Let us suppose the welcome given to all, and the guests within the
castle of the Count d'Auvergne, who, warned by messengers of his son's
approach, had called his _cour plenière_ to welcome the return.
It was one of those gay and lively scenes now seldom met with, where
pageant, and splendour, and show were unfettered by cold form and
ceremony. The rigid etiquette, which in two centuries after enchained
every movement of the French court, was then unknown. Titles of honour
rose no higher than Beau Sire, or Monseigneur, and these even were
applied more as a mark of reverence for great deeds and splendid
virtues, than for wealth and hereditary rank. All was gay and free,
and though respect was shown to age and station, it was the respect of
an early and unsophisticated age, before the free-will offering of the
heart to real dignity and worth had been regulated by the cold
rigidity of a law. Yet each person in that day felt his own station,
struggled for none that was not his due, and willingly paid the
tribute of respect to the grade above his own.
Through the thousand chambers and the ten thousand passages of the
château of Vic le Comte, ran backwards and forwards pages, and
varlets, and squires, in proportion to the multitude of guests. Each
of these attendants, though performing what would be now considered
the menial offices of personal service, to the various knightly and
noble visiters, was himself of noble birth, and aspirant to the
honours of chivalry. Nor was this the case alone at the courts of
sovereign princes like the Count D'Auvergne. Parents of the highest
rank were in that age happy to place their sons in the service of the
poorest knight, provided that his own exploits gave warranty that he
would breed them up to deeds of honour and glory. It was a sort of
apprenticeship to chivalry.
All these choice attendants, for the half-hour after Count Thibalt's
return, hurried, as we have said, from chamber to chamber, offering
their services, and aiding the knights who had come to welcome their
young lord, to unbuckle their heavy armour, without the defence of
which, the act of travelling, especially in Auvergne, was rash and
dangerous. Multitudes of fresh guests were also arriving every
moment--fair dames and gallant knights, vassals and vavassours;--some
followed by a gay train; some bearing nothing but lance and sword;
some carrying themselves their lyre, without which, if known as
troubadours, they never journeyed; and some accompanied by whole
troops of minstrels, jugglers, fools, rope-dancers, and mimics, whom
they brought along with them out of compliment to their feudal chief,
towards whose _cour plenière_ they took their way.
Numbers of these buffoons also were scattered amongst the tents and
booths, which we have mentioned, on the outside of the castle-gate;
and here, too, were merchants and pedlars of all kinds, who had
hurried to Vic le Comte with inconceivable speed, on the very first
rumour of a _cour plenière_. In one booth might be seen cloth of gold
and silver, velvets, silks, cendals, and every kind of fine stuffs; in
another, ermines, miniver, and all sorts of furs. Others, again,
displayed silver cups and vessels, with golden ornaments for clasping
the mantles of the knights and ladies, called _fermailles_; and again,
others exhibited cutlery and armour of all kinds; Danish battle-axes,
casques of Poitiers, Cologne swords, and Rouen hauberts. Neither was
noise wanting. The laugh, the shout, the call, within and without the
castle walls, was mingled with the sound of a thousand instruments,
from the flute to the hurdy-gurdy; while, at the same time, every
point of the scene was fluttering and alive, whether with gay dresses
and moving figures, or pennons, flags, and banners on the walls and
pinnacles of the château.
Precisely at the hour of four, a band of minstrels, richly clothed,
placed themselves before the great gate of the castle, and performed
what was called _corner à l'eau_, which gave notice to every one that
the banquet was about to be placed upon the table. At that sound, all
the knights and ladies left the chambers to which they had first been
marshalled, and assembled in one of the vast halls of the castle,
where the pages offered to each a silver basin and napkin, to wash
their hands previous to the meal.
At this part of the ceremony De Coucy, Heaven knows how! found himself
placed by the side of Isadore of the Mount; and he would willingly
have given a buffet to the gay young page who poured the water over
her fair hands, and who looked up in her face with so saucy and
page-like a grin, that Isadora could not but smile, while she thanked
him for his service.
The old Count d'Auvergne stood speaking with his son; and, while he
welcomed the various guests as they passed before him with word and
glance, he still resumed his conversation with Count Thibalt. Nor did
that conversation seem of the most pleasing character; for his brow
appeared to catch the sadness of his son's, from which the light of
joy, that his return had kindled up, had now again passed away.
"If your knightly word be pledged, my son," said the old count, as the
horns again sounded to table, "no fears of mine shall stay you; but I
had rather you had sworn to beard the Soldan on his throne, than that
which you have undertaken." The conversation ended with a sigh, and
the guests were ushered to the banquet-hall.
It was one of those vast chambers, of which few remain to the present
day. One, however, may still be seen at La Brède, the château of the
famous Montesquieu, of somewhat the same dimensions. It was eighty
feet in length, by fifty in breadth; and the roof, of plain dark oak,
rose from walls near thirty feet high, and met in the form of a
pointed arch in the centre. Neither columns nor pilasters ornamented
the sides; but thirty complete suits of mail, with sword, and spear,
and shield, battle-axe, mace, and dagger, hung against each wall; and
over every suit projected a banner, either belonging to the house of
Auvergne, or won by some of its members in the battle-field. The floor
was strewed thickly with green leaves; and on each space left vacant
on the wall by the suits of armour was hung a large branch of oak,
covered with its foliage. From such simple decorations, bestowed upon
the hall itself, no one would have expected to behold a board laid out
with as much splendour and delicacy as the most scrupulous gourmand of
the present day could require to give savour to his repast.
The table, which extended the whole length of the hall, was covered
with fine damask linen--a manufacture the invention of which, though
generally attributed to the seventeenth century, is of infinitely
older date. Long benches, covered with tapestry, extended on each side
of the table; and the place of every guest was marked, even as in the
present times, by a small round loaf of bread, covered with a fine
napkin, embroidered with gold. By the side of the bread lay a knife,
though the common girdle dagger often saved the lord of the mansion
the necessity of providing his guests with such implements. To this
was added a spoon, of silver; but forks there were none, their first
mention in history being in the days of Charles the Fifth of France.
A row of silver cups also ornamented both sides of the board; the
first five on either hand being what were called _hanaps_, which
differed from the others in being raised upon a high stem, after the
fashion of the chalice. Various vases of water and of wine, some of
silver, some of crystal, were distributed in different parts of the
table, fashioned for the most part in strange and fanciful forms,
representing dragons, castles, ships, and even men, and an immense
mass of silver and gold, in the different shapes of plates and
goblets, blazed upon two buffets, or _dressoirs_, as they are called
by Helenor de Poitiers, placed at the higher part of the hall, near
the seat of the count himself.
Thus far, the arrangements differed but little from those of our own
times. What was to follow, however, was somewhat more in opposition to
the ideas of the present day. The doors of the hall were thrown open,
and the splendid train of knights and ladies, which the _cour
plenière_ had assembled, entered to the banquet. The Count d'Auvergne
first took his place in a chair with _dossier_ and _dais_, as it was
particularised in those days, or, in other words, high raised back and
canopy. He then proceeded to arrange what was called the _assiette_ of
the table; namely, that very difficult task of placing those persons
together whose minds and qualities were best calculated to assimilate:
a task, on the due execution of which the pleasure of such meetings
must ever depend, but which will appear doubly delicate, when we
remember that then each knight and lady, placed side by side, ate from
the same plate, and drank from the same cup.
That sort of quick perception of proprieties, which we now call
_tact_, belongs to no age; and the Count d'Auvergne, in the thirteenth
century, possessed it in a high degree. All his guests were satisfied,
and De Coucy drank out of the same cup as Isadora of the Mount.
They were deliriating draughts he drank, and he now began to feel that
he had never loved before. The glance of her bright eye, the touch of
her small hand, the sound of her soft voice, seemed something new, and
strange, and beautiful to him; and he could hardly fancy that he had
known any thing like it ere then. The scene was gay and lovely; and
there were all those objects and sounds around which excite the
imagination and make the heart beat high,--glitter, and splendour, and
wine, and music, and smiles, and beauty, and contagious happiness. The
gay light laugh, the ready jest, the beaming look, the glowing cheek,
the animated speech, the joyous tale, were there; and ever and anon,
through the open doors, burst a wild swelling strain of horns and
flutes--rose for a moment over every other sound, and then died away
again into silence.
What words De Coucy said, and how those words were said; and what
Isadore felt, and how she spoke it not, we will leave to the
imagination of those who may have been somewhat similarly situated.
Nor will we farther prolong the description of the banquet--a
description perhaps too far extended already--by detailing all the
various yellow soups and green, the storks, the peacocks, and the
boars; the castles that poured forth wine, and the pyramids of fifty
capons, which from time to time covered the table. We have already
shown all the remarkable differences between a banquet of that age and
one given in our own, and also some of the still more remarkable
similarities.
At last, when the rays of the sun, which had hitherto poured through
the high windows on the splendid banquet-table, so far declined as no
longer to reach it, the old Count d'Auvergne filled his cup with wine,
and raised his hand as a sign to the minstrels behind his chair, when
suddenly they blew a long loud flourish on their trumpets, and then
all was silent. "Fair knights and ladies!" said the count, "before we
go to hear our troubadours beneath our ancient oaks, I once more bid
you welcome all; and though here be none but true and valiant knights,
to each of whom I could well wish to drink, yet there is one present
to whom Auvergne owes much, and whom I--old as I am in arms--pronounce
the best knight in France. Victor of Ascalon and Jaffa; five times
conqueror of the infidel, in ranged battle; best lance at Zara, and
first planter of a banner on the imperial walls of Byzantium--but more
to me than all--saviour of my son's life--Sir Guy de Coucy, good
knight and true, I drink to your fair honour!--do me justice in my
cup:" and the count, after having raised his golden _hanap_ to his
lips, sent it round by a page to De Coucy.
De Coucy took the cup from the page, and with a graceful abnegation of
the praises bestowed upon him, pledged the father of his friend. But
the most remarkable circumstance of the ceremony was, that it was
Isadore's cheek that flushed, and Isadore's lip that trembled, at the
great and public honour shown to De Coucy, as if the whole
embarrassment thereof had fallen upon herself.
The guests now rose, and, led by the Count d'Auvergne, proceeded to
the forest behind the château, where, under the great feudal oak, at
whose foot all the treaties and alliances of Auvergne were signed,
they listened to the songs of the various troubadours, many of whom
were found amongst the most noble of the knights present.
We are so accustomed to look upon all the details of the age of
chivalry as fabulous, that we can scarcely figure to ourselves men
whose breasts were the mark and aim of every danger, whose hands were
familiar with the lance and sword, and whose best part of life was
spent in battle and bloodshed, suddenly casting off their armour, and
seated under the shadow of an oak, singing lays of love and tenderness
in one of the softest and most musical languages of the world. Yet so
it was, and however difficult it may be to transport our mind to such
a scene, and call up the objects as distinct and real, yet history
leaves no doubt of the fact, that the most daring warriors of
Auvergne--and Auvergne was celebrated for bold and hardy spirits--were
no less famous as troubadours than knights; and, as they sat round the
count, they, one after another, took the citharn, or the rote, and
sung with a slight monotonous accompaniment one of the sweet lays of
their country.
There is only one, however, whom we shall particularise. He was a
slight fair youth, of a handsome but somewhat feminine aspect.
Nevertheless, he wore the belt and spurs of a knight; and by the
richness of his dress, which glittered with gold and crimson, appeared
at least endowed with the gifts of fortune. During the banquet, he had
gazed upon Isadore of the Mount far more than either the lady beside
whom he sat, or De Coucy, admired; and there was a languid and almost
melancholy softness in his eye, which Isadore's lover did not at all
like. When called upon to sing, by the name of the Count de la Roche
Guyon, he took his harp from a page, and sweeping it with a careless
but a confident hand, again fixed his eyes upon Isadore, and sang with
a sweet, full, mellow voice, in the Provençal or Langue d'oc, though
his name seemed to bespeak a more northern extraction.
TROUBADOUR'S SONG.
"My love, my love, my lady love!
What can with her compare;
The orbs of heaven she's far above,
No flower is half so fair.
Her cheeks are like the summer sky,
Before the sun goes down--
Faint roses, like the hues that lie
Beneath night's tresses brown.
Her eye itself is like that star,
Which, sparkling through the sky,
Lifts up its diamond look afar,
Just as day's blushes die.
Her lip alone, the new born rose;
Her breath, the breath of spring;
Her voice is sweet as even those
Of angels when they sing.
A thousand congregated sweets
Deck her beyond compare;
And fancy's self no image meets
So wonderfully fair.
I'd give my barony to be
Beloved for a day:
But, oh! her heart is not for me!
Her smile is given away."
"By my faith! she must be a hard-hearted damsel, then!" said old Sir
Julian of the Mount, "if she resist so fair a troubadour.--But, Sir
Guy de Coucy, let not the Langue d'oc carry it off entirely from us of
the Langue d'oyl. So gallant a knight must love the lyre. I pray thee!
sing something, for the honour of our Trouvères."
De Coucy would have declined, but the Count Thibalt pressed him to the
task, and named the siege of Constantinople as his theme. At the same
time the young troubadour who had just sung offered him his harp,
saying, "I pray you, beau sire, for the honour of your lady!"
De Coucy bowed his head, and took the instrument, over the strings of
which he threw his hand, in a bold but not unskilful manner; and then,
joining his voice, sung the taking of Zara and first siege of
Constantinople; after which he detailed the delights of Greece, and
showed how difficult it was for the knights and soldiers to keep
themselves from sinking into the effeminacy of the Greeks, while
encamped in the neighbourhood of Byzantium, waiting the execution of
their treaty with the Emperor Isaac and his son Alexis. He then spoke
of the assassination of Alexis, the usurpation of Murzuphlis, and the
preparation of the Francs to punish the usurper. His eye flashed; his
tone became more elevated, and drawing his accompaniment from the
lower tones of the instrument, he poured forth an animated description
of the last day of the empire of the Greeks.
De Coucy then went on to describe the shining but effeminate display
of the Greek warriors on the walls, and the attack of the city by sea
and land. In glowing language he depicted both the great actions of
the assault and of the defence; the effect of the hell-invented Greek
fire; of the catapults, the mangonels, the darts of flame shot from
the walls; as well as the repeated repulses of the Francs, and the
determined and unconquerable valour with which they pursued their
purpose of punishing the Greeks. Abridging his lay as he went on, he
left out the names of many of the champions, and touched but slightly
on the deeds of others.
But with increasing energy at every line, he proceeded to sing the
mixed fight upon the battlements, after the Francs had once succeeded
in scaling them, till the Greeks gave way, and he concluded by
painting the complete triumph of the Francs.
All eyes were bent on De Coucy;--all ears listened to his lay. The
language, or rather dialect, in which he sang, the Langue d'oyl, was
not so sweet and harmonious as the Langue d'oc, or Provençal, it is
true, but it had more strength and energy. The subject, also, was more
dignified; and as the young knight proceeded to record the deeds in
which he had himself been a principal actor, his whole soul seemed to
be cast into his song:--his fine features assumed a look between the
animation of the combatant and the inspiration of the poet. It seemed
as if he forgot every thing around, in the deep personal interest
which he felt in the very incidents he recited: his utterance became
more rapid; his hand swept like lightning over the harp; and when he
ended his song, and laid down the instrument, it was as if he did so
but in order to lay his hand upon his sword.
A pause of deep silence succeeded for a moment, and then came a
general murmur of applause; for, in singing the deeds of the Francs at
Constantinople, De Coucy touched, in the breast of each person
present, that fine chord called national vanity, by which we attach a
part of every sort of glory, gained by our countrymen, to our own
persons, however much we may recognise that we are incompetent to
perform the actions by which it was acquired.