We must now return for a time to the château of Compiègne, in one of
the principal chambers of which, surrounded by a bevy of fair maids,
sat Agnes de Meranie, bending her graceful head over an embroidery
frame. As far as one might judge from the lively colours upon the
ground of white satin, she was engaged in working a coat of arms; and
she plied her small fingers busily as if in haste. Her maids also
were all fully engaged, each in some occupation which had in a degree
a reference to that of the queen. One richly embroidered a sword belt
with threads of gold; another wove a golden fringe for the coat of
arms; and a third was equally intent in tracing various symbols on a
banner.
From what internal emotion it is hard to say--for song is not always a
sign of joy--the queen, as she sat at her work, sang, from time to
time, some of the verses of one of the cançons of the day, in a sweet
low voice, and in that sort of indifferent tone, which seemed to show,
that while her hands were busy with the embroidery, and her voice was
as mechanically modulating the song, that nobler part of the mind,
which seems to dwell more in the heart than the brain, and whose
thoughts are feelings, was busy with very different matter.
THE SEEKER FOR LOVE
"Oh where is Love?" the pilgrim said,
"Is he pris'ner, dead, or fled?
I've sought him far, with spear and lance.
To meet him, seize and bind him.
I've sought him in each tower of France,
But never yet could find him--
There,"--
"Should these flowers, in the treasure, be azure or gold, Blanche?"
demanded the queen.
"Gold, madam!--Oh, certainly gold!" replied the lady, and the queen
resumed her work and her song.
"Oh where is Love?" he said again,
"Let me not seek, and seek in vain!
In the proud cities have I been,
In cottages I've sought him,
'Midst lords, 'midst shepherds on the green,
But none of them have brought him--
There."
"He is banished," replied the knight,
"By the cold looks of our ladies bright!"--
"He is gone," said the lady fair,
"To sport in Eden's arbours,
As for men's hearts, his old repair,
Treason alone now harbours--
There."
"I have found him," the pilgrim said;
"In my heart he has laid his head.
Though banish'd from knights and ladies rare,
And even shepherds discard him,
In my bosom shall be the god's lair.
And with silken fetters I'll guard him--
There."
"Was it not on Thursday the king went?" demanded the queen.
"No, madam," answered the lady who had spoken before. "He went on
Friday; and he cannot be back till the day after to-morrow, if he come
then; for that false, uncourteous king of England is as full of wiles
as of villanies, and will never give a clear reply; so that it always
costs my lord the king longer to deal with him than any of his other
vassals. Were I his brother, the Earl of Salisbury, who has been twice
at Paris, and is as good a knight as ever wore a lady's favour, I
would sweep his head off with my long sword, and restore the crown to
our little Arthur, who is the rightful king."
"Where is the young truant?" demanded the queen. "I would fain ask
him, whether he would have these straps on the shoulder of plain silk
or of gold. See forhim, good girl!"
But at that moment a part of the tapestry was suddenly pushed aside,
and a slight, graceful boy, of about fifteen, sprang into the room. He
was gaily dressed in a light tunic of sky-blue silk, and a jewelled
bonnet of the same colour, which showed well on his bright, fair skin,
and the falling curls of his sunny hair.
"Not so far off as you thought, fair cousin," said he, casting himself
on one knee beside the queen, and kissing one of the small delicate
hands that lay on the embroidery frame.
"Not eaves-dropping, I hope, Arthur," said Agnes de Meranie. "You, who
are so soon to become a knight, are too noble for that, I am sure."
"Oh, surely!" said the boy, looking up in her face with an ingenuous
blush. "I had but been to see my mother; and, as I came back, I
stopped at the window above the stairs to watch an eagle that was
towering over the forest so proudly, I could not help wishing I had
been an eagle, to rise up like it into the skies, and see all the
world stretched out beneath me. And then I heard you singing, and
there was no harm in staying to listen to that, you know, belle
cousine," he added, looking up with a smile.
"And how is the lady Constance, now?" demanded the queen.
"Oh! she is somewhat better," replied Arthur. "And she bade me thank
you, fair queen, in her name, as well as my own, for undertaking the
task which her illness prevented her from accomplishing."
"No thanks! no thanks! prince Arthur," replied the queen. "Is it not
the duty of every dame in France to aid in arming a knight when called
upon? But tell me, sir runaway, for I have been waiting these ten
minutes to know,--will you have these straps of cloth of gold, or
simple silk?"
This question gave rise to a very important discussion, which was just
terminated by Arthur's predilection for gold, when a page, entering,
announced to the queen that Guerin, the chancellor, desired a few
minutes' audience.
The queen turned somewhat pale, for the first sting of adversity had
gone deep in her heart, and she trembled lest it should be repeated.
She commanded the attendant, however, to admit the minister,
endeavouring, as much as possible, to conceal the alarm and uneasiness
which his visit caused her. The only symptom indeed of impatience
which escaped her appeared in her turning somewhat quickly round, and
pointing to a falcon that stood on its perch in one of the windows,
and amused itself, on seeing some degree of bustle, by uttering one or
two loud screams, thinking probably it was about to be carried to the
field.
"Take that bird away, Arthur, good youth," said the queen; "it makes
my head ache."
Arthur obeyed; and as he left the room the hospitaller entered, but
not alone. He was followed by a tall, thin, wasted man, dressed in a
brown frock, or _bure_, over which his white beard flowed down to his
girdle. In fact, it was Bernard the hermit, that, for the purposes we
shall explain, had once more for a time quitted his solitude, and
accompanied the minister of Philip Augustus to Compiègne.
The hospitaller bowed his head as he advanced towards the queen, and
the hermit gave her his blessing; but still, for a moment, the heart
of poor Agnes de Meranie beat so fast, that she could only reply by
pointing to two seats which her women left vacant by her side.
"Madame, we come to speak to you on matters of some importance," said
Guerin, looking towards the queen's women, who, though withdrawn from
her immediate proximity, still stood at a little distance. "Would it
please you to let us have a few minutes of your presence alone. Myself
and my brother Bernard are both unworthy members of the holy church,
and therefore may claim a lady's ear for a short space, without
falling into the danger of evil tongues."
"I fear no evil tongues, good brother," replied Agnes, summoning
courage to meet whatever was to come; "and though I know of no subject
concerning myself that I could wish concealed from the world, yet I
will bid these poor girls go at your desire. Go, Blanche," she
continued, turning to her principal attendant,--"go, and wait in the
ante-room till I call. Now, good brother, may I crave what can be your
business with so unimportant a person as my poor self?"
"As far, madam," replied Guerin, after a moment's pause, "as the weal
of this great realm of France is concerned, you are certainly any
thing but an unimportant person; nor can a fair, a noble, and a
virtuous lady ever be unimportant, be she queen or not. My brother
Bernard, from whom that most excellent knight and king, your royal
husband, has, as doubtless you know, lady, received many sage and
prudent counsels, has consented to join himself to me for the bold
purpose of laying before you a clear view of the state of this realm,
risking thereby, we know, to hurt your feelings, and even to offend
our lord the king, who has anxiously kept it concealed from you."
"Hold, fair brother!" said Agnes mildly, but firmly; "and before you
proceed, mark me well! Where the good of my noble Philip, or of his
kingdom of France, may be obtained by the worst pain you can inflict
on me, let no fear of hurting my feelings stop you in your course.
Agnes gives you leave to hurt Agnes, for her husband's good; but
where, in the slightest degree, the confidence you would place in me
is in opposition to the will of Philip, your king and mine, the queen
commands you to be silent. Stay, good brother, hear me out: I know
that you would say, it is for the king's ultimate good, though he may
disapprove of it at present; but to me, good bishop, and you father
hermit,--to me, my husband's wisdom is supreme, as his will to me is
law; and though I will listen to your counsel and advice with all
humility, yet you must tell me nothing that my lord would not have me
hear, for on his judgment alone will I depend."
Guerin looked to the hermit, who instantly replied:--"Daughter,
you have spoken well, wisely, and nobly; and I, even I, marvel
not,--though my heart is like a branch long broken from its stem,
withered and verdureless,--that Philip of France clings so fondly to
one, where beauty, and wisdom, and love, are so strangely united:
strangely indeed for this world! where if any two of such qualities
meet, 'tis but as that eastern plant which blossoms but once an age.
Let us only to council then, my child, and see what best may be done
to save the realm from all the horrors that menace it."
The hermit spoke in a tone of such unwonted mildness, that Guerin,
apparently doubting his firmness in executing the purpose that had
brought them thither, took up the discourse.
"Lady," said he, "after the ungrateful occurrence which terminated the
tournament of the Champeaux,--forgive me, that I recall what must pain
you,--you can hardly doubt that our holy father the pope, in his
saintly wisdom, considers that the decree of the prelates of France,
annulling the marriage of the king with Ingerburge of Denmark, was
illegal, and consequently invalid. Need I--need I, lady, urge upon you
the consequences, if our royal lord persists in neglecting, or
resisting, the repeated commands of the supreme pontiff?"
Agnes turned deadly pale, and pointed to a crystal cup filled with
water, which stood near. The minister gave it to her; and, having
drunk a few drops, she covered her eyes with her hand for a
moment--then raised them, and replied with less apparent emotion than
might have been expected: "You do not clothe the truth, sir, in that
soft guise which makes it less terrible of aspect to a weak woman's
eyes, though not less certain; but you have been a soldier, sir, and
also a recluse, mingling not with such feeble things as we are; and,
therefore, I must forgive you the hard verities you speak. What is it
you wish me to do?--for I gather from your manner that there is some
task you would fain impose upon me."
Pained by the effect his words had had upon the queen, and feeling
uncertain of how far he might venture, without driving her to actual
despair, embarrassed also by his small habits of intercourse with
women, Guerin turned once more to the hermit.
"The task, my child," said the old man, in compliance with the
minister's look, "is indeed a painful one--bitterly painful; but, if
it approaches to the agony of martyrdom, it is by its self-devotion
equally sublime and glorious. Think, daughter, what a name would that
woman gain in history, who, to save her husband's realm from civil war
and interdict, and himself from excommunication and anathema, should
voluntarily take upon herself the hard duty of opposing not only his
inclinations but also her own; should tear herself from all that was
dear to her, and thereby restore him to his glory and himself,--his
realm to peace,--and tranquillity to the bosom of the church! Think
what a name she would gain in history, and what such a sacrifice might
merit from Heaven!"
"Stay! stay! father," said Agnes, raising her hand. "Stay,--let me
think;" and casting down her beautiful eyes, she remained for a few
moments in profound thought. After a short pause, Guerin, lest the
impression should subside, attempted to fortify the hermit's arguments
with his own; but the queen waved her hand for silence, thought again,
and then raising her eyes, she replied:--
"I understand you, father; and, from my heart, I believe you seek the
good of my husband the king. But this thing must not be--it cannot
be!"
"It is painful, lady," said Guerin; "but to a mind like yours,--to a
heart that loves your husband better than yourself----"
"Hold, my good brother!" said Agnes, "I, a weak, unwise woman, am ill
fitted to contend with two wise and learned men like you; and
therefore I will at once tell you why I reject a task that no
consideration of my own feelings would have caused me to refuse;--no,
not had it slain me!" she added, raising her eyes to heaven, as if
appealing there for testimony of the truth of her assertion. "In the
first place, I am the wife of Philip king of France; and my lips shall
never do my fame the dishonour to admit that for an instant I have
been aught else, since his hand clasped mine before the altar of St.
Denis, in presence of all the prelates and bishops of his realm. I
should dishonour myself--I should dishonour my child, did I think
otherwise. As his wife, I am bound never to quit him with my
good-will; and to submit myself in all things to his judgment and his
wisdom. His wisdom then must be the judge; I will in no one thing
oppose it. If but in the slightest degree I see he begins to think the
sacrifice of our domestic happiness necessary to the public weal, I
will yield without resistance, and bear my sorrows alone to the grave
that will soon overtake me; but never till that grave has closed upon
me will I admit that there is another queen of France; never will I
acknowledge that I am not the lawful wife of Philip Augustus; nor ever
will I oppose myself to my husband's will, or arrogate to myself the
right of judging where he himself has decided. No! Philip has formed
his own determination from his own strong mind; and far be it from me,
his wife, by a word to shake his resolution, or by a thought to
impeach his judgment!"
The queen spoke calmly, but decidedly; and though no tone in her voice
betrayed any degree of vehemence, yet the bright light of her eye, and
the alternate flushing and paleness of her cheek, seemed to evince a
far more powerful struggle of feeling within, than she suffered to
appear in her language.
"But hear me, lady,--hear me once more, for all our sakes!" exclaimed
Guerin.
"Sir, I can listen no longer!" said Agnes, rising from her seat, with
a degree of energy and dignity, that her slight form and gentle
disposition seemed incapable of displaying. "My resolution is
taken--my course is fixed--my path is made; and nothing on earth shall
turn me therefrom. The icy mountains of my native land," she
continued, pointing with her hand in the direction, as she fancied, of
the Tyrol, "whose heads have stood for immemorial ages, beaten in vain
by storm and tempest, are not more immoveable than I am. But I am not
well," she added, turning somewhat pale--"I pray you, good sirs, leave
me!"
Guerin bowed his head, yet lingered, saying, "And yet I would
fain----"
"I am not well, sir," said the queen, turning paler and paler. "Send
me my women, I beseech you!"
Guerin made a step towards the door, but suddenly turned, just in time
to catch the beautiful princess in his arms, as, overcome by
excitement and distress of mind, she fell back in one of those
deathlike fainting fits which had seized her first at the Champeaux.
Her women were immediately called to her assistance; and the minister
and the hermit retired, disappointed indeed in the purpose they had
proposed to effect, but hardly less admiring the mingled dignity,
gentleness, and firmness with which the queen had conducted herself in
one of the most painful situations wherein ever a good and virtuous
woman was placed on earth.
"And now, what more can be done?" said Guerin, pausing on the last
step of the staircase, and speaking in a tone that implied abandonment
of farther effort rather than expectation of counsel. "What can be
done?"
"Nothing, my son," replied the hermit,--"nothing, without thou wouldst
again visit yon fair, unhappy girl, to torture her soul without
shaking her purpose. For me, I have no call to wring my
fellow-creatures' hearts; and therefore I meddle herein no more. Fare
thee well! I go to De Coucy Magny, as they call it, to see a wild
youth whose life I saved, I fear me, to little purpose."
"But not on foot!" said Guerin; "'tis far, good brother. Take a horse,
a mule, from my stable, I pray thee!"
"And why not on foot?" asked the old man. "Our Lord and Saviour walked
on foot, I trow; and he might have well been prouder than thou or I."