A loud scream, like that of some ravenous bird, but prolonged so that

it seemed as if no mortal breath could have given it utterance,

thrilled through the air as the hermit spoke, and vibrated round and

round the hut. The bishop sank on his knees, and his little guide

pushed open the door and ran in. "I dare stay out there no longer!"

cried the boy: "there is something in the tree!--there is something in

the tree!"

"Where?" cried the hermit, striding towards the door, his worn and

emaciated figure erecting itself, and seeming to swell out with

new-born energy. "Where is this sight? Were it the prince of evil

himself, I defy him!"--and with a firm step, he advanced into the

moonlight, between the threshold of the hut and the ancient tomb,

casting his eyes up into the shattered oak, whose remaining branches

stretched wide and strong over the path.

To his surprise, however, he beheld seated on one of the large boughs,

in the attitude of an ape, a dark figure, like that of a man; who no

sooner cast his eyes on the hermit, than he began to pour forth more

strange and detestable sounds than ever were uttered by a human

tongue, moving backwards along the branches at the same time with

superhuman agility.

"Avoid thee, Satan! In the name of Jesus thy conqueror! avoid thee!"

cried the hermit, holding up the crucifix attached to his rosary.

"Ha, ha! oh rare! The interdict, the interdict!" shouted the vision

gliding along amongst the branches. "Oh rare! oh rare!" And then burst

forth a wild scream of unnatural laughter, which for a moment rang

round and round, as if echoed by a thousand voices; then died away

fainter and fainter, and at last was lost entirely; while the dark

figure, from which it seemed to proceed, disappeared amidst the gloom

of the thick boughs and leaves.

"Rise, rise, father bishop!" cried the hermit, entering the hut. "The

fiend is gone; and verily his coming, where he has never dared to come

before, seemed to show that he is fearful of your design, and would

fain scare us from endeavouring to raise the interdict:--rise, good

father, I say, and be not frightened from your endeavour!" So saying,

the hermit stooped and aided his reverend visiter; whom at his return

he had found stretched flat on his face, at the foot of the cross,

before which the anchorite's lamp was burning.

"Now, Jesu preserve us! this is very dreadful, brother Bernard!" cried

the poor bishop, his teeth chattering in his head. "How you can endure

it, and go on living here, exposed to such attacks, I know not; but I

do know that one week of such residence would wear all the flesh off

my bones."

The hermit glanced his eye, with somewhat of a cold smile, from the

round, well-covered limbs of the prelate, to his own meagre and sinewy

form. He made not, however, the comment that sprang to his lips, but

simply replied, "I am not often subject to such visitations, and, as

you see, the enemy flies from me when I appear."

"But, for all that," answered the bishop, "I tell thee, good brother

Bernard, I dare as much go home through that forest alone with this

urchin, as I dare jump off the tower of the Louvre!"

"Fear not: I will go with thee," replied the anchorite. "The boy, too,

has a torch, I see. The night is now clear, and the wind somewhat gone

down, so that the way will be soon trodden."

Company of any kind, under such circumstances, would have been

received as a blessing by the good bishop; but that of so holy a man

as the hermit was reputed to be, was doubly a security. Clinging to

him, therefore, somewhat closer than bespoke much valour, the prelate

suffered himself to be led out into the forest; while the boy, with

his torch now lighted again, accompanied them, a little indeed in

advance, but not sufficiently so as to prevent him also from holding

tight by the anchorite's frock.

Thus, then, they proceeded through the winding paths of the wood, now

in light, and now in shade, till the dark roofs of the village near

Vincennes, sleeping quietly in the moonshine, met once more the

delighted eyes of the bishop of Paris. Here the anchorite bade God

speed him, and, turning his steps back again, took the way to his hut.

Did we say that the hermit, Bernard, did not every now and then give a

glance to the wood on either side as he passed, or that he did not

hold his crucifix in his hand, and, from time to time, murmur a prayer

to Heaven or his guardian angel, we should say what was false; but

still he walked on with a firm step, and a far more erect carriage

than usual, prepared to encounter the enemy of mankind, should he

appear in bodily shape, with all the courage of a Christian and the

zeal of an enthusiast.

When he had reached his hut, however, and fastened the door, he cast

himself on his knees before the cross, and, folding his arms devoutly

on his bosom, he exclaimed:--"O, blessed Saviour! pardon if J have

sinned in the counsel I have this night given. Let not weakness of

understanding be attributed to me for wickedness of heart; but, as

thou seest that my whole desire is to serve Thee, and do good unto my

fellow-christians, grant, O Lord! pardon and remittance unto the

faults of my judgment! Nevertheless, if my counsel be evil, and thou

hast permitted thy conquered enemy to show himself unto me visibly, as

a sign of thy wrath, let me beseech thee. Lord! to turn that counsel

aside that it have no effect, and that the sorrow of my brethren lay.

not heavy on my head!"

To this extempore prayer the good hermit added one or two from the

regular ritual of the church; and then, casting himself on his bed of

moss, with a calmed mind, he fell into a profound sleep.

In the mean while, day broke upon the glades of the forest; and at

about the distance of a mile from the dwelling of the hermit, dropped

down from one of the old oaks, with the first ray of the sun, no less

a person than our friend Gallon the fool.

"Ha, ha!" cried he, "Ha, ha, haw! My lord ordered me to be shut out,

if I came not home by dusk; and now, by my shutting out, I have heard

a secret he would give his ears to hear.--Ha, haw! Ha, haw!--I've

ninety-nine minds not to tell him--but it wants the hundredth. So I

will tell him. Then he'll break their plot, or give news of it to the

king and the Auvergne;--and then, they'll all be hanged up like

acorns.--Haw, haw! and we shall keep the sweet interdict--the dear

interdict--the beloved interdict. I saw five dead men lying unburied

in the convent field.--Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw! I love the

interdict--I do! 'Tis like my nose: it mars the face of the country,

which otherwise were a fair face.--Ha, haw! I love interdicts. My nose

is my interdict.--Haw, haw, haw! But I must find other means to spite

the De Coucy, for shutting me out! I spited him finely, by sending

down the old fool Julian into the glade, where he was cajoling his

daughter!--Haw, haw, haw! Ha, haw!" So saying, he bounded forward, and

ran as hard as he could towards the distant city.

CHAPTER V.

Let us suppose a brief lapse of time and a slight change of scene.

'Twas the month of September; and though the mellow hand of autumn had

already spread a rich golden tinge over field and wood, yet not a

particle of summer's sparkling brilliancy seemed gone from the clear

blue sky. 'Twas in the bright land, too, of merry Touraine, where

migratory summer seems to linger longer than any where else; and,

though the sickle had done its work, and the brown plains told that

the year's prime was passed, yet there was a smile on the aspect of

the land, as if it would fain have promised that the sweet days of the

earth's life would be there immortal.

Over one of the wide open fields of that country, swelling gently with

a soft undulating slope, and bordered, here and there, with low

scattered woods, were seen to ride a gay party of horsemen, but few in

number indeed, but with their arms glittering in the morning sun,

their plumes waving in the breeze, and, in short, with all "the pomp

and circumstance of war."

In faith, it was as fair a sight to see as the world can give--a party

of the chivalry of that age. For them were all the richest habiliments

reserved by law. Robes of scarlet, ornaments of gold, fine furs, and

finer stuffs, were all theirs by right; and with their banners, and

pennons, and their polished armour, their embroidered coats of arms,

and their decorated horses, they formed a moving mass of animated

splendour, such as the present day cannot afford to show.

The group we speak of at present wanted nothing that chivalry could

display. At its head rode a fair youth, just in man's opening day; his

eye sparkling, his cheek glowing, his lip smiling with the bursting

happiness of his heart, at finding himself freed from restraint. Lord

of himself, and entering on the brilliant career of arms, supported by

knights, by nobles, and by kings, to strive for--not the ordinary

stake of ordinary men--but for crowns, and thrones, and kingdoms.

Arthur Plantagenet wore his helmet still; as if the new weight of

honourable armour was more a delight than a burthen to him; but the

visor being open, his face was clearly exposed, and spoke nothing but

hope and animation. His arms were all inlaid with gold, and over his

shoulders he wore the superb surcoat of arms, which had been worked

for him by the fair hands of Agnes de Meranie.

On the prince's right-hand rode Guy de Coucy, with his head still

unarmed; and merely covered by a green velvet bonnet, with a jewel,

and a plume of the feathers of the white egret, which had been

bestowed upon him by the king on his joining the expedition at Paris.

Neither did he ride his battle-horse--which, as when we first saw him,

was led behind him by a squire--but was mounted on one of the Arabian

coursers which he had brought with him from the Holy Land. He had,

however, his tremendous long sword by his side, the tip descending to

his heel, and the hilt coming up nearly to his shoulder; and, though

at the bow of his war-saddle, on the other horse, hung his heavy

battle-axe and mace, a lighter axe swung by his side. His gauntlets

were on, his squires were close behind him; and by various other signs

of the same kind, it might be inferred that the road he was now

travelling was more likely to be hostilely interrupted, than that over

which he had passed in Auvergne.

On Arthur's left-hand appeared in complete arms the famous warrior and

troubadour, whose songs and whose deeds have descended honourably even

to our days, Savary de Maulèon. As in the case of De Coucy, his casque

was borne behind him; but, in other respects, he was armed _cap à

pié_.

Of this knight one thing must be remarked, which, though it might seem

strange, was no less true, and showed the madness of that age for

song. Between himself and the squires who bore his casque and led his

battle-horse, rode a tiny, beautiful boy, mounted on a small fleet

Limousin jennet, and habited with all the extravagant finery which

could be devised. In his hand, instead of shield, or lance, or

implement of bloody warfare, he bore a small sort of harp, exactly of

the shape of those with which the sculptors of that period have

represented King David, as well as sundry angels, in the rich

tympanums of many of the gothic church-doorways in France. This

instrument, however, was not fully displayed on the journey, being

covered with a _housse_, or veil of silver gauze, from which, such

coverings often being applied to shields of arms, any one passing by

might have mistaken it for some buckler of a new and strange form.

Behind this first group, who were followed immediately by their

squires, came, at a little distance, a confused body of knights of

lesser fame; in general, vassals of Savary de Maulèon, or of his

friends; or others who, from disgust towards king John, had come over

to the increasing party of his nephew. These were all well armed and

equipped; and, though riding for the time in a scattered and irregular

manner, it wanted but a word from their chiefs, to bring them into

line, or hedge, as it was called, when, with their long lances, heavy

armed horses, and impenetrable persons, they would have offered a

formidable barrier against any attack.

A group of servants of arms followed these knights; and behind these

again, with far more show of discipline, and covered with bright new

armour, came two hundred Brabançois, with their old captain, Jodelle,

at their head. Their horses were unarmed, except by an iron poitral,

to resist the blow of a lance or a sword on the first assault. The

riders also were but lightly harnessed, with cuirass, steel cap,

and buckler; but, being intended principally to act either as

horse-archers themselves, or against bodies of foot, they often proved

the most serviceable troops in the army.

At the head of their line rode Hugo de Barre, bearing De Coucy's

banner; while, armed something like a Brabançois, but more heavily,

with the place of his favourite mare supplied by a strong black horse.

Gallon the fool rode along the ranks, keeping the greater part of the

soldiers in continual merriment. There were, it is true, some ten or

twelve of them who knit their brows from under their iron caps at the

jongleur as he passed; but the generality of the Brabançois laughed at

his jest, or gave it him back again; and, indeed, no one seemed more

amused or in better harmony with the mad juggler, than the captain

Jodelle himself.

The whole party might consist of about five hundred men; and they

moved on slowly, as if not very certain whether they might not be near

some unseen enemy. The plain on which we have said they were, was

unbroken by any thing in the shape of a hedge, and sufficiently flat

to give a view over its whole surface; but, at the same time, the low

woods that bordered it here and there might have concealed many

thousand men, and the very evenness of the country prevented any view

of what was beyond.

"Straight before you, beau sire!" said Savary de Maulèon, pointing

forward with his hand. "At the distance of three hours' march, lies

the famous city of Tours; and even now, if you look beyond that wood,

you will catch a faint glance of the church of the blessed St. Martin.

See you not a dark grey mass against the sky, squarer and more stiff

in form than any of the trees?"

"I do, I do!--And is that Tours?" cried Arthur, each fresh object

awakening in his heart that unaccountable delight with which youth

thrills towards novelty--that dear brightness of the mind which, in

our young days, reflects all things presented to it with a thousand

splendid dazzling rays not their own; but, alas! which too soon gets

dimmed and dull, in the vile chafing and rubbing of the world. "Is

that Tours?" and his fancy instantly conjured up, and combined with

the image of the distant city, a bright whirl of vague and pleasant

expectations which, like a child's top, kept dizzily spinning before

his eyes, based on an invisible point, and ready to fall on a touch.

"That is Tours, beau sire," replied the knight; "and I doubt not that

there, what with all my fair countrymen of Anjou and Poitou, who have

already promised their presence, and others who may have come without

their promise, you will find knights enough for you to undertake at

once some bold enterprise."

Arthur looked to De Coucy, under whose tutelage, as a warrior, Philip

Augustus had in some degree placed the inexperienced prince. "Far be

it from me," said the knight, "to oppose any bold measure that has the

probability of success along with it; but, as a general principle, I

think that in a war which is likely to be of long duration, when we

expect the speedy arrival of strong reinforcements, and where nothing

is to be lost by some delay, it is wise to pause, so as to strike the

first strokes with certainty of success; especially where the prince's

person may be put in danger by any rash attempt."

"By the blessed St. Martin!" cried Savary de Maulèon, "I thought not

to hear the Sire de Coucy recommend timid delay. Fame has, as usual,

belied him, when she spoke of his courage as somewhat rash."

De Coucy had, indeed, spoken rather in opposition to the general

character of his own mind; but he felt that there was a degree of

responsibility attached to his situation, which required the greatest

caution, to guard against the natural daring of his disposition. He

maintained, therefore, the same coolness in reply to the Poitevin

knight, although it cost him some effort to repress the same spirit

manifesting itself in his language which glowed warm on his brow.

"Sir Guillaume Savary de Maulèon," replied he, "in the present

instance, my counsel to prince Arthur shall be to attempt nothing,

till he has such forces as shall render those first attempts certain;

and, as to myself, I can but say, that when you and I are in the

battle-field, my banner shall go as far, at least, as yours into the

midst of the enemies."

"Not a step farther!" said Savary de Maulèon quickly--"not a step

farther!"

"That shall be as God pleases," answered De Coucy; "but, in the mean

time, we are disputing about wind. Till we reach Tours, we cannot at

all tell what assistance may wait us there. If there be sufficient

force to justify us in proceeding to action, I will by no means

dissent; but, if there be but few of our friends arrived, I will say,

that man who advises the prince to attempt any thing yet, may be as

brave as a lion, but seeks to serve his own vanity more than Arthur

Plantagenet."

"How his own vanity, sir?" demanded Savary de Maulèon, ready to take

offence on the slightest provocation.

"By risking his prince's fortunes," replied De Coucy, "rather than let

others have a share in the harvest of glory before him. Ho, there!" he

continued, turning to one of his squires, who instantly rode up.--"Bid

Jodelle detach a score of his lightest men round the eastern limb of

that wood, and bring me word what 'tis that glittered but now above

the trees.--Go yourself too, and use your eyes."

The man obeyed, with the promptitude of one accustomed to serve a

quick and imperative lord; and the little man[oe]uvre the knight had

commanded was performed with all the precision he could desire. In the

mean while he resumed the conversation with Arthur and Savary de

Maulèon, who--cooled by the momentary pause, and also somewhat soothed

by something flattering, he scarce knew what, in the idea of the sort

of avarice of glory De Coucy had attributed to him--replied to the

young knight with more cordiality than he had at first evinced. In a

very few minutes, the horsemen, who had been detached, returned at

full gallop. Their report was somewhat startling. A large body of

horse, they said, whose spear-heads De Coucy had seen above the low

trees, were skirting slowly round the wood towards them. Full a

hundred knights, with barbed horses and party pennons, had been seen.

There appeared more behind; and the whole body, with the squires,

archers, and servants of arms, might amount to fifteen hundred. No

banner, however, was displayed; but one of the Brabançois declared,

that he knew the foremost to be king John's Norman knights, by the

fashion of their hauberts, and the pikes on their horses' heads.

"Give me my lance and casque!" cried De Coucy.--"Sir Savary de

Maulèon, I leave the prince under your care, while I, with my

Brabançois and followers, give these gentry the meeting at the corner

of the wood. You would not be mad enough in this business to risk the

prince with four hundred men and forty knights, against one hundred

knights and fifteen hundred men!"

"Surely not," replied Savary de Maulèon; "but still I will go with you

myself, beau sire."

"No! as you are a knight," cried De Coucy, grasping his hand, "I

charge you, stay with the prince, cover his march to Tours; keep all

the knights with you, for you will want them all. You start fair with

the enemy--the distance is about equal to the city; and I promise you,

that if they pass yon turn of the wood within this quarter of an hour,

'tis over my dead body--let it be so, sir knight, in God's name! The

honour will rest with him who gets the prince safe to Tours. Is not

that enough? You have the post of honour."

"And you the post of danger," said Savary de Mauléon, shaking his

head.

"Mind not you that!" cried De Coucy, whose casque was by this time

fixed. "If these be Normans, there will be danger and honour enough

too, before you reach Tours!" and grasping his lance, he fell back to

the band of Brabançois, put himself at their head, and galloped at

full speed to the turning of the wood.

Before coming in sight of the enemy, however, De Coucy paused, and

advancing so far alone as to gain a sight of them, he perceived that

their numbers, though they had been somewhat exaggerated, were still

too great to admit the chance of fighting them with any hope of

success. His object, therefore, was to delay them on their march as

long as he could; and then to retreat fighting, so as to cover the

prince's march upon Tours. Accordingly he commanded the cotereaux to

spread out in such a manner that the iron of their spears might just

be seen protruding from the wood, and by patting his horse's neck, and

touching him with the spur, he made him utter one or two loud neighs,

for the purpose of calling the attention of the enemy, which the sound

of their galloping thither did not seem to have done.

The stratagem had its effect: the whole body of horse, who were

approaching, halted; and after a few minutes' consultation, a

reconnoitring party was thrown out, who approached in front of De

Coucys party, and fell back again instantly on their main body.

"Ground your spears!" cried De Coucy; "unsling your bows; have each

man his arrow on the string, and the string to his ear; and give them

such a flight as shall dizzy them whenever they come near."

The Brabançois obeyed: each man rested his spear,--which, by the way,

was distinguished in many respects from the knight's lance,--threw his

bridle over his arm, and drew his bowstring to his ear; while De Coucy

advanced a few paces, to observe the motions of the enemy. To his

surprise, however, he observed half a dozen knights ride out, while

the rest stood still; and in a moment after, displaying the banner of

Hugues de Lusignan, they advanced at full speed, crying loudly, "Artus

Anjou! Artus Anjou!"--the rallying cry which the knights of Anjou

attached to the party of Arthur had adopted.

"Hold! hold!" cried De Coucy, waving his hand to his archers. "Here

must be some mistake. These are friends." So, indeed, it proved; and on

a nearer approach, De Coucy found that the body of troops which had

caused the alarm, had in truth come forth from Tours, for the

protection of Arthur, whom they had long known to be approaching with

but a small force; while king John, with a considerable army, was

reported to be ravaging the county of Maine. The cause of the mistake

also was now explained. Some knights of Normandy, either moved by the

justice of Arthur's claims, or disgusted with the weak levity and

cowardly baseness of John, had crossed the country; and joining the

troops of Hugues le Brun, and Godefroy de Lusignan, under the command

of Ruoal d'Issoudun, Count d'Eu, had come out to give the sovereign

they had determined to acknowledge welcome and protection.

These communications were much sooner made than they are written; and

De Coucy, whose banner had been seen and recognised by the

reconnoitring party, was received by the assembled knights with no

small marks of honour and esteem. His troops had of course now to make

a retrograde motion, but no great haste was necessary to overtake the

body he had before left; for Savary de Mauléon had taken such good

care that his retreat should not appear like a flight, that the

messenger to De Coucy despatched to inform him of the change of aspect

which affairs had undergone, reached the small body of knights who had

remained with Arthur before they had proceeded half a mile.

The meeting of the two bands was a joyous one on both sides, and

nothing was now talked of amongst the knights of Anjou and Poitou but

proceeding instantly to active and energetic operations against the

enemy. De Coucy was silent, well knowing that a council must be held

on the subject after their arrival at Tours; and reserving his opinion

for that occasion, though he well saw that his single voice would be

drowned amidst the many, which were all eager to urge a course that,

under any other circumstances, he would have been the first to follow,

but which, where the stake was a kingdom, and the hazard great, he did

not feel himself justified in approving.

While things were thus proceeding, in front of the army, the

Brabançois, who now occupied a much less important station than when

they formed, as it were, the main body of the prince's force, followed

at some little distance in the rear. A few steps in advance of this

troop rode Jodelle, particularly affecting to have no private

communication with his men; but, on the contrary, sometimes riding up

to Hugo de Barre, who bore De Coucys standard on the right, and with

whom he had become a great favourite; and sometimes jesting with

Gallon the fool, whose regard he strove not a little to cultivate,

though it was not less difficult to ascertain exactly which way the

cracked juggler's esteem turned, than it was to win his affection at

all, which was no easy task.

"Ha, ha! sire Jodelle!" cried Gallon, coming close to him, as they

began to move forward towards Tours--"Haw, haw! A goodly body of

prisoners our lord has taken to-day!" and he pointed to the band of

knights which had so lately joined their own. "And yet," added Gallon,

bringing his two eyes to bear with a sly leer upon Jodelle's face,

"our lord does not often make prisoners. He contents himself with

dashing his foemen's brains out with his battle-axe, as he did in

Auvergne."

Jodelle grasped his sword, and muttered something to himself. Gallon's

eyes, however, were like the orbs in an orrery, for an instant close

together, and then, by some unapparent machinery, thrown far apart;

and before Jodelle could determine what their first expression meant,

they were straggling out again on each side of the head in which they

were placed, and the shrewd meaning leer was changed at once into the

most broad senseless vacancy.

"Oh! it would have done your heart good, sire Jodelle," continued

the jongleur, "to see how he hewed their noddles.--Haw, haw! Oh,

rare!--But, as I was saying," continued he, in his flighty, rambling

way, "yours must be a merry trade, and a thriving."

"Ours is no trade, maître Gallon," replied Jodelle, speaking calmly,

to conceal no very amicable sensations which he felt towards the

jongleur--"ours is no trade; 'tis a profession,--the noble profession

of arms."

"No trade!" exclaimed Gallon.--"Haw, haw! Haw, haw! If you make no

trade of it, with such merchandise as you have, you are not fit to

hold a sow by the ear, or soap a cat's tail. Why! Do you not buy and

sell?"

"Buy and sell!" said Jodelle, pondering. "Faith! I am heavy this

morning. What should I buy or sell, either?"

"Lord now! Lord now!" cried Gallon, holding up both his hands. "To

think that there is another man in all the world so stupid as my

master and myself!--What should you buy and sell? Why, what better

merchandise would you desire to sell to King John," he added, making

his horse sidle up against the chief of the Brabançois, so that he

could speak without being overheard by any one else,--"what better

merchandise would you desire to sell to king John, than that fat flock

of sheep before you, with the young ram, and his golden fleece, at the

head of them;--and what would you desire better to buy, than white

English silver, and yellow English gold?"

Jodelle looked in his face, to see if he could gather any thing from

that; but all was one flat, dead blank; even his very nose was still

and meaningless--one might as well have expected such words of

devilish cunning from a stone wall.

"But my oath--my honour!" cried Jodelle, gazing on him still.

"Your oath!--Haw, haw!" shouted Gallon, convulsed with

laughter,--"your honour!--Haw, haw! haw, haw! haw, haw!" And rolling

about, as if he would have fallen from his horse, he galloped on,

shouting, and roaring, and laughing, and screaming, till there was not

a man in the array who did not turn his head to look at the strange

being who dared to interrupt with such obstreperous merriment their

leader's conversation.

De Coucy well knew the sounds, and turned to chide; but Arthur, who

had been before amused with Gallon's humour, called him to approach

for the purpose of jesting with him, with that boyish susceptibility

of absurdities which characterised the age.

Gallon was as much at his ease amongst princes and barons as amongst

peasants and serving men; and, seeming to forget all that he had just

been speaking of, he dashed off into some new strain of eccentricity

better suited to his auditors.

Jodelle, who, trembling for the result, had so far forgot himself as

to ride on to listen, now rendered secure by the juggler's flighty

change of topic, dropped back into the rear, and the whole cavalcade

moved gently on to Tours.

While preparing for the prince's banquet in the evening, the place at

De Coucy's elbow was filled by Gallon the fool, who somewhat in a more

sane and placable humour than usual, amused his lord with various

tales and anecdotes, neither so disjointed nor so disfigured as his

relations usually were. The last, however, which he thought fit to

tell--what he had overheard through the unglazed window of the

hermit's cell on the night before the party of Arthur quitted Paris,

caused De Coucy instantly to write a few words to the Count

d'Auvergne, and putting it in the hands of his page, he bade him ride

for his life, and deliver the letter wherever he should find the

count, were it even in the presence of the king himself. The fatigued

state of the horses prevented the lad from setting out that night, but

by daylight next morning he was in the saddle, and away upon a journey

which we may have cause to trace more particularly hereafter.

CHAPTER VI.

After a long consultation with De Coucy, the morning following their

arrival at Tours, Arthur Plantagenet proceeded to hold his first

regular council of war. Endowed with a thousand graces of person and

of mind, Arthur had still that youthful indecision of character, that

facility of yielding, which leads the lad so often to do what the man

afterwards bitterly repents of.

Arthur entered the council room of the bishop's palace at Tours, fully

determined to adhere to the more prudent plan of waiting for the large

reinforcements he expected. He took his seat with the proud dignity of

a Plantagenet: and though his youthful countenance was in feature and

in complexion almost feminine, and his brows were only ornamented with

the ducal coronet of Brittany, still, in port and expression, he was

every inch a king. There was a dead silence amongst the knights for a

moment or two after he had entered, while Arthur spoke a few words to

the bishop of Tours, who stood on the right hand of the large throne

or chair, in which he was seated. The prince then turned towards the

council; and, with somewhat of a heightened colour, but with a clear

tone and unembarrassed manner, he spoke.

"Illustrious lords," he said, "whose valour and wisdom have gained

Poitou and Anjou a name with the whole world; as your inferior, both

in age and reason, in warlike experience and in prudent sagacity, I

come to you for advice and counsel, how to carry forward the great

enterprise I have undertaken. We are here, not much above an hundred

knights; and our whole forces do not amount to two thousand men; while

John, my usurping uncle, is within a few days' march, with ten times

our number of men, and full two thousand valiant and renowned knights.

To balance this disparity, however, king Philip, my noble and

bountiful godfather in arms, has given me, for my auxiliaries and

allies, Hervey de Donzy, Count de Nevers, surnamed the Blunt, the

valiant Hugues de Dampierre, with all the knights of Berri, and Imbert

Baron de Beaujeur, with many a noble baron from the other side of the

Loire. These knights arrive to-day at Orleans, and in three days will

be here. At the same time, my duchy of Brittany, so faithful to me in

all times, sends me five hundred valiant knights, and four thousand

men at arms, who to-morrow at the latest will be at Nantes. It seems

to me, therefore, the wisest plan we can pursue--if you, whose wisdom

and experience are greater than mine, do not think otherwise--to

remain here at least four days. Often, a short delay produces the

greatest benefit; and a wise man of antiquity has said, that it is not

the evils which happen that we should struggle to avoid, but those

that may happen. Let us also remember, that--though, Heaven knows! no

one, or old or young, shall in open warfare more expose their person

than I will do; or less cares for life than I do, if it be not life

with honour;--but still let us remember, that it is my person alone my

uncle seeks, because I demand my kingdom, and the freedom of my

imprisoned sister.[20] You all know his cruelty, and I call Heaven to

witness, that I would rather now each man here should sheathe his

dagger in my body, than suffer me to fall into the hands of my bloody

and unnatural relation.

--------------------

[Footnote 20: Eleanor Plantagenet, who was detained till her death, to

cut off all change of subsequent heirs in the line of Geoffrey

Plantagenet, John's elder brother.]

--------------------

"By letters received last night from the good king Philip I am informed

that John has just seized upon the citadel of Dol, the garrison of

which he has put to death after their surrender, the soldiers by the

sword, the knights he has crucified. The king also assures me, that

the usurper is marching hitherward, with all haste; and farther

counsels me, to conduct myself with prudence rather than rashness; and

to wait the arrival of the reinforcements, which will give me a

disposable force of fifteen hundred knights and thirty thousand men."

Arthur paused; and Savary de Maulèon instantly replied:--"Let not the

counsels of any one alarm you, beau sire. To cowards be delay; to men

of courage, action. John is marching towards us. Let him come; we

shall be glad to see him for once show a spark of valour. No, no, beau

sire, he will not come. Does he not always fly from the face of arms?

He is a coward himself, and the spirit of the prince spreads always

through the army. For us, be quick and decided action; and, before

this weak and treacherous usurper shall know, even, that we are in the

field, let us strike some blow, that shall carry panic to his fearful

heart. His bad and wicked mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, is even now

shut up in the town and castle of Mirebeau. The garrison is not large,

though commanded by William Longsword, earl of Salisbury. Let us

hasten thither instantly, besiege the castle; and, before John shall

have notice of our movements, his mother, the instigator and abettor

of one half his wickedness, shall be in our power. Or even say that

the castle holds out, our reinforcements may join us there, as well as

here, and then success is certain."

The multitude of voices that applauded this proposal drowned all

opposition; and though De Coucy pressed but for the delay of a day, to

wait the arrival of his own forces, levied in the king's name on the

lands of the Count de Tankerville, and which alone would have doubled

their present numbers, both of knights and of servants of arms, his

proposition was negatived. Arthur yielded to the current; and,

catching the ardour of the Poitevins, his eyes sparkled at the idea of

surprising Mirebeau, and holding captive that bad queen, who had been

the incessant persecutor of his mother, and had acted but the part of

a step-dame, even to her own son, his father.

De Coucy saw that farther opposition was vain, and bent the whole

energies of his mind to ensure success, even to the scheme he had

disapproved.

The knights and barons of Poitou had reasonably enough wondered to see

a young warrior, whose greatest fame had been gained by the very

rashness of his courage, become the counsellor of caution and delay;

but De Coucy was rash only of his own person, holding that a knight

ought never even to consider his own individual life, or that of his

followers; but should give the whole thought and prudence which he

abstracted from himself, to carry forward successfully the object of

his undertaking.

He never once dreamed of personal danger; nor could he conceive the

idea of any man bestowing a thought upon the hazard to which any

enterprise exposed him: and thus, in contemplating an approaching

struggle, the whole powers of his mind were bent upon conquering his

enemies, and his care for himself was only as a means to that effect.

If the wonder of the knights of Poitou had been excited by De Coucy's

former slowness in counselling enterprise, it was far, far more so to

behold his activity and energy now that action had really commenced.

He became suddenly, as it were, the soul and spirit of their

enterprise: his eye was every where; his quick and capable mind seemed

continually acting on every side around them. Whatever tidings was

demanded of any part of their disjointed force, it was Sir Guy de

Coucy knew!--whatever information was required concerning the country

before them, De Coucy had already made himself master of it!--whatever

movement was to be made by any body of the troops, De Coucy saw it

done!--whatever provision was to be brought in for the supply of the

army, De Coucy assured himself that it was executed, as far as the

brief time permitted. He had recommended delay; but as action had been

decided upon, he put forth the whole energetic activity of his soul to

render action effective.

Understanding thoroughly the character and application of all the

various classes of troops made use of in that day, De Coucy took care

that his Brabançois should be turned to that service for which they

were best calculated. As reconnoitring parties they were invaluable;

and, as the army advanced upon Mirebeau, by spreading them over the

face of the country, he gained information of every thing that was

passing around.

Two messengers from Eleanor of Aquitaine to her son were thus

intercepted; and it was discovered from the letters they bare, that

she had already obtained knowledge of Arthur's movements, and

beseeched John to hasten to her relief; telling him, that though the

castle she held might be looked upon as nearly impregnable, yet the

suddenness of attack had prevented her from providing for the

garrison, sufficiently at least, for any long siege.

Such news was not lost on De Coucy; and, employing his Brabançois as

marauders, in which point of duty they certainly did not fail, he

swept the whole country round about of every sort of provisions, both

to distress the enemy, and to supply his own troops. This service

became one of danger as they approached nearer to the town, the

parties of William Longsword being also scattered about on the same

errand; and the whole of the morning before their arrival was spent in

fierce and continual skirmishes,--now for a drove of bullocks,--now

for a cart of wine,--now for a load of wheat.

At length, all the parties of Normans and English were driven within

the gates of the town; and the army of Arthur, sitting down before it,

invested it on all sides.

We must remember, however, that what were called towns in those days

might consider it a high honour to be compared even to a small English

borough of the present times; so that it was no impossible thing for

an army of two thousand men to invest even a town and castle.

A council of war was instantly held, and De Coucy's voice was no

longer for delay. Immediate attack of the town was his advice; and

though many observed that only four hours of daylight remained, he

still pressed his object, declaring that, if well seconded, he would

place his standard in the market-place before dark. Those who had

before reproached him with procrastination dared not oppose him now,

and orders were instantly issued for the attack of the walls.

The whole space occupied by the houses of Mirebeau was encompassed by

a strong curtain of rough stone, flanked with tall round towers, at

the distance of an arrow's flight from each other; so that every part

of the wall, though unguarded by a ditch, could be defended, not only

from its own projecting battlements, but by the cross fire of missiles

from the towers. Both men and munition of war seemed plenty within;

for, on the first symptoms of a general attack, the walls became

thronged with slingers and bowmen; and numbers of labourers might be

seen lighting fires for boiling oil or water, or carrying up baskets

of heavy stones, logs of wood, and quantities of quick-lime, to cast

down upon the assailants' heads, and crush them, or blind them, if the

flights of arrows proved insufficient to keep them from the gates or

the foot of the wall.

The defenders of the battlements, indeed, appeared to be principally

burghers, mingled with a small proportion of soldiers from the castle;

but, although the military citizen was but little esteemed in that

day, there was a degree of bustle and promptitude about those who

manned the wall of Mirebeau, which, at all events, indicated zeal in

its defence.

The preparations on the part of the besiegers were not less active;

and Arthur did all that an inexperienced youth could do, to give unity

and consistence to the efforts of his undisciplined and insubordinate

forces. It must not, however, be thought that we would say the knights

who accompanied him were less regular and obedient than others of

their times and class. Far from it. But it must be remembered, that

discipline was almost unknown amongst the armies of chivalry, and that

the feudal system was felt as much, or more, in times of war, than in

times of peace. Each baron commanded the knights and men-at-arms he

brought into the field. It is true, he received himself commands from

the sovereign, or the person who represented him for the moment; but

whether he obeyed those commands or not, depended upon a thousand

circumstances; as, whether the monarch was himself respected,--whether

the orders he gave were to be executed beneath his own eye; and,

lastly, whether they suited the taste, or coincided with the opinion,

of the person who received them.

In the case of Arthur, every one who followed him thought they had a

right not only to counsel, but to act; and the prince himself, afraid

of opposing them, lest they should fall from him before the arrival of

the reinforcements placed by Philip more absolutely under his command,

could only retain the external appearance of authority, by sanctioning

what they themselves proposed.

The tumultuary council held upon the occasion passed in rapid

interjections to somewhat of the following tenor. "Let us divide into

three bodies!--Each leader attack a gate. Hugues le Brun, I join

myself to you.--We will to the southern door.--I attack that

postern.--Sire de Maulèon, where do you attack?--I undertake the great

gate; that is, if the beau sire Arthur so commands."

"Certainly, beau sire! I think it will be advisable; but, at all

events, let the various attacks be simultaneous," replied the prince:

"let some signal be given when all are ready."

"True, true! Well bethought, beau sire! You are an older warrior than

any of us.--Sire de Coucy, where do you attack? I see your men are

busy about mantlets and pavisses."

"I attack that tower," replied De Coucy, pointing to one that, though

tall and strong, seemed somewhat more ancient than the wall.

"Ha! you would add another tower to those in your chief," said Savary

de Maulèon, "but you will fail. We have no ladders. Better come with

me to the gate. Well, as you will.--Sire Geoffroy de Lusignan, speed

round with your force, and shoot up a lighted arrow when you are

ready.--Where do you bestow yourself, beau sire Arthur?"

"If the prince will follow my counsel," said Hugues le Brun, "he will

hover round with the men-at-arms which were given him by the king, and

bestow his aid wherever he sees it wanted."

"Or keep on that high ground," said Geoffroy de Lusignan, "and send

your commands to us, according as you see the action turn."

Arthur bowed his head; and all the knights rode off towards the

different points they had chosen for their attack, except de Coucy,

the tower he had marked being exactly opposite the spot where they had

held their council, if such it could be called.

"They would fain prevent my fighting," said Arthur, turning to De

Coucy, and speaking still in a low voice, as if fearful of some one

hearing who might oppose his purpose; "but they will be mistaken. Sire

de Coucy, I pray you, as good knight and true, let me fight under your

honourable banner."

"To your heart's content, my prince," replied the knight, "By Heaven!

I would not keep you from the noble game before us, for very shame

sake!--Hugo de Barre, put foot to the ground, with all my squires, and

advance the mantlets.--Have you the pickaxes and the piles all ready?"

"All is ready, beau sire," replied the squire; "store of axes and of

iron bars."

"Advance then!" cried the knight, springing to the ground. "Captain

Jodelle, dismount your men, and cover us under your arrows as we

advance."

"But the signal has not been given from the other side," said Arthur.

"Had you not better wait, sir Guy?

"We have more to do than they have," replied the knight; "and, besides,

they have left us, and we beginning the attack, the Normans will think

ours a false one, and will not repel us so vigorously, more especially

as we direct our efforts against a tower instead of a gate; but they

are deceived. I see a crevice there in the very base of the wall, that

will aid us shrewdly.--Stay here, beau sire, till I return, and then

we will in together."

"Oh! sire de Coucy," cried the noble youth, "you are going to fight

without me.--Do not! do not deceive me, I pray you!"

"On my honour, gallant prince," said De Coucy, grasping his hand, "I

will not strike a stroke, except against stone walls, till you strike

beside me;" and he advanced to the spot where Hugo de Barre, and three

other of his men, held up an immense heavy screen of wood-work, just

within bow-shot of the walls. Four more of the knight's men stood

underneath this massy defence, holding all sorts of instruments for

mining the wall, as well as several strong piles of wood, and bundles

of fagots. As soon as De Coucy joined them, the whole began to move

on; and Jodelle's Brabançois, advancing at a quick pace, discharged a

flight of arrows at the battlements of the tower, which apparently, by

the bustle it occasioned, was not without some effect. An instant

answer of the same kind was given from the walls, and missiles of all

kinds fell like a thick shower of hail.

In the mean while Arthur stood on the mound, with some ten or fifteen

men-at-arms, who had been placed near him as a sort of body-guard by

Philip. From thence he could behold several points destined to be

attacked, and see the preparations of more than one of the leaders for

forcing the gates opposite to which they had stationed themselves. But

his chief attention still turned towards De Coucy, who was seen

advancing rapidly under the immense mantlet of wood he had caused to

be constructed, on which the arrows, the bolts, and the stones from

the slings fell in vain. On, on, it bore to the very foot of the

tower; but then came, on the part of the besiegers, the more

tremendous sort of defence of hurling down large stones and trunks of

trees upon it; so that, more than once, the four strong men by whom it

was supported tottered under the weight, and Hugo de Barre himself

fell upon his knee.

This last accident, however, proved beneficial; for the inclined

position thus given to the mantlet caused the immense masses that had

been cast down upon it to roll off; and the squire rose from his knee

with a lightened burden. In the mean time Jodelle and his companions

did good and soldierlike service. It was almost in vain that the

defenders of the tower shouted for fresh implements to crush the

besiegers. Not a man could show himself for an instant on the walls,

but an arrow from the bows of the Brabançois struck him down, or

rattled against his armour; and thus the supply of fresh materials was

slow and interrupted. In the mean while De Coucy and his squires

laboured without remission at the foundation of the tower. A large

crack, with which the sure sapping hand of Time had begun to undermine

the wall, greatly facilitated their purpose; and, at every well-aimed

and steady blow which De Coucy directed with his pickaxe at the joints

of the mortar, some large mass of masonry rolled out, and left a

widening breach in the very base of the tower.

At this moment the signal for the general assault was given, from the

other side of the town, by an arrow tipped with lighted tow being shot

straight up into the air; and in a moment the whole plain rang with

the shouts and cries of the attack and defence.

Arthur could not resist the desire to ride round for a moment, and see

the progress of the besiegers in other points; and animated with the

sight of the growing strife, the clanging of the trumpets, and the

war-cries of the combatants, his very heart burned to join his hand in

the fray, and win at least some part of the honour of the day. De

Coucy, however, was his only hope in this respect; and galloping back

as fast as he could, after having gazed for a moment at the progress

of each of the other parties, he approached so near the point where

the knight was carrying on his operations, that the arrows from the

wall began to ring against his armour. Arthur's heart beat joyfully at

the very feeling that he was in the battle; but a sight now attracted

his attention, which engrossed all his hopes and fears, in anxiety for

the noble knight who was there labouring in his behalf.

The masses of wall which De Coucy and his followers had detached, had

left so large a gap in the solid foundation of the tower, that it

became necessary to support it with the large piles of wood, to

prevent the whole structure from crushing them beneath its fall, while

they pursued their labours. This had just been done, and De Coucy was

still clearing away more of the wall, when suddenly a knight, who

seemed to have been informed of what was passing, appeared on the

battlements of the tower, followed by a number of stout yeomen,

pushing along an immense instrument of wood, somewhat like one of the

cranes used in loading and unloading vessels. From a high lever above,

hung down the whole trunk of a large tree, tipped at the end with

iron; this was brought immediately over the spot where De Coucy's

mantlet concealed himself and his followers from the lesser weapons of

the besieged, and, at a sign from the knight, the lever slowly raised

the immense engine in the air.

"Have a care!--have a care! Sire de Coucy!" shouted at once the whole

troop of Brabançois, as well as Arthur's men-at-arms. But before their

cry could well reach the knight, or be understood, the lever was

suddenly loosed, and the ponderous mass of wood fell with its iron-shod

point upon the mantlet, dashing it to pieces. Hugo de Barre was

struck down, with four of the other squires; but De Coucy himself, who

was actually in the mine he had dug, with three more of his followers,

who were close to the wall, remained untouched. Hugo, however,

instantly sprang upon his feet again, but little injured, and three of

his companions followed his example; the fourth remained upon the

field for ever.

"Back, Hugo!--Back to the prince, all of you!" cried De Coucy.--"Give

me the light, and back!"

The squires obeyed; and, having placed in the knight's hand a resin

torch which was by this time nearly burnt out, they retreated towards

the Brabançois, under a shower of arrows from the walls, which, sped

from a good English bow, in more than one instance pierced the lighter

armour of De Coucy's squires, and left marks that remained till death.

In the mean while, not a point of De Coucy's armour, as he moved to

and fro at the foot of the tower, that was not the mark of an arrow or

a quarrel; while the English knight above, animated his men to every

exertion, to prevent him from completing what he had begun.

"A thousand crowns to him who strikes him down!" cried he.--"Villains!

cast the stones upon him! On your lives, let him not fire those

fagots, or the tower and the town is lost.--Give me an arblast;" and

as he spoke, the knight snatched a cross-bow from one of the yeomen,

dressed the quarrel in it, and aimed steadily at the bars of De

Coucy's helmet as he bore forward another bundle of fagots and jammed

it into the mine.

The missile struck against one of the bars, and bounded off. "Well

aimed, William of Salisbury!" cried De Coucy, looking up. "For ancient

love, my old companion in arms, I tell thee to get back from the

tower, for within three minutes it is down!" And so saying, he applied

his torch to various parts of the pile of wood he had heaped up in the

breach, and retired slowly towards prince Arthur, with the arrows

rattling upon his armour like a heavy shower of hail upon some

well-roofed building.

"Now, my noble lord," cried he, "down from your horse, and prepare to

rush on! By Heaven's grace, you shall be the first man in Mirebeau;

for I hear by the shouts, that the others have not forced the gates

yet.--Hugo, if thou art not badly hurt with that arrow, range the men

behind us--By the Lord! William of Salisbury will stay till the tower

falls!--See! they are trying to extinguish the fire by casting water

over, but it is in vain; the pillars have caught the flame. Hark, how

they crack!"

As De Coucy spoke, the earl of Salisbury and his men, seeing that the

attempt to put out the fire was useless, retired from the tower. The

flame gradually consumed the heaps of loose wood and fagots with which

the knight had filled the mine; and the strong props of wood with

which he had supported the wall as he worked on, caught fire, one

after the other, and blazed with intense fury. The besiegers and the

besieged watched alike in breathless expectation, as the fire wore

away the strength of the wood. Suddenly one of the props gave way; but

only a mass of heated masonry followed. Another broke--the tower

tottered--the others snapped short with the weight--the falling mass

seemed to balance itself in the air, and struggle, like an overthrown

king, to stand for but a moment longer--then down it rushed, with a

sound like thunder, and lay a mass of smoking ruins on the plain.

"On! on!" cried De Coucy; "charge before the dust subsides! A Coucy! a

Coucy!--St. Michael! St. Michael!" and in an instant he was standing,

with prince Arthur by his side, in the midst of the breach which the

fall of the tower had made in the wall and half-way up the sort of

causeway formed by its ruins. They passed not, however, unopposed, for

Wilham Longsword instantly threw himself before them.

"Up! Prince Arthur! up!" cried De Coucy; "you must be the first.--Set

your foot on my knee:" and he bent it to aid the young prince in

climbing a mass of broken wall that lay before him. Arthur sprang up,

sword in hand, amidst the smothering cloud of dust and smoke that

still hung above the ruins, and his weapon was instantly crossed with

that of his uncle, William of Salisbury, his father's natural

brother. At the same moment, De Coucy rushed forward and struck down

two of the Norman soldiers who opposed his passage; but then paused,

in order not to abandon Arthur to an old and experienced knight, far

more than his match in arms.

For five blows and their return, De Coucy suffered the prince to

maintain the combat himself, _to win his spurs_, as he mentally termed

it. The sixth stroke, however, of William of Salisbury's tremendous

sword fell upon Arthur's shoulder; and though the noble lad sturdily

bore up, and was not even brought upon his knee, yet the part of his

armour where the blow fell, flew into shivers with its force. The earl

lifted his sword again, and Arthur, somewhat dizzied and confused,

made a very faint movement to parry it; but instantly De Coucy rushed

in, and received the edge of the weapon on his shield.

"Nobly fought! my prince!" cried he, covering Arthur with one arm, and

returning William Longsword's blow with the other,--"nobly fought, and

knightly done!--Push in with your men-at-arms, and the Brabançois, and

leave this one to me.--Now, Salisbury, old friend, we have stood side

by side in Palestine. I love thee as well face to face. Thou art a

noble foe. There stands my foot!"

"Brave Coucy! Thou shalt have thy heart's content!" cried the earl,

dealing one of his sweeping blows at the knight's neck. But he had now

met with his equal; and, indeed, so powerful were each of the

champions, so skilful in the use of their weapons, and so cool in

their contention, that the combat between them was long and undecided.

Blow answered blow with the rapidity of lightning: stroke followed

stroke. Their arms struck fire, the crests were shorn from their

helmets, the bearings effaced from their shields, and their surcoats

of arms became as tattered as a beggar's gown.

Still, though De Coucy pressed him with impetuous fury, William of

Salisbury yielded not a step; and it was only when he saw his

followers driven back by the superior number of the Brabançois and

men-at-arms, led by Arthur, that he retired a pace or two, still

dealing blows thick and fast at De Coucy, who followed foot by foot,

shouting his battle-cry, and encouraging the men to advance: while,

every now and then, he addressed some word of friendly admiration to

his opponent, even in the midst of the deadly strife that he urged so

furiously against him.

"Thou art a good knight, on my soul, lord Salisbury!" cried he; "yet

take that for the despatch of this affair!" and he struck him with the

full sway of his blade, on the side of his head, so that the earl

reeled as he stood.

"Gramercy!" cried William, recovering his equipoise, and letting a

blow fall on the knight's casque, not inferior in force to the one he

had received.

At that moment, however, his troops gave way still farther before the

Brabançois; and at the same time a party of the burghers came rushing

from another part of the town, crying "The gate is lost! the gate is

lost!--we saw it dashed in!"

"Then the town is lost too," said Salisbury coolly.--"Sound a

retreat!" he continued, turning his head slightly to a squire, who

stood behind him watching lest he should be struck down, but forbidden

by all the laws of war to interpose between two knights, so long as

they could themselves maintain the combat. At the same time, while the

squire, as he had been bidden, sounded a retreat on his horn, William

Longsword still continued to oppose himself to the very front of the

enemy; and not till his men were clear, and in full retreat towards

the castle, did he seek to escape himself, though he in a degree

quitted the personal combat with De Coucy to cover with some of his

bravest men-at-arms the rear of the rest. Now, he struck a blow here;

now felled a Brabançois there; now, returned for an instant to De

Coucy; and now, rushed rapidly to restore order amongst his retreating

troops.

As they quitted the walls, however, and got embarrassed in the streets

of the town, the Norman soldiers were every moment thrown into more

and more confusion, by the various parties of the burghers who had

abandoned the walls, and were flying towards the castle for shelter.

Several knights also, and men-at-arms, were seen retreating up the

high streets, from the gate which had been attacked by Savary de

Maulèon; just at the moment that De Coucy, rushing on into the

market-place, caught his standard from the hands of Hugo de Barre, and

struck it into the midst of the great fountain of the town.

The flight of the knights showed sufficiently to lord Salisbury, that

the gate which they had been placed to defend had been forced also;

and his sole care became now to get his men as speedily and as safely

within the walls of the castle as possible. This was not so difficult

to do; for though De Coucy and Arthur still hung upon his rear with

the men-at-arms, and a part of the Brabançois, a great majority of the

latter, giving way to their natural inclination, dispersed to pursue

their ancient avocation of plundering.

A scene of no small horror presented itself at the gates of the

castle. Multitudes of the burghers, with their women and children, had

crowded thither for safety; but Eleanor, with the most pitiless

cruelty, ordered the garrison to drive them back with arrows, and not

to suffer one to enter on pain of death. Their outstretched hands,

their heart-rending cries, were all in vain; the queen was inexorable;

and more than one had been wounded with the arrows, who had dared to

approach the barbican.

When Salisbury and his band came near, however, the multitude, driven

to despair by seeing the pursuers following fiercely on his track,

made an universal rush to enter along with him; and it was only by

using their swords against the townsmen, and even the women, that the

soldiers could clear themselves a passage.

Salisbury was of course the last who passed himself; and as he turned

to enter, while his soldiers formed again within the barbican, two

women, of the highest class of the townspeople, clung to his knees,

entreating him by all that may move man's heart, to let them follow

within the walls.

"I cannot!--I must not!" exclaimed he harshly; but then, turning once

more, he shouted to De Coucy, who, seeing that farther pursuit was

vain, now followed more slowly.

"Sire De Coucy!" he exclaimed, as if he had been speaking to his

dearest friend. "If you love me, protect this helpless crowd as much

as may be. For old friendship's sake, I pray thee!"

"I will, Salisbury!--I will!" replied De Coucy,--"beau sire Arthur,

have I your permission?"

"Do what thou wilt, dear friend and noble knight," replied the prince.

"Is there anything you could ask me now, that I would not grant?"

"Stand back then, ho!" cried the knight, waving his hand to the

Brabançois, who were pressing forward towards the trembling crowd of

burghers "Stand back! Who passes that mark is my foe!" and he cast

his gauntlet on the ground in the front of the line.

"We will not be balked of our spoil. The purses of the burghers are

ours!" cried several of the free companions; and one sprang forward

from immediately behind De Coucy, and passed the bound he had fixed.

That instant, however, the knight, without seeing or inquiring who he

was, struck him a blow in the face with the pommel of his sword, that

laid him rolling on the ground with the blood spouting from his mouth

and nose. No one made a movement to follow; and Jodelle--for it was

he--rose from the ground, and retired silently to his companions.

De Coucy then advanced with prince Arthur towards the multitude

crowding round the barbican. Immediately the soldiers on the walls

bent their bows: but the voice of the earl of Salisbury was heard

exclaiming, "Whoever wings a shaft at him dies on the spot?" and De

Coucy proceeded to tell the people, that they must, if they hoped to

be spared, yield whatever gold or jewels they had about them to the

soldiery; and that all such men as were not clerks must agree to

surrender themselves prisoners, and pay a fair ransom, such as should

be determined afterwards by the prince's council.

This matter was soon settled; the universal cry from the burghers

being, in their extremity of fear, "Save our lives!--Save our women's

honour!--Save our children!--and take gold, or whatever else we

possess!" Each one instantly stripped himself of the wealth he had

about him; and this, being collected in a heap, satisfied for the time

the rapacity of the soldiers. De Coucy then took measures to secure

the lives of the prisoners; and putting them by twos and threes under

the protection of the prince's men-at-arms and his own squires, he

accompanied Arthur to the market-place, followed by the Brabançois,

wrangling with each other concerning the distribution of the spoil,

and seemingly forgetful of their disappointment in not having been

permitted to add bloodshed to plunder.

In the market-place, beside De Coucy's standard, stood Savary de

Maulèon, Geoffroy de Lusignan, and several other barons, with three

Norman knights as prisoners. The moment De Coucy and Arthur

approached, Savary de Maulèon advanced to meet them; and with that

generous spirit, which formed one of the brightest points in the

ancient knightly character, he pressed the former opponent of his

counsels in his mailed arms, exclaiming, "By my faith, Sire de Coucy,

thou hast kept thy word! There stands thy banner, an hour before

sun-set! and I proclaim thee, with the voice of all my companions, the

lord of this day's fight."

"Not so, fair sir!" replied De Coucy, "not so! There is another, to

whom the honour justly belongs.--Who first mounted the breach we made

in the wall? Who first measured swords with the famous William

Longsword, earl of Salisbury, and who, in short, has been the first in

all this day's achievements?--Here he stands," continued the knight,

turning towards the princely youth who stood beside him, blushing

to his very brow, both with graceful embarrassment and gratified

pride--"here he stands! and may this conquest of Mirebeau be but the

first of those that shall, step by step, give him his whole

dominions.--Sound trumpets, sound!--Long life to Arthur, king of

England!"

CHAPTER VII.

Just six days after the events we have related in our last chapter,

Guerin, the good minister whom we have so often had occasion to

notice, was walking up and down under a range of old beech-trees,

which, forming the last limit of the forest of Compiègne, approached

close to the castle, and waved their wide branches even over part of

the royal garden.

Guerin, however, was not within the boundary of the garden; from which

the spot he had chosen for his walk, was separated by a palisade and

ditch covered towards the castle by a high hedge of shrubs. There was

indeed an outlet towards the forest by means of a small postern door,

and a slight moveable bridge of wood, but the key of that gate

remained alone with the king; so that the minister, to reach the part

of the wood in which he walked, must have made a considerable circuit

round the castle, and through part of the town itself. His object,

probably, in choosing that particular spot, was to enjoy some moments

of undisturbed thought, without shutting himself up in the close

chambers of a Gothic château. Indeed, the subjects which he revolved

in his heart were of that nature, which one loves to deal with in the

open air, where we have free space to occupy the matter, while the

mind is differently engaged--strong contending doubts, hesitations

between right and wrong, the struggles of a naturally gentle and

feeling heart, against the dictates of political necessity. Such were

the guests of his bosom. The topic, which thus painfully busied the

minister's thoughts, was the communication made to him by the good but

weak bishop of Paris, as a consequence of his conversation with

Bernard, the hermit of St. Mandé.

To tear the hearts of the king and queen asunder,--to cast between

them so sad an apple of discord as jealousy, especially when he

felt convinced that Agnes's love to her husband was as firm as

adamant,--was a stroke of policy for which the mind of Guerin was

hardly framed; and yet the misery that the interdict had already

brought, the thousand, thousand fold that it was yet to bring, could

only be done away and averted by such a step. Philip remained firm to

resist to the last; Agnes was equally so to abide by his will, without

making any attempt to quit him. In a hundred parts of the kingdom, the

people were actually in revolt. The barons were leaguing together to

compel the king to submission, or to dethrone him; and ruin,

wretchedness, and destruction seemed threatening France on every side.

The plan proposed by the canon of St. Berthe's might turn away the

storm, and yet Guerin would rather have had his hand struck off than

put it in execution.

Such were the thoughts, and such the contending feelings, that warred

against each other in his breast, while he paced slowly up and down

before the palisade of the garden; and yet nothing showed itself upon

his countenance but deep, calm thought. He was not one of those men

whose features or whose movements betray the workings of the mind.

There were no wild starts, no broken expressions, no muttered

sentences: his corporeal feelings were not sufficiently excitable for

such gesticulations: and the stern retired habits of his life had

given a degree of rigidity to his features, which, without effort

rendered them on all ordinary events as immoveable as those of a

statue.

On the present occasion, he was followed by a page bearing his sword;

for, as we have before said, during many years after he had been

elected to the bishopric of Senlis, he retained the habit of a knight

hospitaller; but the boy, though accustomed to mark his lord's

countenance, beheld nothing there but the usual steady gravity of

profound thought.

As he passed backwards and forwards, the voices of two persons

conversing in the garden hard by struck his ear. At first, the

speakers were afar off, and their tones indistinct; but gradually they

came so near, that their words even would have been perfectly audible,

had Guerin been one to play the eaves-dropper; and then again they

passed on, the sounds dying away as they pursued their walk round

their garden.

"The queen's voice," said Guerin to himself; "and, if I mistake not,

that of the Count D'Auvergne. He arrived at Compiègne last night, by

Philip's own invitation, who expected to have returned from Gournay

long since. Pray God, he fail not there! for one rebuff in war, and

all his barons would be upon him at once. I wish I had gone myself;

for he is sometimes rash. If he were to return now, and find this

Auvergne with the queen, his jealousy might perchance spring from his

own head. But there is no hope of that: as he came not last night, he

will not arrive till evening."

Such was the course of Guerin's thoughts, when a page, dressed in a

bright green tunic of silk, approached, and, addressing himself to the

follower of the minister, asked his way to the garden of the château.

"Why, you must go a mile and more round, by the town, and in at the

great gates of the castle," replied Guerin's page.--"What do you seek

in the garden?"

"I seek the Count d'Auvergne," replied the youth, "on business of life

and death; and they told me that he was in the garden behind the

château, close by the forest.--My curse upon all misleaders!" and he

turned to retread his steps through the town.

Guerin had not heeded this brief conversation, but had rather

quickened his pace, to avoid hearing what was said by the queen and

the Count d'Auvergne, who at the moment were passing, as we have said,

on the other side of the palisade, and spoke loud, in the full

confidence that no human ears were near. A few words, however, forced

themselves upon his hearing.

"And such was my father's command and message," said Agnes in a

sorrowful tone.

"Such, indeed, it was, lady," replied the Count d'Auvergne; "and he

bade me entreat and conjure you, by all that is dear and sacred

between parent and child----"

Guerin, as we have said, quickened his pace: and what the unhappy

Count d'Auvergne added was lost, at least to him. Sufficient time had

just elapsed, to allow the speakers in the garden to turn away from

that spot and take the sweep towards the castle, when the sound of

horse was heard approaching. Guerin advanced to the end of one of the

alleys, and to his surprise beheld the king, followed by about a dozen

men-at-arms, coming towards the castle in all haste.

Before he reached the spot where Guerin stood, Philip dismounted, and

gave his bridle to one of the squires. "I will through the garden,"

said he:--"go you round to the gates as quietly as possible--I would

not have the poor burgesses know that I am returned, or I shall have

petitions and lamentations about this accursed interdict: petitions

that I cannot grant--lamentations that I would not hear."

The squire took the bridle, and, in obedience to the king's commands,

turned another way with the rest of the party; while Philip advanced

slowly, with his brow knit, and his eyes fixed on the ground. He did

not observe his minister; and, as he came onward, it was easy to read

deep, powerful, painful thought in every line of his countenance.

Twice he stopped, as he advanced, with his look still bent upon the

earth, and remained gazing thereon, without word or motion, for

several minutes. It would have seemed that he paused to remark some

moss and wild flowers, gathered together at his feet, had not his

frowning forehead, and stern, fixed eye, as well as the mournful shake

of the head, with which his pause still ended, told that sadder and

more bitter contemplations were busy in his mind.

The last time he stopped was within ten paces of Guerin, and yet he

did not see him, so deeply occupied were all his thoughts. At length,

unclasping his arms, which had been folded over his breast, he

clenched his hands tight, exclaiming, "Happy, happy Saladin! Thou hast

no meddling priest to disturb thy domestic joys!--By Heaven! I will

embrace thy creed, and worship Mahound!"

As he spoke, he raised his eyes, and they instantly rested on the

figure of his minister. "Ha, Guerin!" cried the king, "has the

interdict driven thee forth from the city?"

"Not so, sire," replied the minister. "I came forth to meditate here

in silence, over what might be done to raise it.--Get thee gone, boy!"

he continued, turning to his page. "Hie thee to the castle, and leave

me with the king."

"Oh! Guerin!" said Philip, pursuing his own train of thought,--"oh

Guerin! think of these base barons! these disloyal knights! After all

their empty enthusiasm!--after all their vain boastings!--after all

their lying promises!--falling off from me now, in my moment of

need! like flies frightened from a dead carcase by the wings of a

raven.--And the bishops too!--the goodly, saintly, fickle, treacherous

pack, frightened by the very hum of Rome's vulture wings!--they leave

me in the midst of the evil they have made! But, by the Lord above!

they shall suffer for their treason! Bishops and barons! they shall

feel this interdict as deeply as I do. Their treachery and cowardice

shall fill my treasury, and shall swell my crown's domains; and they

shall find that Philip knows how to make their punishment increase his

power. Gournay has fallen, Guerin," continued the king, "without the

loss of a man. I cut the high sluices and overwhelmed them in the

waters of their own artificial lake. Walls, and turrets, and

buttresses gave way before the rushing inundation, like straws before

the sickle. Half Normandy has yielded without resistance; and I might

have come back joyful, but that in every town as I passed, it was

murmurs, and petitions, and lamentations on the foul interdict.

They brought out their dead," proceeded Philip, grasping Guerin's

arm,--"they brought out their dead, and laid them at my feet! They

lined the streets with the dying, shrieking for the aid of religion.

Oh! Guerin! my friend! 'tis very horrible!--very, very, very

horrible!"

"It is indeed, sire!" said Guerin solemnly, "most horrible! and I am

sorry to increase your affliction by telling you, that, by every

courier that arrives, the most alarming accounts are brought from the

various provinces of your kingdom, speaking of nothing but open

rebellion and revolt."

"Where?" cried Philip Augustus, his eyes flashing fire. "Where? Who

dares revolt against the will of their liege sovereign?"

"In fifty different points of the kingdom the populace are in arms,

sire!" replied the minister. "I will lay the details before you at

your leisure. Many of the barons, too, remonstrate in no humble tone."

"We will march against them, Guerin,--we will march against them,"

replied the king firmly, "and serfs and barons shall learn they have a

lord."

As he spoke, he advanced a few paces towards the garden, then paused,

and drawing forth a scrap of parchment, he put it into Guerin's hand.

"I found that on my table at Gournay," said the king. "'Tis strange!

Some enemy of the Count d'Auvergne has done it!"

Guerin looked at the paper, and beheld, written evidently in the hand

of the canon of St. Berthe's, which he well knew; "Sir king, beware of

the Count d'Auvergne!" The minister, however, had no time to make any

reply; for the sound of the voices in the garden began again to

approach, and Philip instantly recognised the tones of Agnes de

Meranie.

"'Tis the queen," said he,--"'Tis Agnes!" and as he spoke that beloved

name, all the cares and sorrows that, in the world, had gathered round

his noble brow, like morning clouds about the high peak of some proud

mountain, rolled away, like those same clouds before the risen sun,

and his countenance beamed with more than usual happiness.

Guerin had by no means determined how to act, though he decidedly

leaned towards the scheme of the canon of St. Berthe's; but the

radiant gladness of Philip's eye at the very name of Agnes de Meranie,

strangely shook all the minister's conclusions, and he remained more

than ever in doubt.

"Hark!" cried Philip, in some surprise. "There is the voice of a

man!--To whom does she speak? Know you, Guerin?"

"I believe--I believe, sire," replied the minister, really embarrassed

and undecided how to act,--"I believe it is the Count d'Auvergne."

"You believe!--you believe!" cried the king, the blood mounting into

his face, till the veins of his temples swelled out in wavy lines upon

his clear skin. "The Count d'Auvergne! You hesitate--you stammer, sir

bishop!--you that never hesitated in your days before. What means

this?--By the God of heaven! I will know!"--and drawing forth the key

of the postern, he strode towards it. But at that moment the sound of

the voices came nearer and nearer--It was irresistible--The king

paused.

Agnes was speaking, and somewhat vehemently. "Once for all, beau sire

d'Auvergne," she said, "urge me no more; for, notwithstanding all you

say--notwithstanding all my own feelings in this respect, I must

not--I cannot--I will not--quit my husband. That name alone, my

husband, were enough to bind me to him by every duty; and I will never

quit him!"

What were the feelings of Philip Augustus as he heard such words,

combined with the hesitation of his minister, with the warning he had

received, and with the confused memory of former suspicions! The

thoughts that rushed through his brain had nearly driven him to

madness. "She loves me not!" he thought. "She loves me not--after all

I have done, and sacrificed for her! She is coldly virtuous--but she

loves me not;--she owns, her feelings take part with her seducer!--but

she will not leave me, for duty's sake!--Hell and fury! I, that have

adored her! She loves me not!--Oh God! she loves me not!--But

he,--he--shall not escape me! No,--I will wring his heart of its last

drop of blood! I will trample it under my feet!"

His wild straining eye,--the almost bursting veins of his

temples,--the clenching of his hands,--but more, the last words, which

had found utterance aloud--showed evidently to Guerin the dreadfully

over-wrought state of the king's mind; and, casting himself between

Philip and the postern as he rushed towards it, he firmly opposed the

monarch's passage, kneeling at his feet, and clasping his knees in his

still vigorous arms.

"Some one is coming. Count d'Auvergne!" Agnes was heard to say

hastily. "Begone! leave me!--Never let me hear of this again! Begone,

sir, I beg!"

"Unclasp me," cried the king, struggling to free himself from Guerin's

hold. "Thou knew'st it too, vile confidant! Base betrayer of your

sovereign's honour!--Unclasp me, or, by Heaven! you die as you

kneel!--Away! I say!" and, drawing his sword, he raised his arm over

the hospitaller's head.

"Strike, sire!" cried Guerin undauntedly, clasping the monarch's knees

still more firmly in his arms--"strike your faithful servant! His

blood is yours--take it! You cannot wound his heart more deeply with

your weapon, than you have done with your words--Strike! I am unarmed;

but here will I lie, between you and your mad passion, till you have

time to think what it is to slay a guest, whom you yourself invited,

in your own halls--before you know whether he be guilty or not."

"Free me, Guerin!" said Philip more calmly, but still with bitter

sternness. "Free me, I say! I am the king once more! Nay, hold not by

my haubert, man!"

Guerin rose, saying, "I beseech you, sire, consider! But Philip put

him aside with a strong arm; and, passing over the bridge, entered the

garden by the postern gate.

"Now, God forgive us all, if we have done amiss in this matter; and

surely if I have inflicted pain, it has not been without suffering it

too." Such was the reflection of the good bishop of Senlis, when left

by Philip; but although his heart was deeply wrung to see the agony of

a man he loved, and to be thereof even a promoter, he was not one to

waste his moments in fruitless regrets; and, passing through the

postern, which the king had neglected to shut, he proceeded, as fast

as possible, towards the castle, in order to govern the circumstances,

and moderate Philip's wrath, as much as the power of man might do.

In the mean while, Philip had entered the garden with his sword drawn,

and passing through the formal rows of flowering shrubs, which was the

taste of that day, he stood for an instant at the top of the large

square of ground which lay between him and the castle. Half the way

down on the left side, his eye caught the form of Agnes de Meranie;

but she was alone, save inasmuch as two of her ladies, following at

about a hundred yards' distance, could be said to keep her company.

Without turning towards her, Philip passed through a long arcade of

trellis-work which ran along the wall to the right, and, with a pace

of light, made his way to the castle.

On the steps he paused, replaced his sword in the sheath, and, passing

through one of the lesser towers, in a minute after stood in the midst

of the great hall. The men-at-arms started up from their various

occupations and amusements, and stood marvelling at the unannounced

coming of the king; more than one of them taxing themselves internally

with some undisclosed fault, and wondering if this unusual visitation

portended a reproof.

"Has the Count d'Auvergne been seen?" demanded Philip in a tone which

he meant to be calm, but which, though sufficiently rigid--if such a

term may be applied to sound--still betrayed more agitation than he

imagined--"Has the Count d'Auvergne been seen?"

"He passed but this instant, sire," replied one of the serjeants,

"with a page habited in green, who has been searching for him this

hour."

"Seek him!" cried the king in a voice that needed no repetition; and

the men-at-arms vanished in every direction from the hall, like dust

scattered by the wind. During their absence, Philip strode up and down

the pavement, his arms ringing as he trod, while the bitter gnawing of

his nether lip showed but too plainly the burning passions that were

kindled in his bosom. Every now and then, too, he would pause at one

of the doors, throw it wide open--look out, or listen for a moment,

and then resume his perturbed pacing in the hall.

In a few minutes, however, the bishop of Senlis entered, and

approached the king. Philip passed him by, knitting his brow, and

bending his eyes on the ground, as if resolved not to see him. Guerin,

notwithstanding his frown, came nearer, respectfully but boldly; and

the king was obliged to look up. "Leave me, sir Guerin," said he. "I

will speak with thee anon. Answer not; but leave me, for fear of

worse."

"Whatever worse than your displeasure may happen, sire," replied

Guerin, "I must abide it--claiming, however, the right of committing

the old servant's crime, and speaking first, if I am to be chidden

after."

Philip crossed his arms upon his broad chest, and with a stern brow

looked the minister full in the face; but remained silent, and

suffered him to continue.

"You have this day, my lord," proceeded Guerin, with unabated

boldness, "used hard terms towards a faithful subject and an ancient

friend; but you have conferred the great power upon me of forgiving my

king. My lord, I do forgive you, for thinking that the man who has

served you truly for twenty years,--since when first, in the boyish

hand of fifteen, you held an unsteady sceptre,--would now betray your

honour himself, or know it betrayed without warning you thereof. True,

my lord, I believed the Count d'Auvergne to be at the moment of your

arrival in the castle gardens with your royal queen."

The king's lip curled, but he remained silent. "Nevertheless,"

continued Guerin, "so God help me, as I did and do believe he meant no

evil towards you, beau sire; and nought but honourable friendship

towards the queen."

"Good man!" cried the king, his lip curling with a sneer, doubly

bitter, because it stung himself as well as him to whom it was

addressed. "Guerin, Guerin, thou art a good man!--too good, as the

world goes!"

"Mock me, sire, if you will," replied the minister, "but hear me still.

I knew the Count d'Auvergne to be the dear friend of this lady's

father--the sworn companion in arms of her dead brother: and I doubted

not that, as he lately comes from Istria, he might be charged to

enforce towards the queen herself, the same request that her father

made to you by letter, when first he heard that the divorce was

annulled by the see of Rome--namely, that his daughter might return to

his court, and not be made both the subject and sacrifice of long

protracted disputes with the supreme pontiff."

"Ha!" said the king, raising his hand thoughtfully to his brow.

"Say'st thou?" and for several minutes he remained in deep meditation.

"Guerin, my friend," said he at length, raising his eyes to the

minister as he comprehended at once the hospitaller's motive for

gladly yielding way to such a communication between the Count

d'Auvergne and Agnes as that of which he spoke--"Guerin, my friend,

thou hast cleared thyself of all but judging ill. Thy intentions--as I

believe from my soul they always are--were right. I did thee wrong.

Forgive me, good friend, in charity; for, even among kings, I am very,

very unhappy!" and he stretched out his hand towards his minister.

Guerin bent his lips to it in silence; and the king proceeded:--

"In clearing thyself too, thou hast mingled a doubt with my hatred of

this Thibalt d'Auvergne; but thou hast not taken the thorn from my

bosom. She may be chaste as ice, Guerin. Nay, she is. Her every

word, her every look speaks it--even her language to him was beyond

doubt--but still, she loves me not, Guerin! She spoke of duty, but she

never spoke of love! She, who has been my adoration--she, who loved

me, I thought, as kings are seldom loved--she loves me not!"

Guerin was silent. He felt that he could not conscientiously say one

word to strengthen the king's conclusion, that Agnes did not love him;

but for the sake of the great object he had in view, of raising the

interdict, and thereby freeing France from all the dangers that

menaced her, he forebore to express his firm conviction of the queen's

deep attachment to her husband.

Fortunately for his purpose, at this moment one or two of the king's

serjeants-at-arms returned, informing Philip, with no small addition

of surprise, that they could find no trace of the Count d'Auvergne.

"Let better search be made!" said the king; "and the moment he is

found, let him be arrested in my name, and confined, under strict

guard, in the chapel tower. Let his usage be good, but his prison

sure. Your heads shall answer!" Thus saying, he turned, and left the

hall, followed by Guerin, who dared not urge his remonstrances farther

at the moment.

CHAPTER VIII.

It may be necessary here to go back a little, in order to show more

fully what had really been that conversation between Thibalt

d'Auvergne and the fair Agnes de Meranie, of which but a few words

have yet reached the reader's ears.

The Count d'Auvergne had come to the castle of Compiègne, as we have

shown, upon the direct invitation of the king himself; and, indeed,

Philip had taken more than one occasion to court his powerful vassal;

not alone, perhaps, from political motives, but because he felt within

himself, without any defined cause, a kind of doubt and dislike

towards him, which he believed to be unjust, and knew to be impolitic;

and which, he was continually afraid, might become apparent, unless he

stretched his courtesy to its utmost extent.

D'Auvergne made no return. The frozen rigidity of his manner was never

relaxed for an instant; and whatever warmth the king assumed, it could

never thaw him even to a smile. Nor was this wholly the offspring of

that personal dislike which he might well be supposed to feel to a

happy and successful rival; but he felt that, bound by his promise to

the old duke of Istria, he had a task to perform, which Philip would

consider that of an enemy, and therefore D'Auvergne resolved never to

bear towards him, for a moment, the semblance of a friend.

Having, after his return to Paris, once more accepted Philip's

invitation to Compiègne; which, being made upon the plea of consulting

him respecting the conquest of Constantinople, was complied with,

without obligation. D'Auvergne proceeded on the evening appointed to

the castle; but, finding that Philip had not returned from the siege

of Gournay, he lodged himself and his followers, as he best might, in

the village. He felt, however, that he must seize the moment which

presented itself, of conveying to Agnes her father's message; and

convinced, by bitter experience, of the quick and mortal nature of

opportunity, the morning after his arrival he proceeded to the castle,

and demanded an audience of the queen.

No sensation on earth, perhaps, can be conceived more bitter than that

of seeing the object of one's love in the possession of another; and

Thibalt d'Auvergne's heart beat painfully--his very lip grew pale, as

he passed into the castle hall, and bade one of the pages announce him

to the queen. A few moments passed, after the boy's departure, in sad

expectation; the memory of former days contrasting their bright

fancies with the dark and gloomy hopelessness of the present. The page

speedily returned, and informed the count that his lady, the queen,

would see him with pleasure if he would follow to the garden.

D'Auvergne summoned all his courage; for there is more real valour in

meeting and conquering our own feelings, when armed against us, than

in overthrowing the best paladin that ever mounted horse. He followed

the boy towards the garden with a firm step, and, on entering, soon

perceived the queen advancing to meet him.

She was no longer the gay, bright girl that he had known in Istria, on

whose rosy cheek the touch of care had withered not a flower, whose

step was buoyancy, whose eyes looked youth, and whose arching lip

breathed the very spirit of gladness. She was no longer the same fair

girl we have seen, dreaming with her beloved husband overjoys and

hopes that royal stations must not know--with the substantial

happiness of the present, and the fanciful delights of the future,

forming a beamy wreath of smiles around her brow.--No; she was still

fair and lovely, but with a sadder kind of loveliness. The same sweet

features remained,--the same bland soul, shining from within--the same

heavenly eyes--the same enchanting lip; but those eyes had an

expression of pensive languor, far different from former days; and

that lip, though it beamed with a sweet welcoming smile, as her

father's and her brother's friend approached, seemed as if chained

down by some power of melancholy, so that the smile itself was sad.

The rose too had left her cheek; and though a very, very lovely colour

of a different hue had supplied its place, still it was not the colour

of the rose. It was something more delicate, more tender, more akin

to the last blush of the sinking sun before he stoops into the

darkness.

Two of the queen's ladies were at some distance behind, and, with good

discretion, after the count d'Auvergne had joined their royal

mistress, they made that distance greater. D'Auvergne advanced, and,

as was the custom of the day, bent his lips to the queen's hand. The

one he raised it in, trembled as if it were palsied; but there was

feverish heat in that of Agnes, as he pressed his lip upon it, still

more fearful.

"Welcome to the court, beau sire D'Auvergne!" said the queen with a

sweet and unembarrassed smile. "You have heard that my truant husband,

Philip, has not yet returned, though he promised me, with all a

lover's vows, to be back by yester-even. They tell me, you men are all

false with us women, and, in good truth, I begin to think it."

"May you never find it too bitterly, madam," replied the count.

"Nay, you spoke that in sad earnest, my lord," said Agnes, now

striving with effort for the same playful gaiety that was once natural

to her. "You are no longer what you were in Istria, beau sire. But we

must make you merrier before you leave our court. Come, you know,

before the absolution, must still go confession;" and as she spoke,

with a certain sort of restlessness that had lately seized her, she

led the way round the garden, adding, "Confess, beau sire, what makes

you sad--every one must have something to make them sad--so I will be

your confessor. Confess, and you shall have remission."

She touched the count's wound to the quick, and he replied in a tone

of sadness bordering on reproach: "Oh! madam! I fear me, confession

would come too late!"

How a single word--a single tone--a single look, will sometimes give

the key to a mystery. There are moments when conception, awakened we

know not how, flashes like the lightning through all space, illumining

at once a world that was before all darkness. That single sentence,

with the tone in which it was said, touched the "electric chain" of

memory, and ran brightening along over a thousand links in the past,

which connected those words with the days long gone by. It all flashed

upon Agnes's mind at once. She had been loved--deeply, powerfully

loved; and, unknowing _then_ what love was, she had not seen it. But

_now_, that love was the constant food of her mind, from morning until

night, her eyes were opened at once, and that, with no small pain to

herself. The change in her manner, however, was instant; and she felt,

that one light word, one gay jest, after that discovery, would render

her culpable, both to her husband and to Thibalt d'Auvergne. Her eye

lost the light it had for a moment assumed--the smile died away upon

her lip, and she became calm and cold as some fair statue.

The Count d'Auvergne saw the change, and felt perhaps why; but as he

did feel it, firm in the noble rectitude of his intentions, he lost

the embarrassment of his manner, and took up the conversation which

the queen had dropped entirely.

"To quit a most painful subject, madam," he said calmly and firmly,

"allow me to say that I should never have returned to Europe, had not

duties called me; those duties are over, and I shall soon go back to

wear out the frail rest of life amidst the soldiers of the cross. I

may fall before some Saracen lance,--I may taste the cup of the mortal

plague; but my bones shall whiten on a distant shore, after fighting

under the sign of our salvation. There still, however, remains one

task to be performed, which, however wringing to my heart, must be

completed. As I returned to France, madam, I know not what desire of

giving myself pain made me visit Istria; I there saw your noble

father, who bound me by a knightly vow to bear a message to his

child."

"Indeed, sir!" said Agnes: "let me beg you would deliver it.--But

first tell me, how is my father?" she aided anxiously,--"how looks he?

Have age, and the wearing cares of this world, made any inroad on his

vigorous strength? Speak, sir count!"

"I should say falsely, lady," replied D'Auvergne, "if I said that,

since I saw him before, he had not become, when last we met, an

altered man. But I was told by those about him, that 'tis within the

last year this change has principally taken place."

"Indeed!" said Agnes thoughtfully: "and has it been very great? Stoops

he now? He was as upright as a mountain pine, when I left him? Goes he

forth to hunt as formerly?"

"He often seeks the chase, lady," answered the count, "as a diversion

to his somewhat gloomy thoughts; but I am grieved to say, that age has

bent the pine."

Agnes mused for several minutes; and the count remained silent.

"Well, sir," said she at length, "the message--what is it? Gave he no

letter?

"None, madam," said the count; "he thought that a message by one who

had seen him, and one whose wishes for your welfare were undoubted,

might be more serviceable to the purpose he desired."

"My lord, your wishes for my welfare are as undoubted by me as they

are by my father," replied the queen, noticing a slight emphasis which

D'Auvergne had placed upon the word _undoubted_; "and therefore I am

happy to receive his message from the lips of his friend."

The queen's words were courteous and kind, but her manner was as cold

and distant as if she had spoken to a stranger; and D'Auvergne felt

hurt that it should be so, though he well knew that her conduct was

perhaps the wisest for both.

After a moment's thought, however, he proceeded, to deliver the

message wherewith he had been charged by the duke of Istria and

Meranie. "Your father, lady," he said, "charged me to give you the

following message;--and let me beg you to remember, that, as far as

memory serves, I use his own words; for what might be bold,

presumptuous, or even unfeeling, in your brother's poor companion in

arms, becomes kind counsel and affectionate anxiety when urged by a

parent. Your father, lady, bade me say, that he had received a letter

from the common father of the Christian church, informing him that

your marriage with the noble king Philip was not, and could not be

valid, because----"

"Spare the reasons, sir," said Agnes, with a calm voice, indeed, but

walking on, at the same time, with that increased rapidity of pace

which showed too well her internal agitation,--"spare the reasons,

sir! I have heard them before--Indeed, too, too often!--What said my

father, more?"

"He said, madam, that as the pope assured him, on his apostolic truth,

that the marriage never could be rendered valid," continued the count;

"and farther, that the realm of France must be put in interdict--for

the interdict, madam, had not been then pronounced; and Celestin, a

far milder judge than the present, sat in the chair of St. Peter;--he

said, that as this was the case, and as the daughter of the duke of

Meranie was not formed to be an object of discord between a king and a

Christian prelate, he begged, and conjured, and commanded you to

withdraw yourself from an alliance that he now considered as

disgraceful as it had formerly appeared honourable; and to return to

your father's court, and the arms of your family, where, you well

know, he said, that domestic love and parental affection would

endeavour to wipe out from your heart the memory of disappointments

and sorrows brought on you by no fault of your own."

"And such, indeed, was my father's command and message?" said the

queen, in a tone of deep affliction.

"Such, indeed, it was, lady," replied the count D'Auvergne, "and he

bade me, farther, entreat and conjure you, by all that is dear and

sacred between parent and child, not to neglect his counsel and

disobey his commands. He said moreover that he knew----" and Thibalt

d'Auvergne's lip quivered as if the agony of death was struggling in

his heart--"he said that he knew how fondly you loved the noble king

your husband, and how hard it would be to tear yourself from him. But

he begged you to remember that your house's honour was at stake, and

not to shrink from your duty."

"Sir count," said Agnes, in a voice that faltered with emotion, "he,

nor no one else, _can_ tell how I love my husband--how deeply--how

fondly--how devotedly. Yet that should not stay me; for though I would

as soon tear out my heart, and trample it under my own feet, as quit

him, yet I would do it, if my honour and my duty bade me go. But my

honour and my duty bid me stay----" She paused, and thoughtfully

followed the direction of the walk, clasping her small hands together,

and bending down her eyes, as one whose mind, unaccustomed to decide

between contending arguments, is bewildered by number and reiteration,

but not convinced. She thus advanced some way in the turn towards the

castle, and then added--"Besides, even if I would, how could I quit

my husband's house and territories? How could I return to Istria

without his will?"

"That difficulty, madam, I would smooth for you or die," replied the

count. "The troops of Auvergne could and should protect you."

"The troops of Auvergne against Philip of France!" exclaimed Agnes,

raising her voice, while her eye flashed with an unwonted fire, and

her lip curled with a touch of scorn. "And doubtless the Count

d'Auvergne to head them, and defend the truant wife against her angry

husband!"

"You do me wrong, lady," replied D'Auvergne calmly--"you do me wrong.

The Count d'Auvergne is boon for other lands. Nor would he do one act

for worlds, that could, even in the ill-judging eyes of men, cast a

shade over the fame and honour of one----" He paused, and broke off

his sentence, adding--"But no more of that--lady, you do me wrong. I

did but deem, that, accompanied by your own holy confessor, and what

other prelates or clergymen you would, a thousand of my armed

vassals might convey you safely to the court of your father, while I,

bound by a holy vow, should take shipping at Marseilles, and never set

my foot on shore till I might plant it on the burning sands of

Palestine.--Lady, may this be?"

"No, lord count, no!"--replied Agnes, her indignation at any one

dreaming of opposing the god of her idolatry still unsubdued, "it

cannot, nor it must not be! Did I seek Istria at all, I would rather

don a pilgrim's weeds, and beg my way thither on foot. But I seek it

not, my lord--I never will seek it. Philip is my husband--France is my

land. The bishops of this realm have freed, by their united decree,

their king from all other engagement than that to me; and so long as

he himself shall look upon that engagement as valid, I will not doubt

its firmness and its truth."

"I have then discharged me of my unpleasant duty, lady," said the

Count d'Auvergne. "My task is accomplished, and my promise to your

father fulfilled. Yet, that it may be well fulfilled, let me beg you

once again to think of your father's commands; and knowing the

nobleness of his nature, the clearness of his judgment, and the

fearless integrity of his heart, think if he would have urged you to

quit king Philip without he thought it your duty to do so."

"He judged as a father; I judge as a wife," replied Agnes. "I love my

father--I would die for him; and, but to see him, I would sacrifice

crown, and dignity, and wealth. Yet, once for all, beau sire

d'Auvergne, urge me no more; for, notwithstanding all you can

say--notwithstanding my own feelings in this respect, I must not--I

cannot--I will not quit my husband. That name alone, _my husband_,

were enough to bind me to him by every duty, and I will never quit

him."

D'Auvergne was silent; for he saw, by the flushed cheek and disturbed

look of Agnes de Meranie, that he had urged her as far as in honour

and courtesy he dared to go. They had by this time turned towards the

château, from which they beheld a page, habited in green, advancing

rapidly towards them.

"Some one is coming. Count d'Auvergne," said Agnes hastily, fearful,

although her women were at a little distance behind, that any stranger

should see her discomposed look.--"Some one is coming,--Begone! Leave

me!" And seeing the count about to speak again, though it was but to

take his leave, she added--"Never let me hear of this again! Begone,

sir, I beg!"

She then stooped down to trifle with some flowers, till such time as

the stranger should be gone, or her own cheek lose the heated flush

with which it was overspread.

In the meanwhile, the Count d'Auvergne bowed low, and turned towards

the castle. Before he had reached it, however, he was encountered by

De Coucy's page, who put a paper in his hand, one glance of which made

him hasten forward; and passing directly through the hall of the

château, he issued out at the other gate. From thence he proceeded to

the lodging where he had passed the night before--called his retainers

suddenly together, mounted his horse, and rode away.

As soon as he left her, Agnes de Meranie raised her head from the

flowers over which she had been stooping, and walked on slowly,

musing, towards the castle; while thought--that strange phantasmagoria

of the brain--presented to her a thousand vague and incoherent forms,

called up by the conversation that had just passed--plans, and fears,

and hopes, and doubts, crowding the undefined future; and memories,

regrets, and sorrows thronging equally the past. Fancy, the quick

wanderer, had travelled far in a single moment, when the sound of a

hasty step caught her ear, passing along under the trellis of vines

that skirted the garden wall. She could not see the figure of the

person that went by; but it needed not that she should. The sound of

that footfall was as well known to her ear as the most familiar

form to her eye; and, bending her head, she listened again, to be

sure--very sure.

"'Tis Philip!" said she, all her other feelings forgotten, and hope

and joy sparkling again in her eye--"'tis Philip! He sees me not, and

yet he knows that at this hour it is my wont to walk here. But perhaps

'tis later than I thought. He is in haste too by his step. However, I

will in, with all speed, to meet him;" and, signing to her women to

come up, she hastened towards the castle.

"Have you seen the king?" demanded she of a page, who hurried to open

the gates for her.

"He has just passed, madam," replied the youth. "He seemed to go into

the great hall in haste, and is now speaking to the serjeants-at-arms.

You may hear his voice."

"I do," said the queen; and proceeding to her apartments, she waited

for her husband's coming, with all that joyful hope that seemed

destined in this world as meet prey for disappointment.

CHAPTER IX.

At Tours, we have seen De Coucy despatch his page towards the Count

d'Auvergne; and at Compiègne we have seen the same youth deliver a

letter to that nobleman. But we must here pause, to trace more

particularly the course of the messenger, which, in truth, was not

near so direct as at first may be imagined.

There was, at the period referred to, a little hostelry in the town of

Château du Loir, which was neat and well-furnished enough for the time

it flourished in.[21] It had the most comfortable large hearth in the

world, which, in those days, was the next great excellence in a house

of general reception to that of having good wine, which always held

the first place; and round this--on each side of the fire, as well as

behind it--was a large stone seat, that might accommodate well fifteen

or sixteen persons on a cold evening. At the far corner of this

hearth, one night in the wane of September, when days are hot and

evenings are chilly, sat a fair youth of about eighteen years of age,

for whom the good hostess, an honest, ancient dame, that always prayed

God's blessing on a pair of rosy cheeks, was mulling some spiced wine,

to cheer him after a long and heavy day's riding.

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[Footnote 21: I know not precisely how far back a curious antiquary

might trace the existence of such places of public reception. I find

one mentioned, however, in the Chronicle of Vezelai, about fifty years

prior to the period of which I write.]

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