In the days we speak of, the city of Paris was just beginning to
venture beyond the island, and spread its streets and houses over the
country around. During the reign of Louis the Seventh, and especially
under the administration of Suger, abbot of St. Denis, the buildings
had extended far on the northern bank of the river; and there already
might be seen churches and covered market-places, and all that
indicates a wealthy and rising city; but in the midst of this suburb,
nearly on the spot where stand at present the Rue Neuve and the Rue
des Petits Champs, was a vast open space of ground, called the
Champeaux, or Little Fields; which, appertaining to the crown, had
been reserved for the chivalrous sports of the day. Part of it,
indeed, had been given to the halls of Paris, and part had been
enclosed as a cemetery; but a large vacant space still remained, and
here was appointed the tournament of July, to which Philip Augustus
had called all the chivalry of his realm.
It is not my intention here to describe a tournament, which has been
so often done--and so exquisitely well done in the beautiful romance
of Ivanhoe, that my relation would not only have the tediousness of a
twice-told tale, but the disadvantage of a comparison with something
far better; but I am unfortunately obliged to touch upon such a theme,
as the events that took place at the _passe d'armes_ of Champeaux
materially affect the course of my history.
On one side of the plain extended a battlemented building, erected by
the minister Guerin, and dedicated, as the term went, to the shelter
of the poor passengers. It looked more like a fortress, indeed, than a
house of hospitality, being composed entirely of towers and turrets;
and as it was the most prominent situation in the neighbourhood, it
was appointed for the display of the casques and shields of arms
belonging to the various knights who proposed to combat in the
approaching tournament. Nor was the effect unpleasant to the eye, for
every window on that side of the building which fronted the field had
the shield and banner of some particular knight, with all the same gay
colours wherewith we now decorate the panels of our carriages. In the
cloisters below, from morning unto night-fall, stood one of the
heralds in his glittering tabard, with his pursuivants and followers,
ready to receive and register complaints against any of the knights
whose arms were displayed above, and who, in case of any serious
charges, were either prevented from entering, or were driven with
ignominy from, the lists.
Side by side, on one of the most conspicuous spots of the building, as
knights of high fame and prowess, were placed the shields and banners
of Count Thibalt d'Auvergne and Guy de Coucy; and the officers of
arms, who, from time to time repeated the names of the various
knights, and their exploits and qualities, did not fail to pause long
upon the two brothers in arms; giving De Coucy the meed over all
others for valour and daring, and D'Auvergne for cool courage and
prudent skill.
All the arrangements of the field were as magnificent as if the royal
coffers had overflowed. The scaffoldings for the king, the ladies, and
the judges, were hung with crimson and gold; the tents and booths were
fluttering with streamers of all colours, and nothing was seen around
but pageant and splendour.
Such was the scene which presented itself on the evening before the
tournament, when De Coucy and his friend, the Count d'Auvergne, whom
he had rejoined by this time in Paris, set out, from a lodging which
they occupied near the tower of the châtelet, to visit the spot where
they were to display their skill the next day. A circumstance,
however, occurred by the way, which it may be well to record.
Passing through some of the more narrow and tortuous streets of Paris,
and their horses pressed on by the crowd of foot passengers, who were
coming from, or going to, the same gay scene as themselves, they could
only converse in broken observations to each other, as they for a
moment came side by side. And even these detached sentences were often
drowned in the various screaming invitations to spend their money,
which were in that day poured forth upon passengers of all
denominations.
"Methinks the king received us but coldly," said De Coucy, as he
gained D'Auvergne's ear for a moment, "after making us wait four days
too!--Methinks his hospitality runs dry."
"Wine, will you wine? Good strong wine, fit for knights and nobles,"
cried a loud voice at the door of one of the houses.
"Cresses!--fresh water-cresses!" shrieked a woman with a basket in her
hand.
"The king can scarce love me less than I love him," answered the count
in a low tone, as a movement of his horse brought him close to De
Coucy.
"And yet," said his friend, in some surprise, "you, principally,
determined your father to reject all overtures from the Count of
Flanders, brought by Sir Julian of the Mount!"
"Because I admire the king, though I love not the man," replied Count
Thibalt.
"Baths! baths! hot baths!" cried a man with a napkin over his arm, and
down whose face the perspiration was streaming. "Hot! hot! hot! upon
my honour!--Bathe, lords and knights! bathe! 'Tis dusty weather."
"Knight of Auvergne!" cried a voice close by. "Those that soar high,
fall farthest. Sir Guy de Coucy, the falcon was slain that checked at
the eagle, because he was the king of birds."
A flush came into the cheek of Count Thibalt; and De Coucy started and
turned round in his saddle, to see who spoke. No one, however, was
near, but a man engaged in that ancient and honourable occupation of
selling hot pies, and a woman chaffering for a pair of doves with
another of her own sex.
"By all the saints of France!" cried De Coucy, "some one named us.
What meant the fool by checking at the eagle? I see him not, or I
would check at him!"
Count Thibalt d'Auvergne asked no explanation of the quaint proverb
that had been addressed to him; but only inquired of De Coucy, whether
'twas not like the voice of his villain--Gallon the fool.
"No!" replied the knight.--"No! 'twas not so shrill. Besides, he is
gone, as he said, to inspect the lists some half-hour ago."
In truth, no sooner did they approach the booths, which had been
erected by various hucksters and jugglers, at the end of the cemetery
of the Innocents, a short distance from the lists, than they beheld
Gallon the fool, with his jerkin turned inside out, amusing a crowd of
men, women, and children, with various tricks of his old trade.
"Come to me!--come to me!" cried he, "all that want to learn
philosophy! I am the king of cats, and the patron of cock-sparrows.
Have any of you a dog that wants gloves, or a goat that lacks a
bonnet? Bring him me!--bring him me! and I will fit him to a
hair.--Haw, haw! haw, haw!"
His strange laugh, his still stranger face, and his great dexterity,
were giving much delight and astonishment to the people, when the
appearance of De Coucy, who, he well knew, would be angry at the
public exhibition of his powers, put a stop to his farther feats; and
shouting, "Haw, haw! haw, haw!" he scampered off, and was safely at
home before them.
The day of the tournament broke clear and bright; and long before the
hour appointed, the galleries were full, and the knights armed in
their tents. Nothing was waited for but the presence of the king; and
many was the impatient look of lady and of page, towards the street
which led to the side of the river.
At length the sound of trumpets announced his approach; and, winding
up towards Champeaux, were seen the leaders of his body-guard--that
first small seed from which sprung and branched out in a thousand
directions the great body of a standing army. The first institution of
these serjeants of arms, as they were called, took place during
Philip's crusade in the Holy Land, where, feigning, or believing, his
life to be in danger from the poniards of the assassins, he attached
to his own person a guard of twelve hundred men, whose sole duty was
to watch around the king's dwelling. In France, though the same excuse
no longer existed, Philip was too wise to dismiss the corps which he
had once established, and which not only offered a nucleus for larger
bodies in time of need, but which added that pomp and majesty to the
name of king, that neither the extent of the royal domains, nor the
prerogatives of sovereignty, limited as they were in those days, could
alone either require or enforce.
Slowly winding up through the streets towards the Champeaux, the
cavalcade of royalty seemed to delight in exhibiting itself to the
gaze of the people, who crowded the houses to the very tops; for, well
understanding the barbarous taste of the age in which he lived, no one
ever more feasted the public eye with splendour than Philip Augustus.
First came the heralds two and two, with their many-coloured tabards,
exhibiting on their breasts the arms of their provinces. Next followed
on horseback, Mountjoy king-at-arms, surrounded by a crowd of
marshals, pursuivants, and valets on foot. He was dressed in a
sleeveless tunic of crimson, which opening in front displayed a robe
of violet velvet, embroidered with _fleur de lis_. On his head was
placed his crown, and in his hand a sort of staff or sceptre. He was
indeed, as far as personal appearance went, a very kingly person; and
being a great favourite amongst the people, he was received with loud
shouts of Denis Mountjoy! Denis Mountjoy! Blessings on thee, Sire
François de Roussy!
Next appeared a party of the serjeants-at-arms, bearing their gilded
quivers and long bows; while each held in his right-hand the baton of
his immense brazen mace, the head or ball of which rested on his
shoulder. But then came a sight which obliterated all others. It was
the party of the king and queen. The monarch himself was mounted on a
_destrier_, or battle-horse, as black as night, whose every step
seemed full of the consciousness that he bore royalty. Armed
completely, except the casque, which was borne behind him by a page,
Philip Augustus moved the warrior, and looked the monarch; and the
same man, who had heard the hermit's rebuke with patience, ordered the
preparations of a banquet like a Lucullus; and played with the roses
in a woman's hair, now looked as if he could have crushed an empire
with a frown.
Beside him, on a palfrey--as if for the contrast's sake,
milk-white--rode the lovely Agnes de Meranie. All that is known of her
dress is, that it also was white; for it seems that no one who looked
on her could remark any thing but her radiant beauty. As she moved on,
managing with perfect ease a high-spirited horse, whose light
movements served but to call out a thousand graces in his rider, the
glitter, and the pageant, and the splendour seemed to pass away from
the eyes of the multitude, extinguished by something brighter still;
and, ever and anon, Philip Augustus himself let his glance drop to the
sweet countenance of his queen, with an expression that woke some
sympathetic feeling in the bosoms of the people; and a loud shout
proclaimed the participation of the crowd in the sensations of the
king.
Behind the king and queen rode a long train of barons and ladies, with
all the luxury of dress and equipage for which that age was
distinguished. Amongst the most conspicuous of that noble train were
Constance, Duchess of Brittany, and her son Arthur Plantagenet, of
whose character and fate we shall have more to speak hereafter. Each
great chieftain was accompanied by many a knight, and vassal, and
vavassour, with worlds of wealth bestowed upon their horses and their
persons. Following these again, came another large body of the King's
men-at-arms, closing the procession, which marched slowly on, and
entered the southern end of the lists; after which, traversing the
field amidst the shouts and gratulations of the multitude, the whole
party halted at the foot of a flight of steps leading to the splendid
gallery prepared for the king and queen. Here, surrounded by a crowd
of waving crests and glittering arms, Philip himself lifted Agnes from
her horse, and led her to her seat; while at the same time the
trumpets sounded for the various knights to make a tour round the
field, before proceeding to the sports of the day. Each, as he passed
by the royal gallery, saluted the king and queen by dropping the point
of his lance; and from time to time, Agnes demanded the name of the
different knights, whom either she did not know, or whose faces were
so concealed by the helmet as to render it difficult to distinguish
them.
"Who is he, Philip?" demanded she, as one of the knights passed, "he
with the wivern in his casque, and the red scarf,--who is he? He sits
his horse nobly."
"'Tis Charles de Tournon," replied the king; "a noble knight, called
the Comte Rouge. Here comes also Guillaume de Macon, my fair dame,"
added the king, smiling, "with a rose on his shield, all for your
love."
"Silly knight!" said Agnes. "He had better fix his love where he may
hope to win. But who is this next, with the shield sinople, bearing a
cross, gules, and three towers in chief?"
"That is the famous Guy de Coucy," replied the King; "a most renowned
knight. If report speaks true, we shall see all go down before his
lance. And this who follows, and is now coming up, is the no less
famous Thibalt Count d'Auvergne"--and the king fixed his eyes upon his
wife with a keen, inquiring glance.
Luckily, however, the countenance of Agnes showed nothing which could
alarm a mind like Philip's.
"Count Thibalt d'Auvergne!" cried she, with a frank, unembarrassed
smile. "Oh! I know him well. He spent many months at my father's court
in going to the Holy Land. From him I first heard the praises of my
Philip, long, long ere I ever entertained a hope of being his wife. I
was scarce more than a child then, not much above fifteen--and yet I
forgot not those praises. He was a dear friend too--that Count
d'Auvergne--of my poor brother Alberic, who died in Palestine." The
queen added, with a sigh--"Poor Alberic! he loved me well!"
"The fool lied!" said Philip internally: "all is frank and fair. The
fool lied!--and led me to slight a noble knight and powerful baron by
his falsehood!" and bending forward, as if to do away the coldness
with which he had at first treated the Count d'Auvergne, he answered
his salute with a marked and graceful inclination of the head.
"Is it possible?" cried Agnes, after the Count had passed. "In truth,
I should never have known him, Philip, he is so changed. Why, when he
was at the court of Istria, he was a fresh young man; and now he is as
deadly pale and worn as one sick of the plague. Oh, what a horrible
place must be that Holy Land!--Promise me, Philip, on all the
Evangelists, never to go there again, let who will preach new
crusades:--nay, promise me, my Lord!"
"I do! I do! sweet Agnes!" replied the king: "once in a life is quite
enough. I have other warfares now before me."
After the knights had all passed, a short space of time intervened for
the various arrangements of the field; and then, the barriers being
opened, the tournament really commenced. Into the particulars of the
feats performed, as I have already said, I shall not enter: suffice it
that, as the king had predicted, all went down before De Coucy's
lance; and that Count Thibalt d'Auvergne, though not hurried on by the
same quick spirit, was judged, by the old knights, no way inferior to
his friend, though his valour bore a different character. The second
course had taken place, and left the same result; and many of the fair
dames in the galleries began to regret that neither of the two
companions in arms had been decorated with their colours; and to
determine upon various little arts and wiles, to engage one or other
of the two crusaders to bear some mark of theirs in any subsequent
tournament.
Thus stood the day, when the voices of the heralds cried to pause,
much to the astonishment, not only of the combatants, but of the king
himself. The barriers opened, and, preceded by a stout priest bearing
a pontifical cross in silver, the cardinal of St. Mary, dressed as
_Legate à latere_, entered the lists, followed by a long train of
ecclesiastics.[14]
--------------------
[Footnote 14: It will be understood that this sudden appearance of the
legate is a historical fact.]
--------------------
A quick, angry flush mounted into the king's cheek, and his brow knit
into a frown, which sufficiently indicated that he expected no very
agreeable news from the visit of the legate. The cardinal, however,
without being moved by his frowns, advanced directly towards the
gallery in which he sat, and, placing himself before him, addressed
him thus:--
"Philip, King of France, I, the cardinal of St. Mary's, am charged,
and commanded, by our most holy father, the Pope Innocent, to speak to
you thus----"
"Hold, Sir Cardinal!" cried the King, "Let your communication be for
our private ear. We are not accustomed to receive either ambassadors
or legates in the listed field."
"I have been directed, Sir King," replied the legate, "by the superior
orders of his holiness, thus publicly to admonish you, wherever I
should find you, you having turned a deaf and contemptuous ear to the
frequent counsels and commands of the holy church. Know then, king
Philip, that with surprise and grief that a king of France should so
forget the hereditary piety of his race, his holiness perceives that
you still persist in abandoning your lawful wife, Ingerburge of
Denmark!"
"The man will drive me mad!" exclaimed the king, grasping his
truncheon, as if he would have hurled it at the daring churchman, who
thus insulted him before all the barons of his realm. "Will no one
stay him?"
Several of the knights and heralds advanced to interpose between the
legate and the king; but the cardinal waved them back; and, well
knowing that their superstitious veneration for his habit would
prevent them from silencing him by force, he proceeded boldly with his
speech.
"Perceiving also," continued he, "that, taking advantage of an
unlawful and annulled divorce, weakly pronounced by your bishops, you
have taken to your bed another woman, who is not, and cannot be, your
wife!"
A shriek from the women of the queen here interrupted the harangue of
the prelate, and all eyes instantly turned upon her.
Simple surprise and astonishment had been the first emotion of Agnes
de Meranie, at seeing any one bold enough to oppose a will that,
according to all her ideas, was resistless; but gradually, as she
began to comprehend the scope of the legate's discourse, terror and
distress took possession of her whole frame. Her eyes strained on him,
as on some bad angel come to cross her young happiness; her lip
quivered; the warm glow of her cheek waxed faint and pale, like the
sunshine fading away from the evening sky; and, at the last terrible
words that seemed to seal her fate for ever, she fell back senseless
into the arms of her women.
The scene of confusion that ensued is not to be described.
"By the light of heaven! old man!" exclaimed Philip, "were it not for
thy grey hairs, I would strike thee dead!--Away with him! Let him
speak no more!--Men-at-arms! put him forth from the lists! Away with
him!--Agnes, my beloved!" he cried, turning to the queen, and taking
her small hand in his, "awake, awake! Fear not, dear Agnes! Is your
Philip's love so light as to be shaken by the impotent words of any
churchman in Christendom?"
In the mean while the serjeants-at-arms hurried the prelate and his
followers from the lists, amidst many a bitter taunt from the
minstrels and trouvères, who feared not even then to attack with the
most daring satire the vices of the church of Rome. The ladies of
Agnes de Meranie pressed round their fair mistress, sprinkling her
with all kinds of essences and perfumed waters; some chattering, some
still screaming, and all abusing the daring legate, who had so pained
the heart of their lovely queen, and put a stop to the sports of the
day. The knights and barons all united in the cause of the princess by
every motive that had power in the days of chivalry:--youth, beauty,
innocence, and distress, shouted loudly, that they acknowledged her
for their sovereign, the queen of all queens, and the flower of all
ladies!
Philip Augustus, with royal indignation still upon his brow, caught
gladly at the enthusiasm of his chivalry; and, standing forward in the
front of the gallery, with the inanimate hand of his lovely wife in
his left, and pointing to her deathlike cheek with the other, he
exclaimed, in a voice that passed all over the field--"Knights and
nobles of fair France! shall I suffer my hearth to be invaded by the
caprice of any proud prelate? Shall I yield the lady of my love for
the menace of any pope on earth? You, good knights!--you only can
judge! and, by Heaven's throne! you only shall be the judges!"
"Life to the king!--life to the king! Denis Mountjoy!--Denis
Mountjoy!" shouted the barons, as if they were rallying round the
royal standard on the battle-field; and, at the same time, the waving
of a thousand scarfs, and handkerchiefs, and veils, from the galleries
around, announced how deep an interest the ladies of France took in a
question where the invaded rights of the queen came so home to the
bosoms of all.
"Break up the sports for to-day!" cried Philip, waving his warder.
"This has disturbed our happiness for the moment; but we trust our
fair queen will be able to thank her loyal knights by the hour of
four, when we invite all men of noble birth here present to sup with
us in our great hall of the palace. For those who come too late to
find a seat in the great hall, a banquet shall be prepared in the
tower of the Louvre. Till then, farewell!"
The fainting fit of Agnes de Meranie lasted so long, that it was found
necessary to carry her to the palace in a litter, followed, sadly and
in silence, by the same splendid train that had conducted her, as if
in triumph, to the tournament.
In the mean while, for a short time, the knights who had come to show
their prowess and skill, and those noble persons, both ladies and
barons, who had graced the lists as spectators, remained in groups,
scattered over the field, and through the galleries, canvassing
vehemently what had taken place; and not the most priest-ridden of
them all, did not, in the first excitement of the moment, declare that
the conduct of both pope and cardinal was daring and scandalous, and
that the divorce which had been pronounced between Philip and
Ingerburge by the bishops of France ought to hold good in the eyes of
all Frenchmen.
"Now, by the good Heaven!" cried De Coucy, raising his voice above all
the rest, "she is as fair a queen as ever my eyes rested on; and
though I cannot wear her colours, and proclaim her the star of my
love, because another vow withholds me, yet I will mortally defy any
man who says she is not lawfully queen of France.--Sound, trumpets,
sound! and you, heralds, cry--Here stands Guy de Coucy in arms, ready
to prove upon the bodies of any persons who do deny that Agnes
princess de Meranie is lawfully queen of France, and wife of Philip
the Magnanimous, that they are false and recreant, and to give them
the lie in their throat, wagering against them his body and arms in
battle, when and where they will appoint, on horseback or on foot, and
giving them the choice of arms!"
The trumpets sounded, and the heralds who remained on the field
proclaimed the challenge of the knight: while De Coucy cast his
gauntlet on the ground. A moment's profound silence succeeded, and
then a loud shout; and no one answering his call, De Coucy bade the
heralds take up the glove and nail it on some public place, with his
challenge written beneath; for payment of which service, he twisted
off three links of a massive gold chain round his neck, and cast it to
the herald who raised his glove; after which he turned, and, rejoining
the Count d'Auvergne, rode back to throw off his arms and prepare for
the banquet to which they had been invited.
"De Coucy," said D'Auvergne, as they passed onward, "I too would
willingly have joined in your challenge, had I thought that our lances
could ever establish Agnes de Meranie as queen of France; but I tell
you no, De Coucy! If the pope be firm, and firm he will be, as her
father too well knows, Philip will be forced to resign her, or to
trust to his barons for support against the church."
"Well!" cried De Coucy, "and his barons will support him. Saw you not
how, but now, they pledged themselves to his support?"
"The empty enthusiasm of a moment!" replied D'Auvergne bitterly; "a
flame which will be out as soon as kindled! Not one man in each
hundred there, I tell thee, De Coucy, has got one spark of such
enthusiasm as yours, which, like the Greek fire, flashes brightly, yet
burns for ever; and as few of them, the colder sort of determination,
which, like mine, burns without any flame, till all that fed it is
consumed."
De Coucy paused. For a moment the idea crossed his mind of proposing
to D'Auvergne a plan for binding all the barons present by a vow to
support Philip against the church of Rome, while the enthusiasm was
yet upon them; but though brave almost to madness where his own person
was alone concerned, he was prudent and cautious in no small degree,
where the life and happiness of others were involved; and, remembering
the strife to which such a proposal, even, might give rise, he paused,
and let it die in silence.