studied the countenance of the
sovereign, while he perused the letter of the pontiff. Philip's
features, however, underwent no change of expression. His brow knit
slightly from the first; but no more than so far as to show attention
to what he was reading. His lip, too, maintained its contemptuous
curl; but that neither increased nor diminished; and when he had done,
he threw the packet lightly on the table, exclaiming--"Stingless!
stingless! The good prelate will hurt no one!"
"Too true, sire," replied the impassable Guerin; "he will now hurt no
one, for he is dead."
"St. Denis to boot!" cried the king. "Dead! Why told you it not
before!--Dead! When did he die?--Has the conclave met?--Have they gone
to election?--Whom have they adored.[8]--Who is the pope? Speak,
hospitaller! Speak!"
--------------------
[Footnote 8: One of the four methods of electing a Pope is called by
_adoration_, which takes place when the first Cardinal who speaks
instantly (as is supposed by the movement of the Holy Ghost) does
reverence to the person he names, proclaiming him Pope, to which must
be added the instant suffrage of two-thirds of the assembled
conclave.]
--------------------
"The holy conclave have elected the cardinal Lothaire, sire," replied
the knight. "Your highness has seen him here in France, as well as at
Rome: a man of a great and capacious mind."
"Too great!--too great!" replied Philip thoughtfully. "He is no
Celistin. We shall soon hear more!" and, rising from his seat, he
paced the narrow space of his cabinet backwards and forwards for
several minutes; then paused, and placing one hand on his counsellor's
shoulder, he laid the forefinger of the other on his breast--"If I
could rely on my barons," said he emphatically,--"if I could rely on
my barons;--not that I do not reverence the church, Guerin,--God
knows! I would defend it from heathens and heretics, and miscreants,
with my best blood. Witness my journey to the Holy Land!--witness the
punishment of Amaury!--witness the expulsion of the Jews! But this
Lothaire----"
"Now Innocent the Third!" said the minister, taking advantage of a
pause in the king's speech. "Why he is a great man, sire--a man of a
vast and powerful mind: firm in his resolves, as he is bold in his
undertakings--powerful--beloved. I would have my royal lord think what
must be his conduct, if Innocent should take the same view of the
affairs of France as was taken by Celestin."
Philip paused, and, with his eyes bent upon the ground, remained for
several minutes in deep thought. Gradually the colour mounted in his
cheek, and some strong emotion seemed struggling in his bosom, for his
eye flashed, and his lip quivered; and, suddenly catching the arm of
the hospitaller, he shook the clenched fist of his other hand in the
air, exclaiming--"He will not! He shall not! He dare not!--Oh, Guerin,
if I may but rely upon my barons!"
"Sire, you cannot do so," replied the knight firmly. "They are
turbulent and discontented; and the internal peace of your kingdom has
more to fear from their disloyal practices, than even your domestic
peace has from the ambitious intermeddling of pope Innocent. You must
not count upon your barons, sire, to support you in opposition to the
church. Even now. Sir Julian of the Mount, the sworn friend of the
Counts of Boulogne and Flanders, has undertaken a journey to Auvergne,
which bodes a new coalition against you, sire. Sir Julian is
discontented, because you refused him the feof of Beaumetz, which was
held by his sister's husband, dead without heirs. The Count de
Boulogne you know to be a traitor. The count of Flanders was ever a
dealer in rebellion. The old Count d'Auvergne, though no rebel, loves
you not."
"They will raise a lion!" cried the king, stamping with his foot--"ay,
they will raise a lion! Let Sir Julian of the Mount beware! The
citizens of Albert demand a charter. Sir Julian claims some ancient
rights. See that the charter be sealed to-morrow, Guerin, giving them
right of watch and ward, and wall--rendering them an untailleable and
free commune. Thus shall we punish good Sir Julian of the Mount, and
flank his fair lands with a free city, which shall be his annoyance,
and give us a sure post upon the very confines of Flanders. See it be
done! As to the rest, come what may, my private happiness I will
subject to no man's will; nor shall it be my hands that stoop the
royal sceptre of France to the bidding of any prelate for whom the
earth finds room.--Silence, my friend!" he added sharply; "the king's
resolve is taken; and, above all, let not a doubt of the sureness of
her marriage reach the ears of the queen. _I_, Philip of France, say
the divorce _shall_ stand!--and who is there shall give me the lie in
my own land?" Thus saying, the king turned, and led the way back to
the apartment where he had left the queen.
His first step upon the rushes of the room in which she sat woke Agnes
de Meraine from her reverie; and though her husband's absence had been
but short, her whole countenance beamed with pleasure at his return;
while, laying on his arm the small white hand, which even monks and
hermits have celebrated, she gazed up in his face, as if to see
whether the tidings he had heard had stolen any thing from the
happiness they were before enjoying. Philip's eyes rested on her, full
of tenderness and love; and then turned to his minister with an
appealing, and almost reproachful look. Guerin felt, himself, how
difficult, how agonising it would be to part with a being so lovely
and so beloved; and with a deep sigh, and a low inclination to the
queen, he quitted the apartment.