The hermit was as good as his word; and in two days De Coucy, though
certainly unable to forget that he had had a severe fall, was yet
perfectly capable of mounting on horseback; and felt that, in the
field or at the tournament, he could still have charged a good lance,
or wielded a heavy mace. The night before, had arrived at the chapel
the strange personage, some of whose cogitations we have recorded in
the preceding chapter; and who, having been ransomed by the young
knight in the holy land, had become in some sort his bondsman.
On a mistaken idea of his folly, De Coucy had built a still more
mistaken idea of his honesty, attributing his faults to madness, and
in the carelessness of his nature, looking upon many of his madnesses
as virtues. That his intellect was greatly impaired, or rather warped,
there can be no doubt; but it seemed, at the same time, that all the
sense which he had left, had concentrated itself into an unfathomable
fund of villany and malice, often equally uncalled for by others, and
unserviceable to himself.
Originally one of the jugglers who had accompanied the second crusade
to the Holy Land, he had been made prisoner by the infidels; and,
after several years' bondage, had been redeemed by De Coucy, who, from
mere compassion, treated him with the greater favour and kindness,
because he was universally hated and avoided by every one; though, to
say the truth, _Gallon the fool_, as he was called, was perfectly
equal to hold his own part, being vigorous in no ordinary degree,
expert at all weapons, and joining all the thousand tricks and arts of
his ancient profession, to the sly cunning which so often supplies the
place of judgment.
When brought into his lord's presence at the chapel of the Lake, and
informed of the accident which had happened to him, without expressing
any concern, he burst into one of his wild laughs, exclaiming, "Haw,
haw, haw!--Oh, rare!"
"How now. Sir Gallon the fool!" cried De Coucy. "Do you laugh at your
lord's misfortune?"
"Nay! I laugh to think him nearly as nimble as I am," replied the
juggler, "and to find he can roll down a rock of twenty fathom,
without dashing his brains out. Why, thou art nearly good enough for a
minstrel's fool. Sire de Coucy!--Haw, haw, haw! How I should like to
see thee tumbling before a _cour plenière!_"
The knight shook his fist at him, and bade him tell the success of his
errand, feeling more galled by the jongleur's jest before the fair
Isadore of the Mount, than he had ever felt upon a similar occasion.
"The success of my errand is very unsuccessful," replied the jongleur,
wagging his nose, and shutting one of his eyes, while he fixed the
other on De Coucy's face. "Your uncle, Count Gaston of Tankerville,
will not send you a livre."
"What! is he pinched with avarice?" cried De Coucy. "Have ten years
had power to change a free and noble spirit to the miser's griping
slavery? My curse upon time! for he not only saps our castles, and
unbends out sinews, but he casts down the bulwarks of the mind, and
plunders all the better feelings of our hearts. What say you, lady, is
he not a true coterel--that old man with his scythe and hour-glass?"
"He is a bitter enemy, but a true one," replied Isadore of the Mount.
"He comes not upon us without warning.--But your man seems impatient
to tell out his tale, sir knight; at least, so I read the faces he
makes."
"Bless your sweet lips!" cried the jongleur; "you are the first, that
ever saw my face, that called me man. _Devil_ or _fool_ are the best
names that I get. Prithee, marry my master, and then I shall be _your_
man."
De Coucy's heart beat thick at the associations which the juggler's
words called up; and the tell-tale blood stole over the fair face of
Isadore of the Mount; while old Sir Julian laughed loud, and called it
a marvellous good jest.
"Come!" cried De Coucy, "leave thy grimaces, and tell me, what said my
uncle? Why would he not send the sums I asked?"
"He said nothing," replied the juggler. "Haw, haw haw!--He said
nothing, because he is dead, and----"
"Hold! hold!" cried De Coucy;--"Dead! God help me, and I taxed him
with avarice. Fool, thou hast made me sin against his memory. How did
he die?--when--where?"
"Nobody knows when--nobody knows where--nobody knows how!" replied the
juggler with a grin which he could not suppress at his master's grief.
"All they know is, that he is as dead as the saints at Jerusalem; and
the king and the Duke of Burgundy are quarrelling about his broad
lands, which the two fools call moveables! He is dead!--quite
dead!--Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw!"
"Laughest thou, villain!" cried De Coucy, starting up, and striking
him a buffet which made him reel to the other side of the hut. "Let
that teach thee not to laugh where other men weep!--By my life," he
added, taking his seat again, "he was as noble a gentlemen, and as
true a knight, as ever buckled on spurs. He promised that I should be
his heir, and doubtless he has kept his word; but, for all the fine
lands he has left me--nay, nor for broad France itself, would I have
heard the news that have reached me but now!"
"Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw, haw!" echoed from the other side of the hut.
"Why laughest thou, fool?" cried De Coucy. "Wilt thou never cease thy
idiot merriment?--Why laughest thou, I say?"
"Because," replied the jongleur, "if the fair lands thou wouldst not
have, the fair lands thou shalt not have. The good Count of
Tankerville left neither will nor charter; so that, God willing! the
king, or the Duke of Burgundy, shall have the lands, whichever has the
longest arm to take, and the strongest to keep. So the Vidame of
Besançon bade me say."
"But how is it, my son," said the hermit, who was present, "that you
are not heir direct to your uncle's feof, if there be no other heirs."
"Why, good hermit," replied De Coucy, "uncle and nephew were but names
of courtesy between us, because we loved each other. The Count de
Tankerville married my father's sister, who died childless; and his
affection seemed to settle all in me, then just an orphan. I left him
some ten years ago, when but a squire, to take the holy cross; and
though I have often heard of him by letter and by message sent across
the wide seas, which showed that I was not forgotten, I now return and
find him dead, and his lands gone to others. Well! let them go: 'tis
not for them I mourn; 'tis that I have lost the best good friend I
had."
"You wrong my regard, De Coucy," said the Count d'Auvergne. "None is or
was more deeply your friend than Thibalt d'Auvergne; and as to lands
and gold, good knight, is not one half of all I have due to the man
who has three times saved my life?--in the shipwreck, in the
battle-field, and in the mortal plague; even were he not my sworn
brother in arms?"
"Nay, nay! D'Auvergne, De Coucy's poor," replied the knight; "but he
has enough. He is proud too, and, as you know, no Vavassour; and,
though his lands be small, he is lord of the soil, holding from no
one, owing homage and man-service to none--no, not to the king, though
you smile, fair Sir Julian. My land is the last _terre libre_ in
France."
"Send away your fool juggler, De Coucy," said the Count d'Auvergne: "I
would speak to you without his goodly presence."
De Coucy made a sign to his strange attendant, who quitted the hut;
and the count proceeded. "De Coucy," said he, "was it wise to send
that creature upon an errand of such import? Can you rely upon his
tale? You know him to be a crackbrained knave. I am sure he has much
malice; and though little understanding, yet infinite cunning. Take my
advice! Either go thither yourself, or send some more trusty messenger
to ascertain the truth."
"Not I!" cried De Coucy,--"not I! I will neither go nor send, to make
the good folks scoff, at the poor De Coucy hankering after estates he
cannot have; like a beggar standing by a rich man's kitchen, and
snuffing the dishes as they pass him by. Besides, you do Gallon wrong.
He is brave as a lion, and grateful for kindness. He would not injure
me; and if he would, he has not wit to frame a tale like that. He knew
not that I was not my uncle's lawful heir. Oh, no, 'tis true! 'tis
true! So let it rest. What care I? I have my lance, and my sword, and
knightly spurs; and surely I may thus go through the world, in spite
of fortune."
D'Auvergne saw that his friend was determined, and urged his point no
farther. His own determination, however, was taken, on the very first
opportunity to go himself privately, either to Besançon or Dijon,
between which places the estates in question lay, and to make those
inquiries for his friend which De Coucy was not inclined to do
himself. Nothing more occurred that night worthy of notice; and the
next morning the whole party descended to the shepherd's hut, where
their horses had been left, mounted, and proceeded towards Vic le
Comte, the dwelling of the Counts of Auvergne.
The hermit, whose skill had been so serviceable to De Coucy, mounted
on a strong mule, accompanied them on their way.
"I will crave your escort, gentle knights," he said, as they were
about to depart. "I am called back against my will, to meddle with the
affairs of men--affairs which their own wilful obstinacy, their vile
passions, or their gross follies, ever so entangle, that it needs the
manifest hand of Heaven to lead them even through one short life. I
thought to have done with them; but the king calls for me, and, next
to Heaven, my duty is to him."
"What! do we see the famous hermit of the forest of Vincennes?"[9]
demanded old sir Julian of the Mount, "by whose sage counsels 'tis
hoped that Philip may yet be saved from driving his poor vassals to
resistance."
--------------------
[Footnote 9: For a fuller account of this singular person, and the
effect his counsels had upon the conduct of Philip Augustus, see
Rigord.]
--------------------
"Famous, and a hermit!" exclaimed the recluse. "Good, my son! if you
sought fame as little as I do, you would not have come from the
borders of Flanders to the heart of Auvergne. I left Vincennes to rid
myself of the fame they put on me;--you quitted your castle and your
peasants, to meddle in affairs you are not fit for. Would you follow
my counsel, you would forget your evil errand. See your friend--but as
a friend; and, returning to your hall, sit down in peace and charity
with all mankind!"
"Ha! what! how?" cried the obstinate old man angrily, all his
complaisant feelings towards the hermit turned into acrimony by this
unlucky speech. "Shall I be turned from my purpose by an old
enthusiast? I tell thee, hermit, that were it but because thou bidst
me not, I would go on to the death! Heaven's life! What I have said,
that I will do, is as immoveable as the centre!"
The Count d'Auvergne here interposed; and, promising the hermit safe
escort, at least through his father's territories, he led Sir Julian
to the front of the cavalcade, and engaged him in a detail of all the
important measures which Philip Augustus, during the last five years,
had undertaken, and successfully carried through by the advice of that
very hermit who followed in their train--measures with which this
history has nothing to do, but which may be found faithfully recorded
by Rigord, Wilham the Briton, and William of Nangis, as well as many
other veracious historians of that age and country.
Sir Julian and the count were followed by the fair Isadore, with De
Coucy by her side, in even a more gay and lively mood than ordinary,
notwithstanding the sad news he had heard the night before. Indeed, to
judge from his conduct then, it would have seemed that his mind was
one of those which, deeply depressed by any of those heavy weights
that time is always letting drop upon the human heart, rise up the
next moment with that sort of elastic rebound, which instantly casts
off the load of care, and spring higher than before. Such, however,
was not the case. De Coucy was perplexed with new sensations towards
Isadore, the nature of which he did not well understand; and, rather
than show his embarrassment, he spoke lightly of every thing, making
himself appear to the least advantage, where, in truth, he wished the
most to please.
Isadore's answers were brief, and he felt that he was not at all in
the right road to her favour: and yet he was going on, when something
accidentally turned the conversation to the friend he had lost in the
Count de Tankerville. Happily for Isadore's prepossession in the young
knight's favour, it did so; for then, all the deeper, all the finer
feelings of his heart awoke, and he spoke of high qualities and
generous virtues, as one who knew them from possessing them himself.
Isadore's answers grew longer: the chain seemed taken off her
thoughts,--and then, first, that quick and confident communication of
feelings and ideas began between her and De Coucy, which, sweet
itself, generally ends in something sweeter still. They were soon
entirely occupied with each other, and might have continued so, Heaven
knows how long! had not De Coucy's squire, Hugo de Barre, who, as
before, preceded the cavalcade, suddenly stopped, and, pointing to a
confused mass of bushes which, climbing the side of the hill, hid the
farther progress of the road, exclaimed--
"I see those bushes, move the contrary way to the wind!"
"Haw, haw, haw!" cried a voice from behind,--"haw, haw, haw!"
All was now hurry, for the signs and symptoms which the squire
descried, were only attributable to one of those plundering
ambuscades, which were any thing but rare in those good old times; and
the narrowness of road, together with the obstruction of the bushes,
totally prevented the knights from estimating the number or quality of
their enemies. All then was hurry. The squires hastened forward to
give the knights their heavy-armed horses, and to clasp their casques;
and the knights vociferated loudly for the archers and varlets to
advance, and for Isadore and her women to retire to the rear: but
before this could be done, a flight of arrows began to drop amongst
them, and one would have certainly struck the lady, or at least her
jennet, had it not been for the shield of De Coucy, raised above her
head.
De Coucy paused. "Take my shield," he cried, "Gallon the fool, and
hold it over the lady! Guard my lance too! There is no tilting against
those bushes!--St. Michael! St. Michael!" he shouted, snatching his
ponderous battle-axe from the saddle-bow, and flourishing it round his
head, as if it had been a willow-wand. "A Coucy! A Coucy! St. Michael!
St. Michael!" and while the archers of Auvergne shot a close sharp
flight of arrows into the bushes, De Coucy spurred on his horse after
the Count d'Auvergne, who had advanced with Sir Julian of the Mount,
and some of the light armed squires.
His barbed horse thundered over the ground, and in an instant he was
by their side, at a spot where the marauders had drawn a heavy iron
chain across the road, from behind which they numbered with their
arrows every seemingly feeble spot in the count's armour.
To leap the chain was impossible; and though Count Thibalt spurred his
heavy horse against it, to bear it down, all his efforts were
ineffectual. One blow of De Coucy's axe, however, and the chain flew
sharp asunder with a ringing sound. His horse bounded forward; and his
next blow lighted on the head of one of the chief marauders, cleaving
through steel cap, and skull, and brain, as if nothing had been
opposed to the axe's edge.
It was then one might see how were performed those marvellous feats of
chivalry, which astonish our latter age. The pikes, the short swords,
and the arrows of the cotereaux, turned from the armour of the
knights, as waves from a rock; while De Coucy, animated with the
thought that Isadore's eyes looked upon his deeds, out-acted all his
former prowess;--not a blow fell from his arm, but the object of it
lay prostrate in the dust. The cotereaux scattered before him, like
chaff before the wind. The Count d'Auvergne followed on his track,
and, with the squires, drove the whole body of marauders, which had
occupied the road, down into the valley; while the archers picked off
those who had stationed themselves on the hill.
For an instant, the cotereaux endeavoured to rally behind some bushes,
which rendered the movements of the horses both dangerous and
difficult; but at that moment a loud ringing "Haw, haw, haw! haw,
haw!" burst forth from behind them; and Gallon the fool, mounted on
his mare, armed with De Coucy's lance and shield, and a face whose
frightfulness was worth a host, pricked in amongst them; and, to use
the phrase of the times, enacted prodigies of valour, shouting between
each stroke, "Haw, haw! haw, haw!" with such a tone of fiendish
exultation, that De Coucy himself could hardly help thinking him akin
to Satan. As to the cotereaux, the generality of them believed in his
diabolical nature with the most implicit faith; and, shouting "The
devil!--The devil!" as soon as they saw him, fled in every direction,
by the rocks, the woods, and the mountains. One only stayed to aim an
arrow at him, exclaiming, "Devil! he's no devil, but a false traitor
who has brought us to the slaughter, and I will have his heart's blood
ere I die." But Gallon, by one of his strange and unaccountable
twists, avoided the shaft; and the coterel was fain to save himself by
springing up a steep rock with all the agility of fear.
No sooner was this done, than Gallon the fool, with that avaricious
propensity, to which persons in a state of intellectual weakness are
often subject, sprang from his mare, and very irreverently casting
down De Coucy's lance and shield, began plundering the bodies of two
of the dead cotereaux, leaving them not a rag which he could
appropriate to himself.
Seeing him in this employment, and the disrespectful treatment which
he showed his arms, De Coucy spurred up to him, and raised his
tremendous axe above his head: "Gallon!" cried he, in a voice of
thunder.
The jongleur looked up with a grin, "Haw, haw! haw, haw!" cried he,
seeing the battle-axe swinging above his head, as if in the very act
of descending. "You cannot make me wink.--Haw, haw!" And he applied
himself again to strip the dead bodies with most indefatigable
perseverance.
"If it were not for your folly, I would cleave your skull, for daring
to use my lance and shield!" cried De Coucy. "But, get up! get up!" he
added, striking him a pretty severe blow with the back of the axe.
"Lay not there, like a red-legged crow, picking the dead bodies. Where
is the lady? Why did you leave her, when I told you to stay?"
"I left the lady, with her maidens, in a snug hole in the rock,"
replied the juggler, rising unwillingly from his prey; "and seeing you
at work with the cotereaux, I came to help the strongest."
There might be more truth in this reply than De Coucy suspected; but,
taken as a jest, it turned away his anger; and bidding Hugo de Barre,
who had approached, bring his spear and shield, he rode back to the
spot where the combat first began. Gallon the fool had, indeed, as he
said, safely bestowed Isadore and her women in one of the caves with
which the mountains of Auvergne are pierced in every direction; and
here De Coucy found her, together with her father. Sir Julian, who was
babbling of an arrow which had passed through his tunic without
hurting him.
The Count d'Auvergne had gone, in the mean time, to ascertain that the
road was entirely cleared of the banditti; and, during his absence,
the lady and her attendants applied themselves to bind up the wounds
of one or two of the archers who had been hurt in the affray--a purely
female task, according to the customs of the times. The hermit
returned with the Count d'Auvergne; and, though he spoke not of it, it
was remarked that an arrow had grazed his brow; and two rents in his
brown robe seemed to indicate that, though he had taken no active part
in the struggle, he had not shunned its dangers.
Such skirmishes were so common in those days, that the one we speak of
would have been scarcely worth recording, had it not been for two
circumstances: in the first place, the effect produced upon the
robbers by the strange appearance and gestures of Gallon the fool; and
in the next, the new link which it brought between the hearts of
Isadore and De Coucy. In regard to the first, it must be remembered
that the appearance of all sorts of evil spirits in an incarnate form
was so very frequent in the times whereof we speak, that Rigord cites
at least twenty instances thereof, and Guillaume de Nangis brings a
whole troop of them into the very choir of the church. It is not to be
wondered at, then, that a band of superstitious marauders, whose very
trade would of course render them more liable to such diabolical
visitations, should suspect so very ugly a personage as Gallon of
being the Evil One himself: especially when to his various
unaccountable contortions he added the very devil-like act of leading
them into a scrape, and then triumphing in their defeat.
But to return to the more respectable persons of my cavalcade. The
whole party set out again, retaining, as if by common consent, the
same order of march which they had formerly preserved. Nor did
Isadore, though as timid and feminine as any of her sex in that day,
show greater signs of fear than a hasty glance, every now and then, to
the mountains. A slight shudder, too, shook her frame, as she passed
on the road three cold, inanimate forms, lying unlike the living, and
bearing ghastly marks of De Coucy's battle-axe; but the very sight
made her draw her rein towards him, as if from some undefined
combination in her mind of her own weakness and his strength; and from
the tacit admiration which courage and power command in all ages, but
which, in those times, suffered no diminution on the score of
humanity.
No lady, of the rank of Isadore of the Mount, ever travelled, in the
days we speak of, without a bevy of maidens following her; and as the
squires and pages of De Coucy and D'Auvergne were fresh from
Palestine, where women were hot-house plants, not exposed to common
eyes, it may be supposed that we could easily join to our principal
history many a rare and racy episode of love-making that went on in
the second rank of our pilgrims; but we shall have enough to do with
the personages already before us, ere we lay down our pen, and
therefore shall not meddle or make with the manners of the inferior
classes, except where they are absolutely forced on our notice.
Winding down through numerous sunny valleys and rich and beautiful
scenery, the cavalcade soon began to descend upon the fertile plains
of Limagne, then covered with the blossoms of a thousand trees, and
bathed in a flood of loveliness. The ferry over the Allier soon landed
them in the sweet valley of Vic le Comte; and Thibalt d'Auvergne,
gazing round him, forgot in the view all the agonies of existence;
while stretching forth his arms, as if to embrace it, he
exclaimed--"My native land!"
He had seen the south of Auvergne; he had seen, the mountains of D'Or,
and the Puy de Dome,--all equally his own; but they spoke but
generally to his heart, and could not for a moment wipe out his
griefs. But when the scenes of his childhood broke upon his sight;
when he beheld every thing mingled in memory with the first, sweetest
impressions in being--every thing he had known and joyed in, before
existence had a cloud, it seemed as if the last five years had been
blotted out of the Book of Fate, and that he was again in the
brightness of his youth--the youth of the heart and of the soul, ere
it is worn by sorrow, or hardened by treachery, or broken by
disappointment.
The valley of Vic is formed by two branches of the mountains of the
Forez, which bound it to the east; and in the centre of the rich plain
land thus enclosed, stands the fair city of Vic le Comte. It was then
as sweet a town as any in the realm of France; and, gathered together
upon a gentle slope, with the old castle on a high mound behind, it
formed a dark pyramid in the midst of the sunshiny valley, being cast
into temporary shadow by a passing cloud at the moment the cavalcade
approached; while the bright light of the summer evening poured over
all the rest of the scene; and the blue mountains, rising high beyond,
offered a soft and airy background to the whole. Avoiding the town.
Count Thibalt led the way round by a road to the right, and, in a few
minutes, they were opposite to the castle, at the distance of about
half a mile.
It was a large, heavy building, consisting of an infinite number of
towers, of various sizes, and of different forms--some round, some
square, all gathered together, without any apparent order, on the top
of an eminence which commanded the town. The platform of each tower,
whether square or round, was battlemented, and every angle which
admitted of such a contrivance was ornamented with a small turret or
watch-tower, which generally rose somewhat higher than the larger one
to which it was attached. Near the centre of the building, however,
rose two masses of masonry, distinguished from all the others,--the
one by its size, being a heavy, square tower, or keep, four times as
large as any of the rest; and the other by its height, rising, thin
and tall, far above every surrounding object. This was called the
beffroy, or belfry, and therein stood a watchman night and day, ready,
on the slightest alarm, to sound his horn, or ring the immense bell,
called _ban cloque_, which was suspended above his head.
From the gate of the castle to the walls of the town extended a gentle
green slope, which, now covered with tents and booths, resembled
precisely an English fair; and from the spot where D'Auvergne and his
companions stood, multitudes of busy beings could be seen moving
there, in various garbs and colours, some on horseback, some on foot,
giving great liveliness to the scene; while the unutterable multitude
of weathercocks, with which every pinnacle of the castle was adorned,
fluttered, in addition, with a thousand flags, and banners, and
streamers, in gay and sparkling confusion.
Before the cavalcade had made a hundred steps beyond the angle of the
town, which had concealed them from the castle, the eyes of the warder
fell upon them; and, in an instant, a loud and clamorous blast of the
trumpet issued from the belfry. It was instantly taken up by a whole
band in the castle court-yard.
D'Auvergne knew his welcome home, and raised his horn to his lips in
reply. At the same instant, every archer in his train, by an
irresistible impulse, followed their lord's example. Each man's home
was before him, and they blew together, in perfect unison, the famous
_Bienvenu Auvergnat_, till the walls, and the towers, and the hills
echoed to the sound.
At that moment the gates of the castle were thrown open, and a gallant
train of horsemen issued forth, and galloped down towards our
pilgrims. At their head was an old man richly dressed in crimson and
gold. The fire of his eye was unquenched, the rose of his cheek
unpaled, and the only effect of seventy summers to be seen upon him
was the snowy whiteness of his hair. D'Auvergne's horse flew like the
wind to meet him. The old man and the young one sprang to the ground
together. The father clasped his child to his heart, and weeping on
his iron shoulder, exclaimed, "My son! my son!"