embers carefully round the little pipkin, on the top of which just
began to appear a slight creaming foam, promising a speedy conclusion
to her labours--"ay, now! I warrant thee, thou hast seen them all--the
fair lady Isadore, and pretty mistress Alice, the head maid, and
little Eleanor, with her blue eyes. Ha, sir page, you redden! I have
touched thee, child. God bless thee, boy! never blush to be in love.
Your betters have been so before thee; and I warrant little Eleanor
would blush too. God bless her, and St. Luke the apostate! Oh, bless
thee, my boy, I know them all! God wot they stayed here, master and
man, two days, while they were waiting for news from the king John;
and old Sir Julian himself vowed he was as well here as in the best
castle of France or England."
"Well, well, dame! I have ridden hard back, at all events," replied
the page; "and I will make my horse's speed soon catch up, between
this and Paris, the day and a half I have lingered here; so that my
noble lord cannot blame me for loitering on his errand."
"Tut, tut! He will never know a word," cried the old dame, applying to
the page that sort of consolatory assurance that our faults will rest
unknown, which has damned many a one, both man and woman, in this
world--"he will never know a word of it; and, if he did, he would
forgive it. Lord, Lord! being a knight, of course he is in love
himself; and knows what love is. God bless him, and all true knights!
I say."
"Oh, in love--to be sure he is!" replied the page. "Bless thee, dame!
when we came all hot from the Holy Land, like loaves out of an oven,
my lord no sooner clapped his eyes upon the lady Isadore, than he was
in love up to the ears, as they say. Ay! and would ride as far to see
her, as I would to see little Eleanor. But tell me, dame, have you
staked the door as I asked you?"
"Latch down, and bolt shot!" answered the old lady; "but what shouldst
thou fear, poor child? Thou art not of king John's friends, that I
well divine; but, bless thee! every one who has passed, this blessed
day, says they are moving the other way; though, in good troth, I have
no need to say God be thanked; for the heavy Normans, and the thirsty
English, would sit here and drink me pot after pot, and it mattered
not what wine I gave them--Loiret was as good as Beaugency. God bless
them all, and St. Luke the apostate! as I said. So what need'st thou
fear, boy?"
"Why, I'll tell thee, good dame. If they caught me, and knew I was the
De Coucy's man, they would hang me up, for God's benison," said the
page; "and I narrowly escaped on the road too. Five mounted men, with
their arms covered with soldiers' mantles,--though they looked like
knights, and rode like knights too,--chased me for more than a mile.
They had a good score of archers at their backs; and I would have
dodged them across the country, but every little hill I came to, I saw
a body of horse on all sides, moving pace by pace with them. Full five
hundred men, I counted one way and another; and there might be five
hundred more, for aught I know."
"Now, St. Barbara's toe nail to St. Luke's shoulder bone," exclaimed
the hostess, mingling somewhat strangely the relics which she was
accustomed to venerate with the profane wagers of the soldiery who
frequented her house--"now, St. Barbara's toe nail to St. Luke's
shoulder bone, that these are the men whom my lodger upstairs expected
to come to-night!"
"What lodger?" cried the page anxiously. "Dame, dame, you told me,
this very morning, you had none!"
"And I told you true, sir chit!" replied the old woman, bridling at
the tone of reproach the page adopted. "I told you true.--There, drink
your wine--it is well mulled now;--take care you do not split the
horn, pouring it in so hot.--I told you true enough--I had no lodger
this morning, when you went; but, half an hour after, came one who had
ridden all night, with a great _boutiau_ at his saddle, that would
hold four quarts. Cursed be those _boutiaus!_ they cut us vintners'
combs. Every man carries his wine with him, and never sets foot in a
hostelry but to feed his horse."
"But the traveller!--the traveller!--Good dame, tell me," cried the
page, "what manner of man was he?"
"A goodly man, i'faith," replied the landlady. "Taller than thou art,
sir page, by a hand's breadth. He had been in a fray, I warrant, for
his eye was covered over with a patch, and his nose broken across. He
too would fain not be seen, and made me put him in a guest-chamber at
the end of the dormitory. He calls himself Alberic, though that is
nothing to me or any one: and there was a Norman came to speak with
him an hour after he came; but that is nothing to me either."
"Hark, dame! hark! I hear horses," cried the page, starting up in no
small trepidation, "Where can I hide me? Where?" and, even as he asked
the question, he began to climb the stairs, that came almost
perpendicularly down into the centre of the room, with all the
precipitation of fear.
"Not there!--not there!" cried the old woman; "thou wilt meet that
Alberic. Into that cupboard;" and, seizing the page by the arm, she
pushed him into a closet filled with faggots and brushwood for
replenishing the kitchen fire. Under this heap he ensconced himself as
well as he might, paying no regard to the skin of his hands and face,
which was very sufficiently scratched in the operation of diving down
to the bottom of the pile. The old lady, who seemed quite familiar
with all such man[oe]uvres, while the sound of approaching horses came
nearer and nearer, arranged what he had disarranged in his haste, sat
down by the fire, tossed off the remainder of the wine in the pipkin,
and began to spin quietly, while the horses' feet that had startled
the page clattered on through the village. In a moment after, they
stopped at the door; and, at the same time, a heavy footfall was heard
pacing forward above, as if some one, disturbed also by the sounds,
approached to listen at the head of the stairs.
"Ho! Within there!" cried some person without, after having pushed the
door, and found it bolted.--"Ho! Within there! Open, I say."
The old dame ran forward, taking care to make her feet give audible
sounds of haste upon the floor; and, instantly unfastening the door,
she stood becking and bowing to the strangers, as they dismounted from
their horses and entered the kitchen.
"God save ye, fair sir!--God save ye, noble gentlemen. Welcome,
welcome!--Lord! Lord! I have not seen such a sight of noble faces
since good king John's army went. The blessing of God be upon him and
them! He is a right well favoured and kingly lord! Bless his noble
eyes, and his sweet low forehead, and send him plenty of crowns to put
upon it!"
"How, dame! Dost thou know King John?" asked one of the strangers,
laying his hand upon the hostess's shoulders, with an air of kindly
familiarity. "But thou mistakest. I have heard he is villanous ugly.
Ha!"
"Lord forgive you, sire, and St. Luke the apostate!" cried the old
woman. "He is the sweetest gentleman you ever set your eyes on. Many a
time have I seen him when the army was here; and so handsome he is!
Lord, Lord!"
"Ha! methinks thou wouldst look handsomer thus, thyself," cried the
stranger, suddenly snatching off the old woman's quoif, and setting it
down again on her head with the wrong side in front. "So, my lovely
lass!" and he patted the high cap with the whole strength of his hand,
so as to flatten it completely. "So, so!"
His four companions burst into a loud and applauding laugh, and were
proceeding to follow up his jest upon the old woman, when the other
stopped them at once, crying, "Enough, my masters! no more of it. Let
us to business. Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, you shall make love to
the old wench another time.--Now, beautiful lady!" he continued,
mocking the chivalrous speeches of the day. "Would those sweet lips
but deign to open the coral boundary of sound, and inform an unhappy
knight, who has this evening ridden five long leagues, whether one sir
Alberic, as he is pleased to call himself, lodges in your castle?"
"Lord bless your noble and merry heart!" replied the old woman,
apparently not at all offended or discomposed by the accustomed gibes
of her guests. "How should I know sir Alberic? I never ask strangers'
names that do my poor hostel the honour of putting up at it. Not but
that I may have heard the name, and lately; but----"
"But--hold thy peace, old woman!" said a voice from above. "These
persons want me, and I want them;" and down the staircase came no less
a person than our friend Jodelle, the captain of De Coucy's troop of
Brabançois. One eye indeed was covered with a patch; but this addition
to his countenance was probably assumed less as a concealment, than
for the purpose of covering the marks of a tremendous blow which we
may remember the knight had dealt him with the pommel of his sword;
and which, notwithstanding the patch, shone out in a large livid
swelling all round.
"Tell me, dame," cried he, advancing to the hostess, before he
exchanged one word of salutation with the strangers, "who was it that
stopped at your gate half an hour ago on horseback, and where is he
gone? He was speaking with thee but now, for I heard two voices."
"Lord bless you, sir, and St. Luke the apostate, to boot!" said the
old woman, "'twas but my nephew, poor boy; frightened out of his life,
because he said he had met with some of King Philip's horsemen on the
road. So he slipped away when he heard horses coming, and took his
beast round to the field to ride off without being noticed, because
being of the English party, King Philip would hang him if he caught
him."
"King Philip's horsemen!" cried the first stranger, turning deadly
pale. "Whence did he come, good dame? What road did he travel, that he
saw King Philip's horsemen?"
"He came from Flêche, fair sir," replied the hostess, "and he said
there were five of them chased him; and he saw many more scattered
about."
"Oh, nonsense!" cried one of the other strangers. "'Tis the youth we
chased ourselves. He has taken us for Philip's men.--How was he
dressed, dame?"
"In green, beau sire," replied the ready hostess. "He had a green
cassock on I am well nigh sure."
"'Tis the same!--'tis the same!" said the stranger, who had asked the
last question.--"Be not afraid, beau sire," he added, speaking in a
low tone to the stranger who had entered first. "Philip is far enough;
and were he near, he should dine off the heads of lances, and quaff
red blood till he were drunk, ere he harmed a hair of your head. So,
be not afraid."
"Afraid, sir!" replied the other, drawing himself up haughtily, now
re-assured by the certainty of the mistake concerning Philip's
horsemen. "How came you to suppose I am afraid?--Now, good fellow," he
continued, turning to Jodelle, "are you that Alberic that wrote a
billet this morning to the camp at----?"
"By your leave, fair sir," interrupted Jodelle, "we will have a clear
coast.--Come, old woman, get thee out. We must be alone."
"What! out of my own kitchen, sir?" cried the hostess. "That is hard
allowance, surely."
"It must needs be so, however," answered Jodelle: "out at that door,
good dame! Thou shalt not be long on the other side;" and, very
unceremoniously taking the landlady by the arm, he put her out at the
door which opened on the street, and bolted it once more. "And now,"
said he, "to see that no lurkers are about."
So saying, he examined the different parts of the room, and then
opened the door of the closet, in which the poor page lay trembling
like an aspen leaf.
"Brushwood!" said Jodelle, taking a candle from one of the iron
brackets that lighted the room, and advancing into the closet, he laid
his hand on one of the bundles, and rolled it over.
The page, cringing into the space of a pigmy, escaped his sight,
however; and the roll of the fagot, instead of discovering him,
concealed him still better by falling down upon his head. But still
unsatisfied, the marauder drew his sword, and plunged it into the mass
of brushwood to make all sure.--There was in favour of the poor page's
life but the single chance of Jodelle's blade passing to the right or
left of him. Still, that chance was for him. The Brabançois' sword was
aimed a little on one side, and, leaving him uninjured, struck against
the wall. Jodelle sheathed it again, satisfied, and returned to the
strangers, the chief of whom had seated himself by the fire, and was,
with strange levity, moralising on the empty pipkin which had held the
mulled wine.
His voice was sweet and melodious, and, though he evidently spoke in
mockery, one might discover in his speech those tones and accents that
lead and persuade.
"Mark! Guillaume de la Roche," said he, "Mark! Pembroke, and you, sir
Alberic, mark well! for it may happen in your sinful life, that never
again shall you hear how eloquently a pipkin speaks to man. Look at
it, as I hold it now in my hand. No man amongst you would buy it at
half a denier; but fill it with glorious wine of Montrichard, and it
is worth ten times the sum. Man! man! thou art but a pipkin,--formed
of clay--baked in youth--used in manhood--broken in age. So long as
thou art filled with spirit, thou art valuable and ennobled; but the
moment the spirit is out, thou art but a lump of clay again. While
thou art full, men never abandon thee; but when thou art sucked empty,
they give thee up, and let thee drop as I do the pipkin;" and opening
his finger and thumb, he suffered it to fall on the floor, where it at
once dashed itself to pieces.
"And now, sir Alberic," continued he, turning to Jodelle, "what the
devil do you want with me?"
"Beau sire king," said Jodelle, bending his knee before the stranger,
"if you are indeed, as your words imply, John, king of England----"
"I am but a pipkin!" interrupted the light king. "Alas! sir Alberic,
lam but a pipkin.--But proceed, proceed.--I am the king."
"Well then, my lord," answered Jodelle, in truth, somewhat impatient
in his heart at the king's mockery, "as I was bold to tell you in my
letter, I have heard that your heart's best desire is to have under
your safe care and guidance your nephew, Arthur, duke of Brittany----"
"Thou speakest right, fellow!" cried the King John, wakening to
animation at the thought. "'Tis my heart's dearest wish to have
him.--Where is the little rebel? Produce him! Have you got him here?"
"Good God! my lord, you forget," said the Earl of Pembroke. "This fair
gentleman cannot be expected to carry your nephew about with him, like
a holy relic in a reliquary."
"Or, a white mouse in a show-box," added Guillaume de la Roche Guyon,
laughing.
"Good, good!" cried John, joining in the laugh.--"But come, sir
Alberic, speak plainly. Where is the white mouse? When wilt thou open
thy show-box? We have come ourselves, because thou wouldest deal with
none but us; therefore, now thou hast our presence, bear thyself
discreetly in it.--Come, when wilt thou open the box, I pray?"
"When it pleases you to pay the poor showman his price?" said Jodelle,
bowing low and standing calmly before the king, in the attitude of one
who knows that, for the moment at least, he commands, where he seems
to be commanded; and that his demands, however exorbitant, must be
complied with.
"Ha!" said John, knitting his brows; "I had forgot that there is not
one man on all the earth who has not his price.--Pray, what is thine,
fellow?"
"I am very moderate, beau sire," replied Jodelle, with the most
imperturbable composure, "very moderate in regard to what I sell.
Would you know, my lord king, what I demand for placing your nephew
Arthur in your hands, with all those who are now assisting him to
besiege the queen, your mother, in her château of Mirebeau?--'Tis a
worthy deed, and merits some small recompence."
"Speak, speak, man!" cried the king impatiently. "Go not round and
round the matter. Speak it out plainly. What sum dost thou ask?"
"Marry! my lord, there must go more than sums to the bargain," replied
Jodelle boldly. "But if you would know justly what I do demand, 'tis
this. First, you shall pay me down, or give me here an order on your
royal treasure for the sum of ten thousand marks in what coin you
will."
"By the Lord, and the Holy Evangelists!" cried the king; but, then
pausing, he added, while he turned a half smiling glance to Lord
Pembroke:--"Well, thou shalt have the order on the royal treasury.
What next?"
"After you have given me the order, sire," replied Jodelle, answering
the meaning of the king's smile, "I will find means to wring the money
out of your friends, or out of your enemies, even should your treasure
be as dry as hay."
"Try my enemies first, good Alberic," said the king; "my friends have
enough to do already.--But what next? for you put that firstly, if I
forget not."
"Next, you must give me commission, under your royal signet, to raise
for your use, and at your expense, one thousand free lances," replied
Jodelle stoutly, "engaged to serve you for the space of ten years.
Moreover, I must have annually half the pay of Mercader; and you must
consent to dub me knight with your royal hand."
"Knight!" cried the Earl of Pembroke, turning fiercely upon him.--"By
the Lord! if the king do dub so mean and pitiful a traitor, I will
either make the day of your dubbing the last of your life; or I will
have my own scullion strike off my own spurs, as a dishonour to my
heels, when such a villain wears the same."
"When those spurs _are_ on, Lord Pembroke," replied Jodelle boldly,
"thou shalt not want one to meet thee, and give thee back scorn for
scorn. Till then, meddle with what concerns thee, and mar not the
king's success with thy scolding."
"Peace, Pembroke! peace!" cried King John, seeing his hasty peer about
to make angry answer. "Who dare interfere where my will speaks?--And
now tell me, fellow Alberic," he added with an air of dignity he could
sometimes assume, "suppose that we refuse thine exacting demands--what
follows then?"
"Why, that I betake myself to my beast's back, and ride away as I
came," answered Jodelle undisturbedly.
"But suppose we do not let thee go," continued the king; "and farther,
suppose we hang thee up to the elm before the door."
"Then you will have broken a king's honour to win a dead carcase,"
answered the Brabançois; "for nothing shall you ever know from me that
may stead you in your purpose."
"But we have tortures, sir, would almost make the dead speak,"
rejoined King John. "Such, at least, as would make thee wish thyself
dead a thousand times, ere death came to thy relief."
"I doubt thee not, sir king," answered Jodelle, with the same
determined tone and manner in which he had heretofore spoken--"I doubt
thee not; and, as I pretend to no more love for tortures than my
neighbours, 'tis more than likely I should tell thee all I could tell,
before the thumbscrew had taken half a turn; but it would avail thee
nothing, for nought that I could tell thee would make my men withdraw
till they have me amongst them; and, until they be withdrawn, you may
as well try to surprise the sun of heaven, guarded by all his rays, as
catch Prince Arthur and Guy de Coucy."
"Why wouldst thou not come to the camp, then?" demanded John. "If thou
wert so secure, why camest thou not when I sent for thee?"
"Because, King John, I once served your brother Richard," replied the
Brabançois, "and during that time I made me so many dear friends in
Mercader's band, that I thought, if I came to visit them, without two
or three hundred men at my back, they might, out of pure love, give me
a banquet of cold steel, and lodging with our lady mother,--the
earth."
"The fellow jests, lords! On my soul! the fellow jests!" cried
John.--"Get thee back, sirrah, a step or two; and let me consult with
my nobles," he added.--"Look to him, Pembroke, that he escape not."
John then spoke for several minutes with the gentlemen who had
attended him to this extraordinary meeting; and the conversation,
though carried on in a low tone, seemed in no slight degree
animated; more especially on the part of Lord Pembroke, who frequently
spoke loud enough for such words to be heard as "disgrace to
chivalry--disgust the barons of England--would not submit to have
their order degraded," &c.
At length, however, a moment of greater calm succeeded; and John,
beckoning the coterel forward, spoke to him thus:--
"Our determination is taken, good fellow, and thou shall subscribe to
it, or not, as thou wilt. First, we will give thee the order upon our
treasury for the ten thousand marks of silver; always provided, that
within ten days' time, the body of Arthur Plantagenet is by thy means
placed in our hands--living--or dead," added the king, with a fearful
emphasis on the last word. At the same time he contracted his brows,
and though his eyes still remained fixed upon Jodelle, he half-closed
the eyelids over them, as if he considered his own countenance as a
mask through which his soul could gaze out without being seen, while
he insinuated what he was afraid or ashamed to proclaim openly.
Lord Pembroke gave a meaning glance to another nobleman who stood
behind the king; and who slightly raised his shoulder and drew down
the corner of his mouth as a reply, while the king proceeded:--
"We will grant thee also, on the same condition, that which thou
demandest in regard to raising a band of Brabançois, and serving as
their commander, together with all the matter of pay, and whatever
else you have mentioned on that head; but as to creating thee a
knight, 'tis what we will not, nor cannot do, at least, for service of
this kind. If you like the terms, well!" concluded the king; "if not,
there stands an elm at the door, as we have before said, which would
form as cool and shady a dangling place, as a man could wish to hang
on in a September's day."
"Nay, I have no wish of the kind," replied the Brabançois: "if I must
hang on any thing, let it be a king, not a stump of timber. I will not
drive my bargain hard, sir king. Sign me the papers now, with all the
conditions you mention; and when I am your servant, I will do you such
good service, that yon proud lord, who now stands in the way of my
knighthood, shall own I deserve it as well as himself."
The Earl of Pembroke gave him a glance of scorn, but replied not to
his boast; and writing materials having been procured from some of the
attendants without--the whole house being by this time surrounded with
armed men, who had been commanded to follow the king by different
roads--the papers were drawn up, and signed by the king.
"And now, my lord," said Jodelle, with the boldness of a man who can
render needful service, "look upon Prince Arthur as your own. Advance
with all speed upon Mirebeau. When you are within five leagues, halt
till night. Arthur, with the hogs of Poitou, is kinging it in the
town. De Coucy sleeps by his watch-fire under the castle mound. My men
keep the watch on this side of the town. Let your troops advance
quietly in the dark, giving the word _Jodelle_, and, without sign or
signal, my free fellows shall retire before you, till you are in the
very heart of the place. Arthur, with his best knights, sleeps at the
prévôt's house; surround that, and you have them all, without drawing
a sword.--Love you the plan?"
"By my crown and honour!" cried the king, his eyes sparkling with
delight, "if the plan be as well executed as it is devised, thou wilt
merit a diamond worth a thousand marks, to weigh your silver down.
Count upon me, good Alberic! as your best friend through life, if thy
plot succeeds. Count on me, Alberic----"
"Jodelle! for the future, so please you, sire," replied the coterel;
"Alberic was but assumed:--and now, my lord, I will to horse and away;
for I must put twenty long leagues between me and this place before
the dawn of to-morrow."
"Speed you well!--speed you well, good Jodelle!" replied the king,
rising: "I will away too, to move forward on Mirebeau, like an eagle
to his prey. Come, lords! to horse!--Count on me, good Jodelle!" he
repeated, as he put his foot in the stirrup, and turned away, "count
on me--to hang you as high as the crow builds," he muttered to himself
as he galloped off--"ay, count on me for that! Well; lords, what think
you of our night's work?--By Heaven! our enemies are in our hands! We
have but to do, as I have seen a child catch flies,--sweep the board
with our palm, and we grasp them all."
"True, my lord," replied the Earl of Pembroke, who had been speaking
in a low voice with some of the other followers of the prince. "But
there are several things to be considered first."
"How to be considered, sir?" demanded King John, somewhat checking his
horse's pace with an impatient start. "What is it now?--for I know by
that word, _considered_, that there is some rebellion to my will,
toward."
"Not so, sire," replied the Earl of Pembroke firmly; "but the barons
of England, my liege, have to remember that, by direct line of
descent, Arthur Plantagenet was the clear heir to Richard C[oe]ur de
Lion. Now, though there wants not reason or example to show that we
have a right to choose from the royal family which member we think
most fit to bear the sceptre; yet we so far respect the blood of our
kings, and so far feel for the generous ardour of a noble youth who
seeks but to regain a kingdom which he deems his of right, that we
will not march against Arthur Plantagenet, without you, sire, will
promise to moderate your wrath towards him, to confirm him in his
dukedom of Brittany, and to refrain from placing either your nephew,
or any of his followers, in any strong place or prison, on pretext of
guarding them."
John was silent for a long space, for his habitual dissimulation could
hardly master the rage that struggled in his bosom. It conquered at
last, however, and its triumph was complete.
"I will own, I am grieved, Lord Pembroke," said he, in a hurt and
sorrowful tone, "to think that my good English barons should so far
doubt their king, as to approach the very verge of rebellion and
disobedience, to obtain what he could never have a thought of denying.
The promises you require I give you, as freely and as willingly as you
could ask them; and if I fail to keep them in word and deed, let my
orders be no longer obeyed; let my sceptre be broken, my crown torn
from my head, and let me, by peer and peasant, be no longer regarded
as a king."
"Thanks! my lord! thanks!" cried Lord Bagot and one or two of the
other barons, who followed. "You are a free and noble sovereign, and a
right loyal and excellent king. We thank you well for your free
promise and accord."
Lord Pembroke was silent. He knew John profoundly, and he had never
seen promises steadily kept, which had been so easily obtained.
CHAPTER X.
"Now, good dame, the reckoning," cried Jodelle, as soon as King John
was gone.
"Good dame not me!" cried the hostess, forgetting, in her indignation
at having been put out of her own kitchen, and kept for half an hour
in the street amid soldiers and horseboys, all her habitual and
universal civility. It might be shown by a learned dissertation, that
there are particular points of pride in every human heart, of so
inflammable a nature, that though we may bear insult and injury,
attack and affront, upon every other subject, with the most forbearing
consideration of our self-interest, yet but touch one of those points
with the very tip of the brand of scorn, and the whole place is in a
blaze in a moment, at the risk of burning the house down. But time is
wanting; therefore, suffice it to say, that the landlady, who could
bear, and had in her day borne all that woman can bear, was so
indignant at being put from her own door--that strong hold of an
innkeeper's heart, where he sees thousands arrive and depart without
stirring a foot himself--that she vituperated the worthy Brabançois
thereupon, somewhat more than his patience would endure.
"Come, come, old woman!" cried he, "an' thou will not name thy
reckoning, no reckoning shalt thou have. I am not one of those who
often pay either for man's food or horse provender, so I shall take my
beast from the stall and set out."
"Nay, nay!" she said, more fearful of Jodelle discovering the page's
horse still in the stable, than even of losing her reckoning--"nay! it
should not be said that any one, however uncivil, was obliged to fetch
his own horse. She had a boy for her stable, God wot!--Ho! boy!" she
continued, screaming from the door, "bring up the bay horse for the
gentleman. Quick!--As to the reckoning, sir, it comes only to a matter
of six sous."
The reckoning was paid, and before Jodelle could reach the stable to
which he was proceeding, notwithstanding the landlady's remonstrance,
his horse was brought up, whereupon he mounted, and set off at full
speed.
The moment the clatter of his horse's feet had passed away, the pile
of fagots and brushwood rolled into the middle of the floor, and the
half-suffocated page sprang out of his place of concealment. His face
and hands were scratched and torn, and his dress was soiled to that
degree, that the old lady could not refrain from laughing, till she
saw the deadly paleness of his countenance.
"Get me a stoup of wine, good dame--get me a stoup of wine--I am faint
and sad--get me some wine!" cried the youth. "Alack! that I, and no
other, should have heard what I have heard!"
The old lady turned away to obey, and the page, casting himself on a
settle before the fire, pressed his clasped hands between his knees,
and sat gazing on the embers, with a bewildered and horrified stare,
in which both fear and uncertainty had no small part.
"Good God! what shall I do?" cried he at length. "If I go back to Sir
Guy, and tell him that, though he ordered me to make all speed to the
Count d'Auvergne, I turned out of my way to see Eleanor, because the
pedlar told me she was at La Flêche, he will surely cleave my skull
with his battle-axe for neglecting the duty on which he sent me." And
an aguish trembling seized the poor youth, as he thought of presenting
himself to so dreadful a fate.
"And if I go not," added he thoughtfully, "what will be the
consequence? The triumph of a traitor--the destruction of my brave and
noble master--the ruin of the prince's enterprise. I will go. Let him
do his worst--I will go. Little Eleanor can but lose her lover; and
doubtless she will soon get another--and she will forget me, and be
happy, I dare say;" and the tears filled his eyes, between emotion at
the heroism of his own resolution, and the painful images his fancy
called up, while thinking of her he loved. "But I will go," he
continued--"I will go. He may kill me if he will; but I will save his
life, at least.--Come, good dame! give me the wine!"
The poor page set the flagon to his lips, believing, like many another
man, that if truth lies in a well, courage and resolution make their
abode in a tankard. In the present instance, he found it marvellous
true; and within a few minutes his determination was so greatly
fortified, that he repeated the experiment, and soon drank himself
into a hero.
"Now, good dame!--now, I will go!" cried he. "Bid thy boy bring me my
horse. And thank God, all your days, for putting me in that closet;
for owing to that, one of the most diabolical schemes shall be
thwarted that ever the devil himself helped to fabricate."
"The Lord be praised! and St. Luke and St. Martin the apostates!"
cried the hostess; "and their blessing be upon your handsome
face!--Your reckoning comes to nine sous, beau sire, which is cheap
enough in all conscience, seeing I have nourished you as if you were
my own son, and hid you in the cupboard as if you were my own
brother."
The page did not examine very strictly the landlady's accounts;
though, be it remarked, nine sous was in that day no inconsiderable
sum; but, having partaken freely of the thousand marks which De Coucy
had received before leaving Paris, he dispensed his money with the
boyish liberality that too often leaves us with our very early years.
"Allons!" cried he, springing on his horse, "I will go, let what may
come of it. Which way do I turn, dame, to reach Mirebeau?"
"To the left, beau page,--to the left!" replied the old woman. "But,
Lord-a-mercy on thy sweet heart! 'tis a far way. Take the second road,
that branches to the right, sir page," she screamed after him; "and
then, where it separates again, keep to the left." But long ere she
had concluded her directions, the youth was far out of hearing.
He rode on, and he rode on; and when the morning dawned, he found
himself, with a weary horse and a sad heart, still in the sweet plains
of bright Touraine. The world looked all gay and happy in the early
light. There was a voice of rejoicing in the air, and a smile in the
whole prospect, which went not well in harmony with the feelings of
the poor youth's heart. Absorbed in his own griefs, and little knowing
the universality of care, as he looked upon the merry sunshine
streaming over the slopes and woods which laughed and sparkled in the
rays, he fancied himself the only sorrowful thing in nature; and when
he heard the clear-voiced lark rise upon her quivering wings, and fill
the sky with her carolling, he dropped his bridle upon his horse's
neck, and clasped his hand over his eyes. He was going, he thought, to
give himself up to death;--to quit the sunshine, and the light, and
the hopes of youth, and the enjoyments of fresh existence, for the
cold charnel,--the dark, heavy grave,--the still, rigid, feelingless
torpor of the dead!
Did his resolution waver? Did he ever dream of letting fate have its
course with his lord and his enterprise, and, imitating the lark, to
wing his flight afar, and leave care behind him? He did! He did,
indeed, more than once; and the temptation was the stronger, as his
secret would ever rest with himself--as neither punishment nor
dishonour could ever follow, and as the upbraiding voice of conscience
was all that he had to fear. The better spirit, however, of the
chivalrous age came to his aid--that generous principle of
self-devotion--that constantly inculcated contempt of life, where
opposed to honour, which raised the ancient knight to a pitch of glory
that the most calculating wisdom could never obtain, had its effect
even in the bosom of the page; and, though never doubting that death
would be the punishment of his want of obedience and discipline, he
still went on to save his master and accuse himself.
It was not long, however, before the means presented itself, as he
thought, of both sparing the confession, and circumventing the
villanous designs of the Brabançois. As he rode slowly into a little
village, about eight o'clock in the morning, he saw a horse tied to
the lintel of a door, by the way-side, which he instantly recognised
as Jodelle's, and he thanked St. Martin of Tours, as if this rencontre
was a chance peculiarly of that saint's contriving. The plan of the
page smacked strongly of the thirteenth century. "Here is the
villain," said he, "refreshing at that house after his night's ride.
Now, may the blessed St. Martin never be good to me again, if I do not
attack him the moment he comes forth; and though he be a strong man,
and twice as old as I am, I have encountered many a Saracen in the
Holy Land, and, with God's blessing, I will kill the traitor, and so
stop him in his enterprise. Then may I ride on merrily, to seek the
count d'Auvergne, and never mention a word of this plot of theirs, or
of my own playing truant either."
Ermold de Marcy--for so was the page called--had a stout heart in all
matters of simple battle, as ever entered a listed field; and had
Jodelle been ten times as renowned a person as he was, Ermold would
have attacked him without fear, though his whole heart sunk at the
bare idea of offering himself to De Coucy's battle-ax; so different is
the prospect of contention, in which death may ensue, from the
prospect of death itself.
Quietly moderating his horse's progress to the slowest possible pace,
lest the noise of his hoofs should call Jodelle's attention, he
advanced to the same cottage; and, not to take his adversary at an
unjust disadvantage, he dismounted, and tied his beast to a post hard
by. He then brought round his sword ready to his hand, loosened his
dagger in the sheath, and went on towards the door; but, at that
moment, the loud neighing of the Brabançois' courser, excited by the
proximity of his fellow quadruped, called Jodelle himself to the door.
The instant he appeared, Ermold, without more ado, rushed upon him,
and, striking him with his clenched fist exclaimed, "You are a
villain!" Then springing back into the middle of the road, to give his
antagonist free space, he drew his sword with one hand, and his dagger
with the other, and waited his approach.
For his part, Jodelle, who at once recognised De Coucy's attendant,
had no difficulty in deciding on the course he had to pursue. The page
evidently suspected him of something, though of what, Jodelle of
course could not be fully aware. De Coucy believed him (as he had
taken care to give out) to be lying wounded in one of the houses of
Mirebeau. If the page then ever reached Mirebeau, his treachery would
be instantly discovered, and his enterprise consequently fail. It
therefore followed, that without a moment's hesitation, it became
quite as much Jodelle's determination to put the page to death, as it
was Ermold's to bestow the same fate on him; and, with this sanguinary
resolution on both sides, they instantly closed in mortal conflict.
Although, on the first view, such a struggle between a youth of
eighteen and a vigorous man of five-and-thirty would seem most
unequal, and completely in favour of the latter; yet such was not
entirely the case. Having served as page since a very early age, with
so renowned a knight as Guy de Coucy, Ermold de Marcy had acquired not
only a complete knowledge of the science of arms, but also that
dexterity and agility in their use, which nothing but practice can
give.
Practice also certainly Jodelle did not want; but Ermold's had been
gained in the Holy Land, where the exquisite address of the Saracens
in the use of the scymitar had necessitated additional study and
exercise of the sword amongst the crusaders and their followers.
Ermold also was as active as the wind, and this fully compensated the
want of Jodelle's masculine strength. But the Brabançois had
unfortunately in his favour the advantage of armour, being covered
with a light haubert,[22] which yielded to all the motions of his
body, and with a steel bonnet, which defended his head; while the poor
page had nothing but his green tunic, and his velvet cap and feather.
It was in vain, therefore, that he exerted his skill and activity in
dealing two blows for every one of his adversary's; the only
accessible part of Jodelle's person was his face, and that he took
sufficient care to guard against attack.
--------------------
[Footnote 22: There are various differences of opinion concerning the
persons to whom the use of the haubert was confined. Ducange implies,
from a passage in Joinville, that this part of the ancient suits of
armour was the privilege of a knight. Le Laboureur gives it also to a
squire. But the Brabançois and other bands of adventurers did not
subject themselves to any rules and regulations respecting their arms,
as might be proved from a thousand different instances.]
--------------------
The noise of clashing weapons brought the villagers to their doors;
but such things were too common in those days, and interference
therein was too dangerous an essay for any one to meddle; though some
of the women cried out upon the strong man in armour, for drawing on
the youth in the green cassock.
Ermold was nothing daunted by the disadvantage under which he
laboured; and after having struck at Jodelle's face, and parried all
his blows, with admirable perseverance, for some minutes, he actually
meditated running in upon the Brabançois; confident that if he could
but get one fair blow at his throat, the combat would be at an end.
At that moment, however, it was interrupted in a different manner; for
a party of horsemen, galloping up into the village, came suddenly upon
the combatants, and thrusting a lance between them, separated them for
the time.
"How now, masters! how now!" cried the leader of the party, in rank
Norman-French. "Which is France, and which is England?--But fight
fair! fight fair, i' God's name!--not a man against a boy,--not a
steel haubert against a cloth jerkin. Take hold of them, Robin, and
bring them in here. I will judge their quarrel."
So saying, the English knight, for such he was who spoke, dismounted
from his horse, and entered the very cottage from which Jodelle had
issued a few minutes before. It seemed to be known as a place of
entertainment, though no sign nor inscription announced the calling of
its owner; and the knight, who bore the rough weather-beaten face of
an old bluff soldier, sat himself down in a settle, and leaning his
elbow on the table, began to interrogate Ermold and the Brabançois,
who were brought before him as he had commanded.
"And now, sir, with the haubert," said he, addressing Jodelle,
apparently with that sort of instinctive antipathy, that the good
sometimes feel, they scarce know why, towards the bad, "how came you,
dressed in a coat of iron, to draw your weapon upon a beardless youth,
with nothing to guard his limbs from your blows?"
"Though I deny your right to question me," replied Jodelle, "I will
tell you, to make the matter short, that I drew upon him because he
drew on me in the first place; but still more, because he is an enemy
to my lord, the king of England."
"But thou art no Englishman, nor Norman either," replied the knight.
"Thy tongue betrays thee. I have borne arms here, these fifty years,
from boyhood to old age, and I know every jargon that is spoken in the
king's dominions, from Rouen to the mountains; and thou speakest none.
Thou art a Frenchman, of Provence, or thine accent lies."
"I may be a Frenchman, and yet serve the king of England," replied
Jodelle boldly.
"God send him better servants than thou art, then!" replied the old
knight.--"Well, boy, what sayest thou? Nay, look not sad, for that
matter. We will not hurt thee, lad."
"You will hurt me, and you do hurt me," answered Ermold, "if you hold
me here, and do not let me either cut out that villain's heart, or on
to tell my lord that he is betrayed."
"And who is thy lord, boy?" demanded the knight, "English or
French?--and what is his name?"
"French!" answered Ermold boldly; and with earnest pride he added, "he
is the noble Sir Guy de Coucy."
"A good knight!--a good knight!" said the Englishman. "I have heard
the heralds tell of him. A crusader too--young, they say, but very
bold, and full of noble prowess: I should like to splinter a lance
with him, in faith!"
"You need not baulk your liking, sir knight," answered the page at
once: "my master will meet you on horseback, or on foot, with what
arms you will, and when:--give me but a glove to bear him as a gage,
and you shall not be long without seeing him."
"Thou bearest thee like the page of such a knight," replied the
Englishman; "and in good truth, I have a mind to pleasure thee," he
added, drawing off one of his gauntlets, as if about to send it to De
Coucy; but whether such was his first intention or not, his farther
determinations were changed by Jodelle demanding abruptly--"Know you
the signature of king John, sir knight?"
"Surely! somewhat better than my own," answered the other,--"somewhat
better than my own, which I have not seen for these forty years; and
which, please God! I shall never see again; for my last will and
testament, which was drawn by the holy clerk of St. Anne's, two years
and a half come St. Michael's, was stamped with my sword pommel,
seeing that I had forgot how to write one half the letters of my name,
and the others were not readable.--But as to the king's, I'd swear to
_it_."
"Well then," said Jodelle, laying a written paper before him, "you
must know that; and by that name I require you not only to let me pass
free, but to keep yon youth prisoner, as an enemy to the king."
"'Tis sure enough the king's name, in his own writing; and there is
the great seal too," said the old knight. "This will serve your turn,
sir, as far as going away yourself,--but as to keeping the youth, I
know nothing of that. The paper says nothing of that, as far as I can
see."
"No; it does not," said Jodelle; "but still----"
"Oh, it does not, does not it?" said the Englishman, giving back the
paper. "Thank you at least for that admission; for, as to what the
paper says, may I be confounded if I can read a word of it."
"Listen to me, however," said Jodelle; and approaching close to the
English knight, he whispered a few words in his ear.
The old man listened for a moment, with a grave and attentive face,
bending his head and inclining his ear to the Brabançois'
communication. Then suddenly he turned round, and eyed him from head
to foot with a glance of severe scorn. "Open the door!" cried he to
his men loudly--"open the door! By God, I shall be suffocated!--I
never was in a small room with such a damned rascal in my life before.
Let him pass! let him pass! and keep out of the way--take care his
clothes do not touch you--it may be contagious; and, by the Lord! I
would sooner catch the plague than such villany as he is tainted
withal."
While surprised, and at first scarce grasping their leader's meaning,
the English troopers drew back from the Brabançois' path, as if he had
been really a leper, Jodelle strode to the door of the cottage,
smothering the wrath he dared not vent. On the threshold, however, he
paused; and, turning towards the old soldier as if he would speak,
glared on him for a moment with the glance of a wounded tiger; but,
whether he could find no words equal to convey the virulence of his
passion, or whether prudence triumphed over anger, cannot be told, but
he broke suddenly away, and catching his horse's bridle, sprang into
the saddle, and rode off at full speed.
"I am afraid I must keep thee, poor youth," said the old knight,--"I am
afraid I must keep thee, whether I will or no. I should be blamed if I
let thee go; though, on my knightly honour, 'tis cursed hard to be
obliged to keep a good honest youth like thee, and let a slave like
that go free! Nevertheless, you must stay here; and if you try to make
your escape, I do not know what I must do to thee. Robin," he
continued, turning to one of his men-at-arms, "put him into the back
chamber that looks upon the lane, and keep a good guard over him,
while I go on to the other village to see that lord Pembroke's
quarters be prepared:--and hark ye," he added, speaking in a lower
voice, "leave the window open, and tie his horse under it, and there is
a gros Tournois for thee to drink the king's health with the villagers
and the other soldiers. Do you understand?"
"Ay, sir! ay!" answered the man-at-arms, "I understand, and will take
care that your worship's commands be obeyed."
"'Tis a good youth," said the old knight, "and a bold, and the other
was nothing but a pitiful villain, that will be hanged yet, if there
be a tree in France to hang him on. Now, though I might be blamed if I
let this lad go, and John might call me a hard-headed old fool, as
once he did; yet I don't know, Robin,--I don't know whether in
knightly honour I should keep the true man prisoner and let the
traitor go free--I don't know Robin,--I don't know!"
So saying, the good old soldier strode to the door; and the man he
called Robin took poor Ermold into a small room at the back of the
house, where he opened the window, saying something about not wishing
to stifle him, and then left him, fastening the door on the other
side.
The poor page, however, bewildered with disappointment and distress,
and stupified with fatigue and want of sleep, had only heard the
charge to guard him safely, without the after whisper, which
neutralised that command; and, never dreaming that escape was
possible, he sat down on the end of a truckle bed that occupied the
greater part of the chamber, and gave himself up to his own melancholy
thoughts. He once, indeed, thought of looking from the window, with a
vague idea of freeing himself; but as he was about to proceed thither,
the sound of a soldier whistling, together with a horse's footsteps,
convinced him that a guard was stationed there, and he abandoned his
purpose. In this state he remained till grief and weariness proved too
heavy for his young eyelids, and he fell asleep.
In the meanwhile, the old knight, after being absent for more than
three hours, returned to the village, which he had apparently often
frequented before, and riding up to his man Robin, who was drinking
with some peasants in the market-place, his first question was, "Where
is the prisoner, Robin? I hope he has not escaped;" while a shrewd
smile very potently contradicted the exact meaning of his words.
"Escaped!" exclaimed Robin: "God bless your worship! he cannot have
escaped, without he got out of the window! for I left five men
drinking in the front room."
"Let us see, Robin,--let us see!" said the old man. "Nothing like
making sure, good Robin;" and he spurred on to the cottage, sprang
from his horse like a lad; and, casting the bridle to one of his men,
passed through the front room to that where poor Ermold was confined.
Whatever had been his expectations, when he saw him sitting on the
bed, just opening his heavy eyes at the sound of his approach, he
could not restrain a slight movement of impatience. "The boy's a
fool!" muttered he,--"the boy's a fool!" But then, recovering himself,
he shut the door, and, advancing to the page, he said,--"I am right
glad, thou hast not tried to escape, my boy,--thou art a good lad and
a patient; but if ever thou shouldst escape, while under my custody,
for 'tis impossible to guard every point, remember to do my greeting
to your lord, and tell him that I, Sir Arthur of Oakingham, will be
glad to splinter a lance with him, in all love and courtesy."
The page opened his eyes wide, as if he could scarce believe what he
heard.
"If he does not understand that," said the old man to himself, "he is
a natural fool!" But to make all sure, he went to the narrow window,
and leaning out, after whistling for a minute, he asked,--"Is that
your horse? 'Tis a bonny beast, and a swift, doubtless.--Well, sir
page, fare thee well!" he added: "in an hour's time I will send thee a
stoup of wine, to cheer thee!" and, without more ado, he turned, and
left the room once more, bolting the door behind him.
Ermold stood for a moment, as if surprise had benumbed his sinews; but
'twas only for a moment! for then, springing towards the casement, he
looked out well on each side, thrust himself through, without much
care either of his dress or his person; and, springing to the ground,
was in an instant on his horse's back, and galloping away over the
wide, uninclosed country, like Tam o'Shanter with all the witches
behind him.
For long he rode on, without daring to look behind; but when he did
so, he found that he was certainly unpursued; and proceeded, with
somewhat of a slackened pace, in order to save his horse's strength.
At the first cottage he came to, he inquired for Mirebeau; but by the
utter ignorance of the serfs that inhabited it, even of the name of
such a place, he found that he must be rather going away from the
object of his journey than approaching it. At the castles he did not
dare to ask; for the barons of that part of the country were so
divided between the two parties, that he would have thereby run fully
as much chance of being detained as directed. At length, however, as
the sun began to decline, he encountered a countrywoman, who gave him
some more correct information; but told him at the same time, that it
would be midnight before he reached the place he sought.
Ermold went on undauntedly; and only stopped for half an hour, to
refresh his horse when the weary beast could hardly move its limbs.
Still he was destined to be once more turned from his path; for, at
the moment the sun was just going down, he beheld from the top of one
of the hills, a large body of cavalry moving on in the valley below;
and the banners and ensigns which flaunted in the horizontal rays,
left no doubt that they were English.
The page was of course obliged to change his direction; but as a fine
starry night came on, he proceeded with greater ease; for the woman's
direction had been to keep due south, and in Palestine he had learned
to travel by the stars. A thousand difficulties still opposed
themselves to his way--a thousand times his horse's weariness obliged
him to halt; but he suffered not his courage to be shaken; and, at
last, he triumphed over all. As day began to break, he heard the
ringing of a large church bell, and in ten minutes he stood upon the
heights above Mirebeau. Banners, and pennons, and streamers were
dancing in the vale below; and for a moment the page paused, and
glanced his eyes over the whole scene. As he did so, he turned as pale
as death; and, suddenly drawing his rein, he wheeled to the right, and
rode away in another direction, as fast as his weary horse would bear
him.
CHAPTER XI.
We seldom, in life, find ourselves more unpleasantly situated, than
when, as is often the case, our fate and happiness are staked upon an
enterprise in which many other persons are joined, whose errors or
negligences counteract all our best endeavours, and whose conduct,
however much we disapprove, we cannot command.
Such was precisely the case with De Coucy, after the taking of the
town of Mirebeau. The castle still held out, and laughed the efforts
of their small force to scorn. Their auxiliaries had not yet come up.
No one could gain precise information of the movements of King John's
army; and yet, the knights of Poitou and Anjou passed their time in
revelling and merriment in the town, pressing the siege of the castle
vigorously during the day, but giving up the night to feasting and
debauchery, and leading Prince Arthur, in the heedlessness of his
youth, into the same improvident neglect as themselves.
When De Coucy urged the hourly danger to which they were exposed
during the night, with broken gates and an unrepaired wall, and
pressed the necessity of throwing out guards and patrols, the only
reply he obtained was, "Let the Brabançois patrol,--they were paid for
such tedious service. They were excellent scouts too. None better! Let
them play sentinel. The knights and men-at-arms had enough to do
during the day. As to King John, who feared him? Let him come. They
would fight him." So confident had they become from their first
success against Mirebeau. De Coucy, however, shared not this
confidence; but every night, as soon as the immediate operations
against the castle had ceased, he left the wounded in the town, and
retired, with the rest of his followers, to a small post he had
established on a mound, at the distance of a double arrow shot from
the fortress. His first care after this, was to distribute the least
fatigued of the Brabançois, in small parties, round the place, at a
short distance from the walls; so that, as far as they could be relied
upon, the besiegers were secure against attack.
Still the young knight, practised in the desultory warfare of the
crusades, and accustomed to every sort of attack, both by night and
day, neglected no precaution; and, by establishing a patrol of his own
tried attendants, each making the complete round of the posts once
during the night; while De Coucy himself never omitted to make the
same tour twice between darkness and light, he seemed to insure also
the faith of the Brabançois.
The fourth night had come, after the taking of the town; and, wearied
with the fatigues of the day, De Coucy had slept for an hour or two,
in one of the little huts of which he had formed his encampment. He
was restless, however, even during his sleep, and towards eleven of
the clock he rose, and proceeded to the watch-fire, at a short
distance from which, the man who was next to make the round was
sitting waiting his companion's return. The night was as black as ink;
there was a sort of solid darkness in the air; but withal it was very
warm; so that, though the light of the fire was very agreeable, its
heat was not to be supported.
"Has all gone well?" demanded the knight.
"All, beau sire," answered the man, "except that one of the coterel's
horses has got his foot in a hole, and slipped his fetlock."
"Have you heard of his captain, Jodelle?" demanded De Coucy. "Is he
better of his hurt? We want all the men we have."
"I have not seen him, beau sire, because I have not been in the town,"
replied the squire; "but one of his fellows says, that he is very bad
indeed;--that the blow you dealt him has knocked one of his eyes quite
out."
"I am sorry for that," said De Coucy. "I meant not to strike so
heavily, I will see him to-morrow before the attack. Bring me word, in
the morning, what house he lies at; and now mount and begin your
round, good Raoul. We will keep it up quickly to-night. I know not
why, but I am not easy. I have a sort of misgiving that I seldom feel.
Hush! What noise is that!"
"Oh, 'tis the folks singing in the town, beau sire," replied the man.
"They have been at it this hour. It comes from the prévôt's garden. I
heard Sir Savary de Maulèon say, as he rode by us, that he would sing
the abbess of the convent a lay to-night, for the love of her sweet
eyes."
A gust of wind now brought the sounds nearer; and De Coucy heard, more
distinctly, that it was as the man-at-arms had said. The dull tones of
a rote, with some voices singing, mingled with the merry clamour of
several persons laughing; and the general hum of more quiet
conversation told that the gay nobles of Poitou were prolonging the
revel late.
De Coucy bade the man go; and in a few minutes after, when the other,
who had been engaged in making the rounds, returned, the knight
himself mounted a fresh horse, and rode round in various directions,
sometimes visiting the posts, sometimes pushing his search into the
country; for, with no earthly reason for suspicion, he felt more
troubled and anxious than if some inevitable misfortune were about to
fall upon him. At about three in the morning he returned, and found
Hugo de Barre, by the light of the watch-fire, waiting his turn to
ride on the patrol.
"How is thy wound, Hugo?" demanded De Coucy, springing to the ground.
"Oh, 'tis nothing. Sir Guy!--'tis nothing!" replied the stout squire.
"God send me never worse than that, and my bargain would be soon
made!"
"Has all been still?" demanded the knight.
"All, save a slight rustling I thought I heard on yonder hill,"
replied Hugo. "It sounded like a far horse's feet."
"Thou hast shrewd ears, good Hugo," answered his lord. "'Twas I rode
across it some half an hour ago or less."
"'Tis that the night is woundy still," replied the squire, "one might
hear a fly buzz at a mile; 'tis as hot as Palestine too. Think you,
beau sire," he added, somewhat abruptly, "that 'twill be long before
this castle falls?"
"Nine months and a day! good Hugo," answered the knight,--"nine months
and a day! without our reinforcements come up. How would you have us
take it? We have no engines. We have neither mangonel, nor catapult,
nor pierrier to batter the wall, nor ladders nor moving tower to storm
it."
"I would fain be on to La Flêche, beau sire," said Hugo, laughing.
"'Tis that makes me impatient."
"And why to La Flêche?" demanded De Coucy. "Why there, more than to
any other town of Maine or Normandy?"
"Oh, I forgot, sire. You were not there," said the squire, "when the
packman at Tours told Ermold de Marcy and me, that Sir Julian, and the
Lady Isadore, and Mistress Alixe, and little Eleanor, and all, are at
La Flêche."
"Ha!" said De Coucy, "and this cursed castle is keeping us here for
ages, and those wild knights of Poitou lying there in the town, and
spending the time in foolish revel that would take twenty castles if
well employed."
"That is what Gallon the fool said yesterday," rejoined Hugo. "God
forgive me for putting you, sire, and Gallon together: but he said,
'If those Poitevins would but dine as heartily on stone walls as they
do on cranes and capons, and toss off as much water as they do wine,
they would drink the ditch dry, and swallow the castle, before three
days were out.'"
"On my life, he said not amiss," replied De Coucy.--"Where is poor
Gallon? I have not seen him these two days."
"He keeps to the town, beau sire," replied Hugo, "to console the good
wives, as he says. But here comes Henry Carvel from the rounds, or I
am mistaken. Yet the night is so dark, one would not see a camel at a
yard's distance. Ho, stand! Give the word!"
"Arthur!" replied the soldier, and dismounted by the watch-fire. Hugo
de Barre sprang on his horse, and proceeded on his round; while De
Coucy, casting himself down in the blaze, prepared to watch out the
night by the sentinel, who was now called to the guard.
It were little amusing to trace De Coucy's thoughts. A knight of that
day would have deemed it almost a disgrace to divide the necessary
anxieties of the profession of arms, with any other idea than that of
his lady love. However the caustic pen of Cervantes, whose chivalrous
spirit--of which, I am bold to say, no man ever originally possessed
more--had early been crushed by ingratitude and disappointment,
however his pen may have given an aspect of ridicule to the deep
devotion of the ancient knights towards the object of their love,
however true it may be that that devotion was not always of as pure a
kind as fancy has pourtrayed it; yet the love of the chivalrous ages
was a far superior feeling to the calculating transaction so termed in
the present day; and if, perhaps, it was rude in its forms and
extravagant in its excess, it had at least the energy of passion, and
the sublimity of strength. De Coucy watched and listened; but still,
while he did so, he thought of Isadore of the Mount, and he called up
her loveliness, her gentleness, her affection. Every glance of her
soft dark eyes, every tone of her sweet lip, was food for memory; and
the young knight deemed that surely for such glances and such tones a
brave man might conquer the world.
The night, as we have seen, had been sultry, and the sky dark; and it
was now waxing towards morning; but no cool breeze announced the fresh
rising of the day. The air was heavy and close, as if charged with the
matter for a thousand storms; and the wind was as still as if no
quickening wing had ever stirred the thick and lazy atmosphere.
Suddenly a sort of rolling sound seemed to disturb the air, and De
Coucy sprang upon his feet to listen. A moment of silence elapsed, and
then a bright flash of lightning blazed across the sky, followed by a
clap of thunder. De Coucy listened still. "It could not be distant
thunder," he thought,--"the sound he had first heard. He had seen no
previous lightning."
He now distinctly heard a horse's feet coming towards him; and, a
moment after, the voice of Hugo de Barre speaking to some one else.
"Come along, Sir Gallon, quick!" cried he. "You must tell it to my
lord himself. By Heaven! if 'tis a jest, you should not have made it;
and if 'tis not a jest, he must hear it."
"Ha, haw!" cried Gallon the fool.--"Ha, haw! If 'tis a jest, 'tis the
best I ever made, for it is true,--and truth is the best jest in the
calendar.--Why don't they make Truth a saint, Hugo? Haw, haw! Haw,
haw! When I'm pope, I'll make St. Truth to match St. Ruth; and when
I've done, I shall have made the best saint in the pack.--Haw, haw!
Haw, haw! But, by the Lord! some one will soon make St. Lie to spite
me; and no one will pray to St. Truth afterwards.--Haw! haw! haw!--But
there's De Coucy standing by the watch-fire, like some great devil in
armour, broiling the souls of the damned.--Haw! haw! haw!"
"What is the matter, Hugo?" cried the knight, advancing. "Why are you
dragging along poor Gallon so?
"Because poor Gallon lets him," cried the juggler, freeing himself
from the squire's grasp, by one of his almost supernatural springs.
"Haw, haw! Where's poor Gallon now?"--and he bounded up to the place
where the knight stood, and cast himself down by the fire,
exclaiming,--"Oh rare! 'Tis a sweet fire, in this sultry night.--Haw,
haw! Are you cold, De Coucy?"
"I am afraid, my lord, there is treason going forward," said Hugo de
Barre, riding up to his master, and speaking in a low voice. "I had
scarce left you, when Gallon came bounding up to me, and began running
beside my horse, saying, in his wild way, he would tell me a story. I
heeded him little at first; but when he began to tell me that this
Brabançois--this Jodelle--has not been lying wounded a-bed, but has
been away these two days on horseback, and came back into the town
towards dusk last night, I thought it right to bring him hither."
"You did well," cried De Coucy,--"you did well! I will speak with
him--I observed some movement amongst the Brabançois as we returned.
Go quietly, Hugo, and give a glance into their huts, while I speak
with the juggler.--Ho, good Gallon, come hither?"
"You won't beat me?" cried Gallon,--"ha?"
"Beat thee! no, on my honour!" replied de Coucy; and the mad juggler
crept up to him on all-fours.--"Tell me, Gallon," continued the
knight, "is what you said to Hugo true about Jodelle?"
"The good king Christopher had a cat!" replied Gallon. "You said you
would not beat me, Coucy; but your eyes look very like as if your fist
itched to give the lie to your honour."
"Nay, nay. Gallon," said De Coucy, striving by gentleness to get a
moment of serious reason from him. "My own life--the safety of the
camp--of prince Arthur--of our whole party, may depend upon your
answer. I have heard you say that you are a Christian man, and kept
your faith, even while a slave amongst the Saracens; now answer me--Do
you know for certain that Jodelle has been absent, as you told your
friend Hugo? Speak the truth, upon your soul!"
"Not upon my soul!--not upon my soul!" cried Gallon. "As to my having
a soul, that is all a matter of taste and uncertainty; but what I said
was true, upon my nose, which no one will deny--Turk or Christian,
fool or philosopher. On my nose, it was true, Coucy--on my nose."
"By Heaven! if this prove false, I will cut it off!" cried the knight,
frowning on him.
"Do so, do so! beau sire," replied Gallon, grinning; "and when you
have got it, God give you grace to wear it!"
"Now, Hugo de Barre!" cried the knight, as his squire returned with a
quick pace.
"As I hope for salvation, sir Guy," cried Hugo, "there are not ten of
the cotereaux in the huts! Those that are there are sleeping quietly
enough, but all the rest are gone!"
"Lord! what a flash!" cried Gallon, as the lightning gleamed round
about them, playing on the armour of De Coucy and his squire.
"Ha, Hugo! did you see nothing in that valley?" exclaimed the knight.
"Lances, as I live!" answered the squire. "We are betrayed to the
English, sire!"
"We may reach the town yet, and save the prince!" exclaimed the
knight. "Wake the vassals, and the Brabançois that are left! The
traitor thought them too true to be trusted: we will think them true
too.--Be quick, but silent! Bid them not speak a word!"
Each man started up in his armour, as he was awoke; for De Coucy had
not permitted them to disarm during the siege; and, being ranged in
silence behind the knight, the small party that were left began to
descend towards the town on foot, and unknowing what duty they were
going upon.
Between the castle and the hill on which De Coucy had established his
post was a small ravine, the entrance of which, nearest the town,
exactly fronted the breach that he had formerly effected in the wall.
In the bottom ran a quick but shallow stream, which, brawling amongst
some large stones, went on murmuring towards the castle, the ditch of
which it supplied with water. Leading his men down into the hollow,
the young knight took advantage of the stream, and by making his
soldiers advance through the water, covered the clank of their armour
with the noise of the rivulet. The most profound darkness hung upon
their way; but, during the four days they had been there, each man had
become perfectly acquainted with the ground, so that they were
advancing rapidly; when suddenly a slight measured sound, like the
march of armed men over soft turf, caused De Coucy to halt. "Stop!"
whispered he; "they are between us and the walls. We shall have a
flash presently. Down behind the bushes, and we shall see!"
As he expected, it was not long before the lightning again blazed
across, and showed them a strong body of infantry marching along in
line, between the spot where he stood and the walls.
"Hugo," whispered the knight, "we must risk all. They are surrounding
the town; but the southern gate must still be open. We must cut
through them, and may still save the prince. Let each man remember his
task is, to enter the house of the prévôt, and carry Arthur
Plantagenet out, whether he will or not, by the southern gate. A
thousand marks of silver to the man who sets him in the streets of
Paris;--follow silently till I give the word."
This was said like lightning; and leading onward with a quick but
cautious step, De Coucy had advanced so far, that he could hear the
footfall of each armed man in the enemy's ranks, and the rustling of
their close pressed files against each other, when the blaze of the
lightning discovered his party also to those against whom they were
advancing. It gleamed as brightly as if the flash had been actually
between them, showing to De Coucy the corselets and pikes and grim
faces of the English soldiers within twenty yards of where he stood;
while they suddenly perceived a body of armed men approaching towards
them, whose numbers the duration of the lightning was not sufficient
to display.
"A Coucy! a Coucy!" shouted the knight, giving the signal to advance,
and rushing forward with that overwhelming impetuosity which always
casts so much in favour of the attacking party. Unacquainted with the
ground, taken by surprise, uncertain to whom or to what they were
opposed, the Norman and English soldiers, for the moment, gave way in
confusion. Two went down in a moment before De Coucy's sword; a third
attempted to grapple with him, but was dashed to the earth in an
instant; a fourth retired fighting towards the wall.
De Coucy pressed upon him as a man whose all--honour, fortune,
existence--is staked upon his single arm. Hugo and his followers
thronged after, widening the breach he had hewn in the enemy's ranks.
The soldier who fronted him, struck wild, reeled, staggered under his
blows, and stumbling over the ruins of the fallen tower, was trodden
under his feet. On rushed De Coucy towards the breach, seeing nought
in the darkness, hearing nought in the tumult, his quick and bloody
passage had occasioned.
But suddenly the bright blue lightning flashed once more across his
path. What was it he beheld? The lion banner of England planted in the
breach, with a crowd of iron forms around it, and a forest of spears
shining from beyond.
"Back! back, my lord!" cried Hugo: "the way is clear behind;--back to
the hill, while we can pass!"
Back like lightning De Coucy trod his steps, but with a different
order of march from what he had pursued in advancing. Every man of his
train went now before him; and though his passage had been but for an
instant, and the confusion it had occasioned great, yet the English
soldiers were now pressing in upon him on all sides, and hard was the
task to clear himself of their ranks. The darkness, however, favoured
him, and his superior knowledge of the ground; and, hastening onward,
contenting himself with striking only where his passage was opposed,
he gradually fought his way out--foiled one or two that attempted to
pursue him--gained the hill, and, mounting it with the swiftness of an
arrow sped from the bow, he at length rallied his men in the midst of
the little huts in which he had lodged his soldiers after the taking
of the town.
"Haw, haw! beau sire! Haw, haw;" cried Gallon the fool, who had never
stirred from the fire, although the heat was intense; "so you have
come back again. But I can tell you, that if you like to go down the
other way, you may have just as good a dish of fighting, for I saw,
but now, the postern of the castle open, and a whole troop of spears
wind down behind us. Haw, haw! haw, haw!"
"Now for the last chance, Hugo!" cried the knight.--"To horse, to
horse!"
Each man detached his beast from the spot where they stood ready, and
sprang into the saddle, doubting not that their daring leader was
about to attempt to cut his way through; but De Coucy had very
different thoughts.
"There is the day breaking," cried he; "we must be quick. In the
confusion that must reign in the town the prince may escape, if we can
but draw the Normans' attention hitherward. Gallon, a fitting task for
you! Take some of those brands, and set fire to all the huts. Quick!
the day is rising!"
"Haw, haw!" cried Gallon, delighted.--"Haw, haw!" and in an
astonishingly short space of time he had contrived to communicate the
flame to the greater part of the hovels, which, constructed
principally of dry branches, were easily ignited.
"Now!" cried De Coucy, "each man his horn to his lips! and let him
blow a flourish, as if he were saluting the royal standard."
De Coucy himself set the example, and the long, loud, united notes
rang far over the town.
So far as calling the attention of the English army below, the plan
perfectly succeeded; and indeed, even made the greater part both of
the knights and men-at-arms believe that Arthur was without the town.
All eyes were turned now towards the little hill, where, clearly
defined in the red light of the burning huts, stood the small party of
horsemen, hanging a dark black spot upon the very verge, backed by the
blaze of the conflagration. They might easily be mistaken for a group
of knights; and a little wood of birches some way behind, looked not
unlike a considerable clump of spears. To such a point, indeed, was
Lord Pembroke himself deceived, that he judged it fit to move a strong
body of horse round to the right of the hill, thus hemming in the
knight between the town and the castle.
De Coucy saw the movement, and rejoiced in it. Nor did he move a step,
as long as the fire of the huts continued to blaze; wishing, as far as
possible, to embarrass the enemy by the singularity of his behaviour,
in the faint hope that every additional cause of confusion, joined to
those which must always attend a night-attack, might in some degree
facilitate the escape of the prince.
The fire however expired, and the grey light of the morning was
beginning to spread more and more over the scene, when De Coucy turned
his rein, and, skirting round the little birch wood we have mentioned,
at last endeavoured to force his way through the iron toils that were
spread around him. To the right, as he wheeled round the wood, the
early light showed the strong body of cavalry Lord Pembroke had thrown
forward. On his left now lay the castle, and straight before him a
body of archers that had issued from thence with the earl of Salisbury
and half a dozen knights at their head. De Coucy hesitated not a
moment, but laid his lance in the rest, and galloped forward to the
attack of the latter at full speed.
One of the knights rode out before the rest to meet him, but went
down, horse and man, before his spear, and rolled on the plain, with
the iron of the lance broken off deep in his breast. On spurred De
Coucy, swinging his battle-axe over the head of a Norman who followed,
when his horse, unfortunately, set his foot on the carcase of the
fallen man--slipped--fell irrecoverably, and the knight was hurled to
the ground.
He sprang on his feet, however, in a moment, and, catching the bridle
of Lord Salisbury's horse, dashed the iron chamfron to atoms with his
battle-axe, and hurled the animal reeling on his haunches. The earl
spurred up his charger. "Yield! yield! De Coucy!" cried he;--"Good
treatment! Fair ransom! William's friendship! Yield you, or you die!"
"Never!" exclaimed De Coucy, turning; and at a single blow striking
down a man on foot that pressed upon him behind;--"never will I be
John of England's prisoner!"
"Be Salisbury's!--be William Longsword's!" shouted the earl loudly,
eager to save his noble foe from the lances that were now bearing him
down on all sides. But De Coucy still raged like a lion in the toils;
and, alone in the midst of his enemies--for the ranks had closed round
and cut him off even from the aid of his little band--he continued for
many minutes to struggle with a host, displaying that fearful courage
which gained him a name throughout all Europe.
At length, however, while pressed upon in front by three lances, a
powerful man-at-arms behind him raised above his head a mace that
would have felled Goliah. The knight turned his head; but to parry it
was impossible, for both his sword and shield arms were busy in
defending himself from the spears of the enemy in front; and he must
have gone down before the blow like a felled ox, had not Lord
Salisbury sprung to the ground, and interposed the shield, which hung
round his own neck, in a slanting direction between the tremendous
mace and De Coucy's helmet. The blow however fell; and, though turned
aside by William Longsword's treble target, its descent drove the
earl's arm down upon De Coucy's head, and made them both stagger.
"Salisbury, I yield me!" cried De Coucy, dropping his battle-axe:
"rescue or no rescue, generous enemy, I am thy true prisoner; and
thereunto I give thee my faith. But, as thou art a knight and a noble,
yield me not to thy bad brother John. We know too well how he treats
his prisoners."
"Salisbury's honour for your surety, brave De Coucy!" replied the
earl, clasping him in his mailed arms, and giving a friendly shake, as
if in reproach for the long-protracted struggle he had maintained. "By
the Lord! old friend, when you fought by my side in Palestine, you
were but a whelp, where you are now a lion! But know ye not yet, the
town has been in our hands this hour, and my fair nephew Arthur taken
in his bed, with all the wild revellers of Poitou, as full of wine as
leathern bottles?"
"Alas! I fear for the prince!" cried De Coucy, "in his bad uncle's
hands."
"Hush! hush!" replied Salisbury. "John is my brother, though I be but
a bastard. He has pledged his word too, I hear, to treat his nephew
nobly. So let us to the town, where we shall hear more. In the mean
while, however, let me send to the earl of Pembroke; for, by the
man[oe]uvres he is making, he seems as ignorant of what has taken
place in the town, as you were. Now let us on."
CHAPTER XII.
We must change the scene once more, and return to the palace of Philip
Augustus. The whirlwind of passion had passed by; but the deep pangs
of disappointed expectation, with a long train of gloomy suspicions
and painful anticipations, swelled in the bosom of the monarch, like
those heavy, sweeping billows which a storm leaves behind on the
long-agitated sea.
Philip Augustus slowly mounted the stairs of the great keep of the
castle, pausing at every two or three steps, as if even the attention
necessary to raise his foot from the one grade to the other
interrupted the deep current of his thoughts. So profound, indeed,
were those thoughts, that he never even remarked the presence of
Guerin, till at length, at the very door of the queen's apartments,
the minister beseeched him to collect himself.
"Remember, sire," said the bishop, "that no point of the lady's
conduct is reproachable; and, for Heaven's sake! yield not your noble
mind to any fit of passion that you may repent of hereafter."
"Fear not, Guerin," replied the king: "I am as cool as snow;" and
opening the door, he pushed aside the tapestry and entered.
Agnes had heard the step, but it was so different from her husband's
general pace, that she had not believed it to be his. When she beheld
him, however, a glow of bright, unspeakable joy, which in itself might
have convinced the most suspicious, spread over her countenance.
Philip was not proof against it; and as she sprang forward to meet
him, he kissed her cheek, and pressed her in the wonted embrace. But
there is nought so pertinacious on earth as suspicion. 'Tis the
fiend's best, most persevering servant. Cast it from us with what
force we will--crush it under what weight of reasoning we may, once
born in the human heart, it still rises on its invisible ladder, and
squeezes its little drop of corroding poison into every cup we drink.
The queen's women left the room, and Philip sat down by the embroidery
frame where Agnes had been working before she went out. He still held
her hand in his, as she stood beside him; but fixing his eyes upon the
embroidery, he was in a moment again lost in painful thought, though
his hand every now and then contracted on the small fingers they
grasped, with a sort of habitual fondness.
Agnes was surprised and pained at this unwonted mood; and yet she
would not deem it coldness, or say one word that might irritate her
husband's mind; so that for long she left him to think in silence,
seeing that something most agonising must evidently have happened, so
to absorb his ideas, even beside her.
At length, however, without making a motion to withdraw her hand, she
sunk slowly down upon her knees beside him; and, gazing up in his
face, she asked, "Do you not love me, Philip?" in a low, sweet tone,
that vibrated through his soul to all the gentler and dearer feelings
of his heart.
"Love you, Agnes!" cried he, throwing his arms round her beautiful
form, and pressing kiss upon kiss on her lips--"love you! Oh God! how
deeply!" He gazed on her face for a moment or two, with one of those
long, straining, wistful glances that we sometimes give to the dead;
then, starting up, he paced the room for several minutes, murmuring
some indistinct words to himself, till at length his steps grew slower
again, his lips ceased to move, and he once more fell into deep
meditation.
Agnes rose, and, advancing towards him, laid her hand affectionately
upon his arm, "Calm yourself, Philip. Come and sit down again, and
tell your Agnes what has disturbed you. Calm yourself, beloved! Oh,
calm yourself!"
"Calm, madam!" said the king, turning towards her with an air of cold
abstraction. "How would you have me calm?"
Agnes let her hand drop from his arm; and, returning to her seat, she
bent her head down and wept silently.
Philip took another turn in the chamber, during which he twice turned
his eyes upon the figure of his wife--then advanced towards her, and
leaning down, cast his arm over her neck. "Weep not, dear Agnes," he
said,--"weep not; I have many things to agitate and distress me. You
must bear with me, and let my humour have its way."
Agnes looked up, and kissed the lips that spoke to her, through her
tears. She asked no questions, however, lest she might recall whatever
was painful to her husband's mind. Philip, too, glanced not for a
moment towards the real cause of his agitation. There was something so
pure, so tender, so beautiful, in the whole conduct and demeanour of
his wife--so full of the same affection towards him that he felt
towards her--so unmixed with the least touch of that constraint that
might make her love doubted, that his suspicions stood reproved, and
though they rankled still, he dared not own them.
"Can it be only a feeling of cold duty binds her to me thus?" he asked
himself; "she cited nought else to support her resolution of not
flying with that pale seducer, D'Auvergne; and yet, see how she
strives for my affection! how she seems to fix her whole hopes upon
it!--how to see it shaken agitates her!"
The fiend had his answer ready. It might be pride--the fear of
sinking from the queen of a great kingdom, back into the daughter
of a petty prince. It might be vanity--which would be painfully
wrung to leave splendour, and riches, and admiration of a world, to
become--what?--what _had been_ the wife of a great king--a lonely,
unnoticed outcast from her _once husband's_ kingdom. Still, he thought
it was impossible. She had never loved splendour--she had never sought
admiration. Her delights had been with him alone, in sports and
amusements that might be tasted, with any one beloved, even in the
lowest station. It was impossible;--and yet it rankled. He felt he
wronged her. He was ashamed of it;--and yet those thoughts rankled!
Memory, too, dwelt with painful accuracy upon those words he had
overheard,--_notwithstanding her own feelings, she would not quit
him!_--and imagination, with more skill than the best sophist of the
court of Cr[oe]sus, drew therefrom matter to basis a thousand painful
doubts.
As thus he thought, he cast himself again into the seat before the
frame; and his mind being well prepared for every bitter and sorrowful
idea, he gave himself up to the gloomy train of fancies that pressed
on him on every side: the revolt of his barons--the disaffection of
his allies--the falling off of his friends--the exhaustion of his
finances--and last, not least, that dreadful interdict, that cut his
kingdom off from the Christian world, and made it like a lazar house.
He resolved all the horrible proofs of the papal power, that he had
seen on his way: the young, the old, clinging to his stirrup and
praying relief--the dead, the dying, exposed by the road-side to catch
his eye--the gloomy silence of the cities and the fields--the
deathlike void of all accustomed sounds, that spread around his path
wherever he turned:--he thought over them all; and, as he thought, he
almost unconsciously took up the chalk wherewith Agnes had been
tracing the figures on her embroidery, and slowly scrawled upon the
edge of the frame, "_Interdict! Interdict!_"
She had watched his motions as a mother watches those of her sick
child; but when she read the letters he had written, a faint cry broke
from her lips, and she became deadly pale. The conviction that
Philip's resolution was shaken by the thunders of the Roman church
took full possession of her mind, and she saw that the moment was
arrived for her to make her own peace the sacrifice for his. She felt
her fate sealed,--she felt her heart broken; and though she had often,
often contemplated the chances of such a moment, how trifling, how
weak had been the very worst dreams of her imagination to the agony of
the reality!
She repressed the cry, however, already half uttered; and rising from
her seat with her determination fixed, and her mind made up to the
worst evil that fate could inflict, she kneeled down at the king's
feet, and, raising her eyes to his, "My lord," she said, "the time is
come for making you a request that I am sure you will not refuse.
Your own repose, your kingdom's welfare, and the church's peace
require--all and each--that you should consent to part from one who
has been too long an object of painful contest. Till I thought that
the opinion of your prelates and your peers had gained over your will
to such a separation, I never dared, my noble lord, even to think
thereof; but now you are doubtless convinced that it must be so; and
all I have to beg is, that you would give me sufficient guard and
escort, to conduct me safely to my father's arms; and that you would
sometimes think with tenderness of one who has loved you well."
Agnes spoke as calmly as if she had asked some simple boon. Her voice
was low but clear; and the only thing that could betray agitation, was
the excessive rapidity of her utterance, seeming as if she doubted her
own powers to bring her request to an end.
Philip gazed upon her with a glance of agony and surprise, that were
painful even to behold. His cheek was as pale as death; but his brow
was flushed and red; and as she proceeded, the drops of agony stood
upon his temples. When she had done, he strove to speak, but no voice
answered his will; and after gasping as for breath, he started up,
exclaimed with great effort, "Oh, Agnes!" and darted out of the
chamber.
At ten paces' distance from the door stood Guerin, as if in
expectation of the king's return. Philip caught him by the arm, and,
scarcely conscious of what he did, pointed wildly with the other hand
to the door of the queen's apartments.
"Good God! my lord," cried the minister, well knowing the violent
nature of his master's passion. "In Heaven's name! what have you
done?"
"Done! done!" cried the monarch. "Done! She loves me not, Guerin! She
seeks to quit me. She loves me not, I say! She loves me not! I, that
would have sacrificed my soul for her! I, that would have abjured the
cross--embraced the crescent--desolated Europe--died myself, for her.
She seeks to leave me! Oh, madness and fury!" and clenching his hands,
he stamped with his armed heel upon the ground, till the vaulted roofs
of the keep echoed and re-echoed to the sound.
"Oh! my lord! be calm, in Heaven's name!" cried Guerin. "Speak not
such wild and daring words! Remember, though you be a king, there is a
King still higher; who perhaps even now chastens you for resisting his
high will."
"Away!" cried the king. "School not me, sir bishop! I tell thee, there
is worse hell _here_, than if there had never been heaven;" and he
struck his hand upon his mailed breast with fury, indeed almost
approaching to insanity. "Oh, Guerin, Guerin!" he cried again, after a
moment's pause, "she would leave me! Did you hear? She would leave
me!"
"Let me beseech you, sire," said the minister once more. "Compose
yourself, and, as a wise and good prince, let the discomfort and
misery that Heaven has sent to yourself, at least be turned to your
people's good; and, by so doing, be sure that you will merit of Heaven
some consolation."
"Consolation!" said the monarch mournfully. "Oh, my friend, what
consolation can I have? She loves me not, Guerin! She seeks to quit
me! What consolation can I have under that?"
"At least the consolation, sire, of relieving and restoring happiness
to your distressed people," answered the minister. "The queen herself
seeks to quit you, sire. The queen herself prays you to yield to the
authority of the church. After that, you will surely never think of
detaining her against her will. It would be an impious rebellion
against a special manifestation of Heaven's commands; for sure I am
that nothing but the express conviction that it is God's will would
have induced the princess to express such a desire as you have vaguely
mentioned."
"Do you think so, Guerin?" demanded Philip, musing--"do you think so?
But no, no! She would never quit me if she loved me?"
"Her love for you, my lord, may be suspended by the will of Heaven,"
replied the minister; "for surely she never showed want of love
towards you till now. Yield then, my lord, to the will of the Most
High. Let the queen depart; and, indeed, by so doing, I believe that
even your own fondest hopes may be gratified. Our holy father the
pope, you know, would not even hear the question of divorce tried,
till you should show your obedience to the church by separating from
the queen. When you have done so, he has pledged himself to examine it
in the true apostolic spirit; and doubtless he will come to the same
decision as your bishops of France had done before. Free from all
ties, you may then recall the queen----"
"But her love!" interrupted Philip,--"can I ever recall her love?"
"If it be by the will of Heaven," replied Guerin, "that she seeks to
leave you, her love for you, my lord, will not be lost, but increased
a thousand fold when Heaven's blessing sanctions it: and the pope----"
"Curses upon his head!" thundered Philip, bursting forth into a new
frenzy of passion,--"may pride and ambition be a curse on him and his
successors for ever! May they grasp at the power of others, till they
lose their own! May nation after nation cast off their sway! and itch
of dominion, with impotence of means, be their damnation for ever! Now
I have given him back his curse--say, what of him?"
"Nothing, my lord," replied Guerin; "but, that the only means to make
him consent to your union with the princess is to part with her for a
time. Oh, my lord! if you have not already consented,--consent, I
beseech you: she prays it herself. Do not refuse her--your kingdom
requires it: have compassion upon it. Your own honour is implicated;
for your barons rebel, and you never can chastise them while the whole
realm is bound to their cause by the strong bond of mutual distress."
"Chastise them!" said Philip thoughtfully, pausing on the ideas the
minister had suggested. Then suddenly he turned to Guerin with his
brow knit, and his cheek flushed, as if with the struggle of some new
resolution. "Be it so, Guerin!" cried he,--"be it so! The interdict
shall be raised--I will take them one by one--I will cut them into
chaff, and scatter them to the wind--I will be king of France indeed!
and if, in the mean while, this proud prelate yields me my wife--my
own beloved wife--why, well; but if he dares then refuse his sanction,
when I have bowed my rebellious subjects, his seat is but a frail one;
for I will march on Rome, and hurl him from his chair, and send him
forth to tread the sands of Palestine.--But stay, Guerin. Think you,
that on examination he will confirm the bishops' decree, if I yield
for the time?"
"I trust he will, my lord," replied the minister. "May I tell the
queen you grant her request?" he added, eager to urge Philip's
indecision into the irrevocable.
"Yes!" said the monarch, "yes!--Yet stay, Guerin,--stay!" and he fell
into thought again; when suddenly some one, mounting the steps like
lightning, approached the little vestibule where they stood. "Ha! have
you taken the count D'Auvergne?" cried the king, seeing one of his
serjeants-of-arms--his eyes flashing at the same time with all their
former fury.
"No, my lord," replied the man: "he has not yet been heard of; but a
messenger, in breathless haste, from the bishop of Tours, brings you
this packet, sire. He says, prince Arthur is taken," added the
serjeant.
"Avert it, Heaven!" exclaimed Philip, tearing open the despatch. "Too
true! too true!" he added: "and the people of Poitou in revolt! laying
the misfortune to our door, for resisting the interdict. Oh, Guerin!
it must be done--it must be done! The interdict must be raised, or all
is lost.--Begone, fellow! leave us!" he exclaimed, turning to the
serjeant, who tarried for no second command. Then, pacing up and down
for an instant, with his eyes bent on the ground, the king repeated
more than once:--"She seeks to leave me! she spoke of it as calmly as
a hermit tells his beads. She loves me not!--Too true, she loves me
not!"
"May I announce your will in this respect, my lord? demanded Guerin,
as the king paused and pondered bitterly over all that had passed.
"Ask me not, good friend!--ask me not!" replied the king, turning away
his head, as if to avoid facing the act to which his minister urged
him, "Ask me not. Do what thou wilt; there is my signet,--use it
wisely; but tear not my heart, by asking commands I cannot utter."
Thus speaking, the king drew his private seal from his finger, and
placing it in Guerin's hand, turned away; and, with a quick but
irregular step, descended the staircase, passed through the gardens,
and issuing out by the postern gate, plunged into the very heart of
the forest.
Guerin paused to collect his thoughts, scarcely believing the victory
that had been obtained; so little had he expected it in the morning.
He then approached the door of the queen's apartments, and knocked
gently for admittance. At first it passed unnoticed, but on repeating
it somewhat louder, one of Agnes's women presented herself, with a
face of ashy paleness, while another looked over her shoulder.
"Enter, my lord bishop, enter!" said the second in a low voice. "Thank
God, you are come! We know not what has so struck the queen; but she
is very ill. She speaks not; she raises not her head; and yet by her
sobbing 'tis clear she has not fainted. See where she lies!"
Guerin entered. From Philip's account, he had thought to find the
queen with a mind composed and made up to her fortunes; but a sadly
different scene presented itself. Agnes had apparently, the moment her
husband had left her, caught down the crucifix from a little moveable
oratory which stood in the room, and throwing herself on her knees
before one of the seats, had been seeking consolation in prayer. The
emotions which crossed her address to Heaven may easily be conceived;
and so powerfully had they worked, that, overcoming all other
thoughts, they seemed to have swept hope and trust, even in the
Almighty, away before them, and dashed the unhappy girl to the ground
like a stricken flower. Her head and whole person had fallen forward
on the cushion of the seat, before which she had been kneeling. Her
face was resting partly on her hands, and partly on the cross, which
they clasped, and which was deluged with her tears; while a succession
of short convulsive sobs was all that announced her to be amongst the
living.
"Has she not spoken since the king left her?" demanded Guerin, both
alarmed and shocked.
"Not a word, sir," replied her principal attendant. "We heard her move
once, after the king's voice ceased; and then came a dead silence: so
we ventured to come in, lest she should have fallen into one of those
swoons which have afflicted her ever since the tournament of the
Champeaux. We have striven to raise her, and to draw some word from
her; but she lies there, and sobs, and answers nothing."
"Send for Rigord the leech," said Guerin; "I saw him in the hall:" and
then approaching Agnes, with a heart deeply touched with the sorrow he
beheld, "Grieve not so, lady," he said in a kindly voice; "I trust
that this will not be so heavy a burden as you think: I doubt
not--indeed I doubt not, that a short separation from your royal
husband will be all that you will have to bear. The king having once,
by your good counsel, submitted his cause to the trial of the holy
church, our good father, the pope, will doubtless judge mildly, and
soon restore to him the treasure he has lost. Bear up, then, sweet
lady, bear up! and be sure that wherever you go, the blessings of a
whole nation, which your self-devotion has saved from civil war and
misery of every kind, will follow your footsteps, and smooth your
way."
It was impossible to say whether Agnes heard him or not; but the words
of comfort which the good bishop proffered produced no effect. She
remained with her face still leaning on the cross, and a quick
succession of convulsive sobs was her only reply. Guerin saw that all
farther attempt to communicate with her in any way would be vain for
the time; and he only waited the arrival of the leech to leave the
apartment.
Rigord, who acted both as physician and historian to Philip Augustus,
instantly followed the queen's attendant, who had been despatched to
seek him; and, after having received a promise from him to bring
intelligence of the queen's real state, the minister retired to his
own chamber, and hastened to render Philip's resolution irrevocable,
by writing that letter of submission to the holy see, which speedily
raised the interdict from France.
CHAPTER XIII.
Black and gloomy silence reigned through the old château of Compiègne,
during the two days that followed the queen's determination to depart.
All Philip's military operations were neglected--all the affairs of
his immediate government were forgotten, and his hours passed in
wandering alone in the forest, or in pacing his chamber with agitated
and uncertain steps.
The thoughts and feelings that filled those hours, however, though all
painful, were of a mixed and irregular character. Sometimes, it was
the indignant swelling of a proud and imperious heart against the
usurped power that snatched from it its brightest hopes. Sometimes, it
was the thrilling agony of parting from all he loved. Sometimes, it
was the burning thirst for vengeance, both on the head of him who had
caused the misery, and of those who, by their falling off in time of
need, had left him to bear it alone; and, sometimes, it was the
shadowy doubts and suspicions of awakened jealousy, throwing all into
darkness and gloom. Still, however, the deep, the passionate love
remained; and to it clung the faint hope of rewinning the treasure he
sacrificed for a time.
Thus, as he strode along the paths of the forest, with his arms
crossed upon his broad chest, he sketched out the stern but vast plan
of crushing his rebellious barons piecemeal, as soon as ever the
interdict--that fatal bond of union amongst them--should be broken. He
carried his glance, too, still farther into the future; and saw many a
rising coalition against him in Europe, fomented and supported by the
church of Rome; and firm in his own vigorous talent, it was with a
sort of joy that he contemplated their coming, as the means whereby he
would avenge the indignity he had suffered from the Roman see, crush
his enemies, punish his disobedient vassals, and, extending his
dominion to the infinite of hope, would hold Agnes once more to his
heart, and dare the whole world to snatch her thence again.
Such were the thoughts of Philip Augustus, so mingled of many
passions--ambition--love--revenge. Each in its turn using as its
servant a great and powerful mind, and all bringing about--for with
such opposite agents does Heaven still work its high will--all
bringing about great changes to the world at large; revolutions in
thoughts, in feelings, and in manners; the fall of systems, and the
advance of the human mind.
Were we of those who love to view agony with a microscope, we would
try equally to display the feelings of Agnes de Meranie, while, with
crushed joys, blighted hopes, and a broken heart, she prepared for the
journey that was to separate her for ever from him she loved best on
earth.
It would be too painful a picture, however, either to draw or to
examine. Suffice it, then, that, recovered from the sort of stupor
into which she had fallen after the efforts which had been called
forth by Philip's presence, she sat in calm dejected silence; while
her women, informed of her decision, made the necessary arrangements
for her departure. If she spoke at all, it was but to direct care to
be taken of each particular object, which might recall to her
afterwards the few bright hours she had so deeply enjoyed. 'Twas now
an ornament,--'twas now some piece of her dress, either given her by
her husband, or worn on some day of peculiar happiness, which called
her notice; and, as a traveller, forced to leave some bright land that
he may never see again, carries away with him a thousand views and
charts, to aid remembrance in after-years, poor Agnes was anxious to
secure, alone, all that could lead memory back to the joys that she
was quitting for ever. To each little trinket there was some memory
affixed; and to her heart they were relics, as holy as ever lay upon
shrine or altar.
It was on the second morning after her resolution had been taken, and
with a sad haste, springing from the consciousness of failing powers,
she was hurrying on her preparations, when she was informed that the
chancellor, Guerin, desired a few minutes' audience. She would fain
have shrunk from it; for, though she revered the minister for his
undoubted integrity, and his devotion to her husband, yet, it had so
happened that Guerin had almost always been called on to speak with
her for the purpose of communicating some painful news, or urging some
bitter duty. The impression he had left on her mind, therefore, was
aught but pleasant; and, though she esteemed him much, she loved not
his society. She was of too gentle a nature, however, to permit a
feeling so painful to its object to be seen for a moment, even now
that the minister's good word or bad could serve her nothing; and she
desired him to be admitted immediately.
The havoc that a few hours had worked on a face which was once the
perfection of earthly beauty struck even the minister, unobservant as
he was in general of things so foreign to his calling. As he remarked
it, he made a sudden pause in his advance; and looking up with a faint
smile, more sad, more melancholy than even tears, Agnes shook her
head, saving mildly, as a comment on his surprise--
"It cannot be, lord bishop, that any one should suffer as I have
suffered, and not let the traces shine out. But you are welcome, my
lord. How fares it with my noble lord--my husband, the king? He has
not come to me since yester-morning; and yet, methinks, we might have
better borne these wretched two days together than apart. We might
have fortified each other's resolution with strong words. We might
have shown each other, that what it was right to do, it was right to
do firmly."
"The king, madam," replied Guerin, "has scarcely been in a state to
see any one. I have been thrice refused admittance, though my plea was
urgent business of the state. He has been totally alone, till within
the last few minutes."