"Well, beau Sire Jodelle," said he, after the Brabançois had made his

obeisance, "doubtless you have exercised the royal permission we gave

you, to plunder our loving subjects of Poitou to some purpose. Nay,

your gay plumage speaks it. You were not feathered so, Sir Jodelle,

when last we saw you. But our homely proverb has it, 'Fine feathers

make fine birds.' Is it not so, Lord Pembroke?"

"Not always, sir," answered the earl boldly. "I have known a vulture

plumed like an eagle, yet not deceive a daw!"

John's brow darkened for an instant, but the next it was all clear

again, and he replied, "Your lordship follows a metaphor as closely as

a buzzard does a field mouse. Think you not, Sire Jodelle, that our

English lords have fine wits? Marry, if you had possessed as fine, you

would have kept at a goodly distance from us all; for there are

amongst us men that love you not, and you might chance to get one of

those sympathetic knots tied round your neck that draw themselves the

tighter the more you tug at them."

"I fear not, sire," replied Jodelle, though there was a sneering touch

of earnest in the king's jests that made his cheek turn somewhat

pale,--"I fear not; trusting that you will grant me your royal

protection."

"That I will, man!--that I will!" replied the monarch, "and elevate

you;" and he glanced his eyes round his court, to see if his jest was

understood and appreciated. Some of the courtiers smiled, but the

greater part still maintained their stern gravity; and John proceeded,

applying to the Coterel the terms of distinctions used towards

knights, not without an idea of mortifying those who heard, as well as

of mocking him to whom they were addressed. "Well, beau sire," he

said, "and what gives us the pleasure of your worshipful presence at

this time? Some business of rare import, doubtless, some noble or

knightly deed to be done."

"I am ever ready to do you what poor service I may, sire," replied

Jodelle. "I come, therefore, to tell you that I have raised the band

of free-companions, for which you gave me your royal permission, and

to beg you to take order that they may have the pay[25] and

appointments which you promised."

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

[Footnote 25: It has been asserted that these troops received no pay,

but supported themselves by plunder. I find them, however, called

mercenaries in more than one instance, which clearly implies that they

fought for hire.]

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

"Thy demand shall be satisfied on that head," replied John, in a

serious and condescending tone, calculated to allay all fears in the

mind of Jodelle, if he had begun to conceive any. "By my faith! we

shall need every man-at-arms we can get, whether vassal or Brabançois,

for Philip of France threatens loud.--Now, Sir Jodelle, what more?"

"Simply this order on your royal treasury," replied Jodelle, quite

re-assured by the king's last words. "Your treasurer refuses to acquit

it, without another direct warrant from you."

"Give it to me," said the king, holding out his hand, into which

Jodelle, somewhat unwilling, placed the order for ten thousand crowns,

which he had received as the reward of his treachery. "And now,"

proceeded John, "we will at once arrange these affairs, without the

least delay, for diligence in rendering justice to all men is a kingly

virtue. In the first place, then, for the appointments of the

free-companions raised by this worthy captain. We command you, William

Humet,[26] to send them off straight to the bands of our dearly

beloved Mercader, there to be drafted in, man by man, so that, being

well used and entertained, they may serve us truly and faithfully."

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

[Footnote 26: Constable of Normandy in the year 1200, and following,

as appears from a treaty between John and Philip, concluded at

Gueuleton.]

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

"But, sire!" exclaimed Jodelle, turning as pale as death.

"Tut, man! tut!" cried the king, "we will find means to satisfy

every one. Hear us to an end. In regard to this order on our royal

treasury--stand forward, John of Wincaunton! You are deputy prévôt,

are you not?"

A short, stout, bull-necked sort of person came forth from behind the

throne, and placing himself beside Jodelle, bowed in assent to the

king's question.

"Well, then," proceeded John, "by my faith! you must serve me for

deputy treasurer also, for want of a better."

John of Wincaunton, who had a keen apprehension of the king's jests in

this sort, bowed again, and making a sign, by holding up two of his

fingers, so as to be seen by a line of men-at-arms behind the circle

of nobles who occupied the front of the scene, he laid his other hand

upon Jodelle's arm, while two stout soldiers ran round and seized him

from behind. Such precautions, however, were utterly unnecessary, for

the first touch of the prévôt's hand upon his arm operated like

Prospero's wand. All power and strength seemed to go out of the

Brabançois' limbs; his arms hung useless by his side, his knees bent,

and his nether lip quivered with the very act of fear.

"Take the caitiff," cried John, frowning on him bitterly,--"take him,

prévôt; carry him to the very bound of Normandy, and there see you

acquit me of all obligation towards him. Hang him up between Normandy

and France, that all men of both lands may see his reward; for, though

we may sometimes use such slaves for the deep causes of state

necessity, we would not encourage their growth. Away with him!"

Jodelle struggled to speak, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the

roof of his mouth; and before he could force his throat to utterance,

a bustle at the other end of the long hall called the attention of

every one but himself.

"Sir king! sir king! hear me, for mercy's sake!" cried the Brabançois,

as he was dragged away. But John heeded him not, fixing his eyes upon

the figure of the Earl of Salisbury, who, armed at all points except

the head, and covered with dust, pushed through the crowd of

attendants at the extremity of the apartment, followed by two or three

other persons, as dusty and travel-stained as himself. His cheek was

flushed, his brow was bent and frowning, and, without a show even of

reverence or ceremony, he strode up the centre of the hall, mounted

the steps of the throne, and standing beside the king's chair, bent

down his head, addressing John in a low and seemingly angry whisper.

His coming, and the bold and irreverent manner in which he approached

the king, seemed to destroy at once the ceremony of the court. The

heart of almost every noble present was swelling with indignation at

the assassination of the unhappy Arthur, then already public, and by

most persons said to have been committed by the king's own hand; and

now, encouraged by the bold anger evident on the brow of John's

natural brother, they broke the circle they had formed, and, in a

close group, spoke together eagerly; while William Longsword continued

to pour upon the bloodthirsty tyrant on the throne a torrent of stern

reproaches, the more cutting and bitter from the under-tone in which

he was obliged to speak them.

For the reproaches John little cared; but his eye glanced terrified to

the disturbed crowd of his nobles. He knew himself detested by every

one present: no one, but one or two of his servile sycophants, was

attached to him by any one tie on which he could depend. He knew what

sudden and powerful resolutions are often taken in such moments of

excitement; and, as he marked the quick and eager whisper, the

flashing eyes, and frowning brows of his angry barons, he felt the

crown tremble on his head. It was in the kindly feeling and generous

heart of his bastard brother alone that he had any confidence; and

grasping the earl's hand, without replying to his accusation, he

pointed to the group beside them, and cutting across the other's

whisper, said in a low voice, "See, see, they revolt! William, will

you too abandon me?"

The earl glanced his eyes towards them, and instantly comprehended the

king's fears. "No," said he, in a louder voice than he had hitherto

spoke. "No! I will not abandon you, because you are my father's son,

and the last of his direct race; but you are a----." The earl bent his

lips to John's ear, and whispered the epithet in a tone that confined

it to him to whom it was addressed. That it was not a very gentle one

seemed plain from the manner in which it was given and which it was

received; but the earl then descended the steps of the throne, and

passing into the midst of the peers, grasped Lord Pembroke and several

others, one after the other, by the hand.

"Pembroke!" said he, "Arundel! I pray you to be calm. 'Tis a bad

business this, and must be inquired into at another time, when our

minds are more cool, to take counsel upon it. But be calm now, I pray

you all, for my sake."

"For your sake!" said the Earl of Pembroke, with a smile. "By Heavens!

Salisbury, we were just saying, that the best king that ever sat on

the English throne was a bastard; and we see not why another should

not sit there now. Why should not Rosamond of Woodstock produce as

good a son as the mother of William the Conqueror?"

"Hush; hush!" cried Salisbury quickly, at the pointed allusion to

himself. "Not a word of that, my friends. I would not wrong my

father's son for all the crowns of Europe. Nor am I fit for a king;

but no more of that! Form round again, I pray you; for I have a duty

to perform as a knight, and would fain do it decently, though my blood

was up with what I heard on my arrival."

The barons again, with lowering brows and eyes bent sternly on the

ground, as if scarce yet resolved in regard to their conduct, formed

somewhat of a regular sweep round the throne, while Lord Salisbury

advanced, and once more addressed the weak and cruel monarch, who sat

upon his throne, the most abject thing that earth can ever produce--a

despised and detested king.

"My lord," said William Longsword, almost moved to pity by the sunk

and dejected air that now overclouded the changeable brow of the light

sovereign, "when we parted in Touraine, I yielded to your importunity

my noble prisoner, Sir Guy de Coucy, on the promise that you would

cherish and honour him, and on the pretence that you wished to win him

and attach him to your own person; reserving to myself, however, the

right of putting him at what ransom I pleased, and demanding his

liberty when that ransom should be paid. How much truth there was in

the pretence by which you won him from me, and how well you have kept

the promise you made, you yourself well know; but, on my honour, to do

away the stain that you have brought upon me, I would willingly free

the good knight without any ransom whatever, only that he himself

would consider such a proposal as an insult to a warrior of his high

fame and bearing. However that may be, I have fixed his ransom at

seven thousand crowns of gold; and here stands his page ready to pay

the same, the moment that his lord is free. I therefore claim him at

your hands; for, though I hear he is in that fatal tower, whose very

name shall live a reproach upon England's honour for ever, I do not

think that the man lives who would dare to practise against the life

of _my_ prisoner."

"My Lord of Salisbury," replied John, raising his head, and striving

to assume the air of dignity which he could sometimes command; but as

he did so, his eyes encountered the stern bold look of William

Longsword, and the fixed indignant glances of his dissatisfied nobles;

and he changed his purpose in the very midst, finding that

dissimulation, his usual resource, was now become a necessary one. "My

Lord of Salisbury," he repeated, softening his tone, "thou art our

brother, and should at least judge less harshly of us than those who

know us less. A villain, construing our commands by his own black

heart, has committed within the walls of this town a most foul and

sacrilegious deed, and many wilful and traitorous persons seek to

impute that deed to us. Now, though it becomes us not, as a king, to

notice the murmurs of every fool that speaks without judgment; to you,

fair brother, and to any of our well-beloved nobles of England, we

will condescend willingly to prove that our commands were the most

opposite. This we will fully show you, on a more private occasion."

As John spoke, and found himself listened to, he became more bold, and

proceeded. "In regard to our own time, during that unhappy day which

deprived us of our dear nephew, we could, were we put to such unkingly

inquisition, account for every moment of our time. The greater

part--nay, I might almost say the whole--was spent in reading

despatches from Rome and Germany with my Lords of Arundel and Bagot."

"Except two hours in the morning, my lord, and from six till nine at

night, when I returned and found you wonderous pale and agitated,"

replied Lord Bagot with a meaning look.

"Our excellent friend, and very good knight, William de la Roche

Guyon, was with us at both the times you speak of," said the king,

turning towards the young Provençal, who stood near him, with a

gracious and satisfied air. "Was it not so, fair sir?"

"It was, my lord," faltered William de la Roche Guyon; "but--" All the

barons, at the sound of that but, fixed their eyes upon him, as if the

secret was about to transpire; but John took up the sentence as he

hesitated to conclude it.

"But,--you would say," proceeded the king,--"you went with me to the

Tower, where the poor child was confined, in the morning. True you

did.--'Tis true, my lords. But did you not hear me severely reproach

the captain of the Tower for placing the Sire de Coucy and the Duke of

Brittany in one small apartment, to the injury of the health of

both?--and did I not dismiss him for not lodging them better? Then

again, after vespers, did you ever see me quit the palace? Speak, I

charge you!" and he fixed his eye sternly on the effeminate face of

the young knight.

Guillaume de la Roche Guyon turned somewhat pale, but confirmed the

king's statement; and John went on, gathering confidence and daring as

he proceeded. "This is enough for the present moment," said he: "we

will more of it hereafter; but when our exculpation shall be complete,

woe to him who shall dare to whisper one traitorous word upon this

score! In regard to your prisoner, my Lord of Salisbury, before

putting him at liberty, we would fain----"

"Nothing before putting him at liberty, my lord," said the earl, in a

stern voice, "The prisoner is mine; I have agreed upon his ransom.

Here stands his page ready to pay the sum, and, moreover, whatever

charges may be incurred in his imprisonment; and I demand that he be

delivered to me this instant."

"Well, well, fair brother," answered John, "be it as thou wilt. I will

despatch the order after dinner."

"Haw! haw!" cried somebody from the bottom of the hall. "Haw! haw! and

perhaps De Coucy may be dispatched before dinner."

"By my knighthood, the fool says true," cried the blunt earl.--"My

lord, as we have too fatal a proof that mistakes in commands lead to

evil effects within the walls of a prison, by your leave, we will

liberate this good knight without farther delay. I will go myself and

see it done."

"At least," said the king, "to keep up the seeming of a respect that

you appear little inclined to pay in reality. Earl of Salisbury, take

a royal order for his release.--Clerk, let one be drawn."

The clerk drew the order, and John read it over with a degree of

wilful slowness that excited not a little Lord Salisbury's suspicions.

At length, however, the king concluded; and, having signed it, he gave

it to the earl, saying, "There, deliver him yourself if you will--and

God send he may have eaten his dinner!" muttered the king to himself,

as William Longsword took the paper, and turned with hasty steps to

give it effect. "William!--William of Salisbury!" cried John, before

the other had traversed half the hall. "Which is the page? Shall he

count out the ransom while you are gone?"

"That is the page," said the earl, turning unwillingly, and pointing

to Ermold de Marcy, who, accompanied by a herald and Gallon the fool,

with two men-at-arms, bearing bags of money, stood at the farther end

of the hall, in which the strange and painful scene we have

endeavoured to describe had taken place. "That is the page. Let him

tell down the ransom if you will. I will be back directly; 'tis but

ten paces to the Tower.--That is the page," he repeated, as he saw

John about to add some new question.

"And the gentleman with the nose?" demanded the light monarch, unable,

under any circumstances, to restrain his levity. "And the gentleman

with the nose--the snout!--the proboscis!--If you love me, tell me who

is he?"

But Salisbury was gone; and Gallon, as usual, took upon him to answer

for himself.--"Bless your mightiness," cried he, "I am twin brother of

John, King of England. Nature cast our two heads out of the same batch

of clay; she made him more knave than fool, and me more fool than

knave; and verily, because she gave him a crown to his head, and me

none, she furnished me forthwith an ell of nose to make up for it."

"Thou art a smart fool, whatever thou art," replied John, glad to fill

up the time, during which he was obliged to endure the presence of his

barons, and the uncertainty of what the order he had given for De

Coucy's liberation might produce. "Come hither, fool;--and you, sir

page, tell down the money, to the secretary. And now, fool, wilt thou

take service with me? Wouldst thou rather serve a king, or a simple

knight?"

"Haw! haw!" shouted Gallon, reeling with laughter, as if there was

something perfectly ridiculous in the proposition.--"Haw! haw! haw! I

am fool enough, 'tis true! But I am not fool enough to serve a king."

"And why not?"' demanded John. "Methinks there is no great folly in

that. Why not, fellow?"

"Haw, haw!" cried Gallon again. "A king's smiles are too valuable for

me. That is the coin they pay in, where other men pay in gold.

Besides, since the time of Noe downwards, kings have always been

ungrateful to their best subjects."

"How so?" asked the king. "In faith, I knew not that the patriarch had

ever such a beast as thee in the ark."

"Was not the dove the first that he turned out?" demanded Gallon, with

a look of mock simplicity, that called a smile upon even the stern

faces of the English barons.

"Ha!" said John. "Thinkest thou thyself a dove? Thou art like it in

the face, truly!"

"Not less than thou art like a lion," answered Gallon boldly. "And yet

men say you had once such a relation.--Haw, haw! Haw, haw, haw!" and

he sprang back a step, as if he expected John to strike him.

But for a moment, leaving the conversation, which John for many

reasons continued to carry on with the juggler, though his replies

were of a more stinging quality than the monarch greatly relished, we

must follow Lord Salisbury to the prison of De Coucy.

It was a little past that early hour at which men dined in those days;

and when the earl entered the gloomy vault that contained the young

knight, he found him seated by a table groaning under a repast not

very usual on the boards of a prison.

De Coucy, however, was not eating, nor had he eaten, "though the

viands before him might well have tempted lips which had tasted little

but bread and water for many months before.

"Salisbury!" exclaimed the knight, as the earl strode into the

chamber, with haste in his aspect, and symptoms of long travel in

every part of his dress. "Salisbury! Have you come at length?"

"Hush! hush! De Coucy!" cried the earl, grasping his hand, "Do not

condemn me, without having heard. John persuaded me that he wished to

win you to his cause; and promised most solemnly that he would not

only treat you as a friend, but as a favourite. I am not the only one

he has deceived. However, till a fortnight since, I thought he had

carried you to England, as he declared he would. Your page, with

wonderful perseverance, traced me out amidst all the troubles in

Touraine, and offered your instant ransom. I sent to England to find

you--my messenger returned with tidings that you were here; and,

doubting false play, I set off without delay to release you. At every

town of Normandy I heard worse and worse accounts of my bad brother's

conduct.--Thank God, I am a bastard!--and when I come here, I learn

that that luckless boy, Arthur, is gone, God knows where, or how!"

"I will tell you where you may find him, Salisbury," said De Coucy,

grasping the earl's arm, and fixing his eyes steadily on his face: "at

the bottom of the Seine. Do you mark me? At the bottom of the Seine!"

"I guessed it," replied the earl, shutting his teeth, and looking up

to heaven, as if for patience.--"I guessed it!--Know you who did

it:--they say you were confined together."

"Do I know who did it?" exclaimed De Coucy: "John of Anjou! your

brother! his uncle!"

"Not with his own hand surely!" exclaimed Salisbury, drawing back with

a movement of horror.

"As I hope for salvation in the blessed cross!" replied De Coucy, "I

believe he did it with his own hand. At least, full certainly, 'twas

beneath his own eye;" and he proceeded to detail all that he had

heard. "Before that day," continued the knight, "I was fed on bread

and water, or what was little better. Since--you see how they treat

me;" and he pointed to the table. "I have contented myself each

morning with half of one of those white loaves," he added: "first,

because this is no place for hunger; and next, because I would rather

not die like a rat poisoned in a granary."

The earl hung his head for a moment or two in silence; and then again,

grasping De Coucy's hand, he said, "Come, good knight, come! Deeds

done cannot be amended. They are tumbled, like old furniture, into the

great lumber-house of the past, to give place to newer things, some

better and some worse. You were a prisoner but now--You are now free;

and believe me, on my honour, I would rather have laid my sword-hand

upon a block, beneath an axeman's blow, than that my noble friend

should have undergone such usage:--but come, your ransom by this time

is told down, and your attendants wait you in the palace hall. First,

however, you shall go to my lodging in Rouen, and do on my best

haubert and arms. There are horses in my stables, which have stood

there unridden for months. Take your choice of them; and God speed

you! for, though it be no hospitable wish, I long to see your back

turned on Normandy."

De Coucy willingly accepted the earl's courtesy, and followed down the

stairs of the prison into the open air. He trod with the proud step of

a freeman: the sight of living nature was delight; the fresh breath of

heaven a blessing indeed; and when he stood once more clothed in

shining arms, he felt as if the bold spirit of his youngest days had

come back with redoubled force.

As they proceeded to traverse the space which separated the lodging of

the Earl of Salisbury from the ducal palace, William Longsword

proceeded to give De Coucy a short account of all the steps which his

page had taken to effect his liberation, and which, however brief, we

shall not repeat here; it being quite sufficient to the purposes of

this history, that the knight was liberated.

Salisbury and De Coucy mounted the stairs of the palace with a rapid

pace: but, at the hall door, they paused for a single moment:

"Salisbury!" said De Coucy with a meaning tone, "I must do my duty as

a knight!"

"Do it!" replied the earl with firm sadness, understanding at once the

young knight's meaning. "Do it, De Coucy--God forbid that I should

stay a true knight from doing his devoir!"

So saying, he led the way into the hall.

John was still jesting with Gallon the fool. The barons were standing

around, some silently listening to the colloquy of the king and the

juggler, some speaking together in a low voice. At a table, on one

side of the hall, where sat the secretary, appeared De Coucy's page,

Ermold de Marcy, with a herald; and on the board between him and the

clerk, lay a large pile of gold pieces, with the leathern bags which

had disgorged them, while one of the men behind held a similar pouch,

ready to dispose of its contents as need might be.

De Coucy advanced to the table, and welcomed his page with an

approving smile, while the herald cried in a loud voice to call

attention: "Oyez, Oyez! Hear, hear!" and then tendering the ransom in

set form, demanded the liberation of Sir Guy de Coucy. The ransom was

accepted with the usual ceremonies, and a safe conduct granted to the

knight through the territories of the king of England; which being

done, De Coucy advanced from the table up the centre of the hall.

What had before passed had taken place at such a distance from the

throne, that John found it no difficult matter to keep his eyes in

another direction, though he was now speaking with William de la Roche

Guyon, as Gallon the fool had left him on his lord's entrance, and was

standing by the table, his nose at the same time wriggling with most

portentous agitation, as he saw the gold delivered by the page, and

taken up by the secretary. The monarch had thus affected scarcely to

see the young knight; but now De Coucy advanced, with slow, marked

steps, directly towards him, accompanied pace by pace by the herald,

who, with that sort of instinctive knowledge of every chivalrous

feeling which the officers of arms in that day are said to have

possessed, made a quick movement forward as they neared the throne,

though without any command to that effect; and exclaimed in a loud

tone,--"Hear! John, king of England! Hear!"

John looked up, and turned a frowning brow upon De Coucy. But the

knight was not to be daunted by fierce looks, even from a king; and he

proceeded boldly and in a slow distinct voice. "John of Anjou!" he

said, "false traitor, and assassin! I, Guy de Coucy, knight, do accuse

you here in your palace, and on your throne, of the murder of your

nephew, Arthur Plantagenet, rightful king of England; and to your

beard I call you mansworn, traitor, murderer, and felon--false knight,

discourteous gentleman, and treacherous king! Moreover, whoever does

deny the murder of which I here accuse you, I give him the lie, and

will prove it, my hand against his, according to the law of arms."

There was an awful pause. "Have I so many barons and noble knights

around me," cried John at length, "and not one of them noble and brave

enough to repel the insults offered to their king, in their presence,

by this braggart Frenchman?"

Several of the circle stepped forward, and De Coucy cast down his

glove, for him to take it that chose; but Lord Pembroke waved his

hand, exclaiming, "Hold, lords and knights! hold! We must not make

ourselves champions of a bad cause. Such is not the courage of true

knights. My lord the king! the nobles of England have ever been found

too willing to cast away their lives and fortunes in their monarch's

defence; and there is not one man in this presence that, give him a

good cause, and he would not meet in arms the best Frenchman that ever

was born. When, therefore, my lord, you shall satisfactorily have

proved that this charge against you is false, the swords of a thousand

British knights will start from their sheaths to avenge your quarrel;

and I, as your lord marshal, claim to be the first.

"With all respect, my Lord de Coucy," he added, while John bit his lip

with bursting mortification, "I raise your glove, and pledge myself to

meet you in arms within three months, if I find cause to judge your

words bold and untrue. If not, I will either yield the gage to

whatever true knight can, on his conscience, meet you, or will render

it back unto you honourably, in default of such. I am right willing

ever to do battle with a brave man; but I could never fight, with the

ghost of Arthur Plantagenet crying that my cause was evil."

So saying, he raised the glove, and De Coucy, darting a glance of

bitter scorn at John, bowed his head to Lord Pembroke, and proceeded

down the hall to the place where he had left William Longsword. The

earl, however, had not stayed to hear the accusation that he knew was

about to be launched at his brother, and which, as he could not

refute, he dared not resent.

De Coucy found him on the steps of the palace, at the bottom of which

stood a fresh horse, prepared for himself, together with the beasts of

Ermold the page, the herald, Gallon the fool, and the two men-at-arms,

who had carried the money to pay the knight's ransom. To these were

added the escort of a body of horse archers, to guard the young knight

safe through the English territory. This, however, he declined; and,

grasping the hand of the Earl of Salisbury, between whose bosom and

his own existed that mutual esteem which all noble minds feel towards

each other, he sprang upon his horse, and galloped with all speed out

of Rouen.

CHAPTER VI.

The road that De Coucy followed had been made, apparently, without the

least purpose of proceeding straight to Paris, though it ultimately

terminated there; but its object seemed more particularly to visit

every possible place on the way, without leaving the smallest village

within several miles of the direct line to complain of being

neglected. Thus, instead of cutting off angles, and such other

whimsical improvements of modern days, it proceeded along the banks of

the river, following, with a laudable pertinacity, all the turnings

and windings thereof. This sort of road, which uncommonly resembles

the way in which I have been obliged to relate this most meandering of

histories, is doubtless very agreeable when you have plenty of time to

stay and amuse yourself with the pleasures of this prospect or

that--to get off your horse to gather a flower upon the bank--to pause

under the shadow of a tree, and pant in concert with your beast in the

cool air; but when you are in a hurry, then is the time to bless

modern shorts cuts. Such must by my case; for, having a long way

before me, and a short space to do it in, I must abridge De Coucy's

journey as much as possible; and, only staying to relate two events

which occurred to him on the road, must hasten to bring him, together

with my other characters, to that one point to which all their

histories are tending.

Passing over, then, the follies of Gallon the fool, who,

notwithstanding all his maniac malice, felt he knew not what of joy at

his lord's deliverance, and all the details given by Ermold de Marcy

concerning his various peregrinations and negotiations, together with

the young knight's joyful feelings on his liberation, and his

sorrowful ones at the accounts he heard of the unhappy Count

d'Auvergne, we will bring the whole party at once to that high hill

from which the lower road to Paris descends rapidly on the little,

dirty, old-fashioned town called the _Pont de l'Arche_.

There being few things more uncertain in the world than the smiles of

beauty and the boundaries of kingdoms, the limits of France, which

have been here, and there, and every where, within the last few

centuries, were fixed, on the precise day I speak of, at the Pont de

l'Arche. That hill being then the extreme limit of King John's Norman

dominions, his deputy prévôt, John of Wincaunton, was, at the very

moment De Coucy and his followers arrived at the summit of the hill,

engaged in the very praiseworthy occupation of hanging the Brabançois,

Jodelle, to one of the highest elms in the land.

It must not, however, be inferred that the hanging had actually

commenced; for though the prévôt, with a party of six or seven men,

very well calculated to hang their neighbours, stood round Jodelle

under the tree, while one of their companions fastened the end of a

thick noose tightly to one of the strongest branches, yet the

plunderer's neck was still free from that encumbrance so fatal to

persons of his profession.

There are various sorts of bravery; and Jodelle was a brave man, of a

certain sort. He had never shown himself afraid of death; and yet, the

idea of hanging affected him with mortal fear--whether he fancied that

that peculiar position would be unpleasant to him or not, can hardly

be said; but certain it is, though he had never shrunk from death in

the battle-field, his face looked already that of a corpse; his limbs

shook, and his teeth chattered, at the sight of the awful preparations

that were carrying on around him.

What is there to which hope will not attach itself? Even the sight of

De Coucy, whom he had sold to his enemies, awoke a dream of it in the

breast of the Brabançois, and with pitiful cries he adjured the knight

to save him from the hands of his executioners.

The men of the prévôt stood to their arms; but the knight's reply soon

showed them they had no molestation to fear from him. "Villain,"

answered he, "if I saved thee from their hands, it should be but to

impale thee alive! Every drop of Prince Arthur's blood cries vengeance

upon thee! and, by Heaven! I have a mind to stay and see thee hanged

myself!"

"Haw, law!" cried Gallon the fool,--"Haw, haw! Beau sire Jodelle! It

strikes me, they are going to hang thee, beau sire! Undo the haussecol

of thy doublet, man. They are going to give thee one of tighter stuff.

Haw, haw, Sire Brabançois! Haw, haw! Why pray you not the Coucy again?

Perchance he may be moved. Or, rather, why pray you not me? I am the

only man in the troop that can aid thee--Haw, haw, haw! haw, haw! I

could save thee if I would!"

"Thou wouldst not if thou couldst, fiend," replied Jodelle, glaring on

him with eyes in which wrath struggled with terror, for his

executioners were now actually adjusting the noose to his neck, and

his pinioned hands might be seen to quiver with the agonising

anticipation of destruction. "I do now believe thee a devil indeed, as

thou once toldest me, for none but the devil could mock me in such a

moment as this."

"Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw, haw!" roared Gallon, rolling on his horse

with laughter. "Dost thou believe? Well, then, for that I will save

thee;" and, riding up to the prévôt, the juggler thrust his snout into

that officer's ear, and whispered a few words, in regard to the truth

of which the other seemed at first doubtful. Gallon, however,

exclaimed, "'Tis true, thou infidel! 'tis true! I heard the order

given myself! Look ye there!--There comes the messenger down in the

valley--Haw, haw, haw! Ye fools! Thought you king John could spare so

useful a villain as that?"

The prévôt gazed in the direction wherein the juggler pointed; and

then made a sign to his men to put a stop to the preparations, which

they were hurrying forward with most unseemly haste; while Gallon,

with a patronising sort of nod to Jodelle, and a loud laugh, rode on

after De Coucy, who had not waited to listen to the termination of the

eloquent conversation between the juggler and the coterel. At the

bottom of the hill, however, the young knight turned his head, never

doubting that he should behold the form of his late follower dangling

from the elm; but, to his surprise, he perceived two of the men

placing Jodelle on horseback, still apparently bound, and the rest

hastening to mount their own beasts, while a horseman was seen

conversing with the prévôt.

"By St. Paul! if thou hast saved that fellow from the hands of the

hangman," cried De Coucy, "thou art a juggler indeed, and a

mischievous one to boot, friend Gallon!"

"'Twas not I saved him, friend Coucy," replied Gallon, who was in

somewhat of a saner state of mind than usual. "'Twas our very good

friend and patron, John, King of England; and I'll tell thee what,

Coucy, if you ill-treat me, and thump me, as you used sometimes to do,

I'll e'en take service with him, John of Anjou, and leave you! Haw,

haw! What do you think of that? Or else I'll go and live with fair

William de la Roche Guyon," he added, in his rambling way. "He loves

me dearly, does William de la Roche Guyon. So I'll go and live with

him, when I want to better myself. Haw, haw! Then I shall always be

near the pretty Lady Isadore of the Mount, whom good King John of

England gave to fair Count William this morning, for standing by him

in his need, as he said. 'Twas all in a whisper; but I would have

heard it had it been twice a whisper; my ears are as fine as my nose.

Haw, haw!"

De Coucy had drawn his rein at the first word of these very pleasing

tidings, which Gallon communicated with a broad lack-lustre stare,

from which he had banished every particle of speculation; so that,

whether it was true or false, a dreadful reality or an idiotic jest,

was in no degree to be gathered from his countenance.

"What is that you say?" cried the knight. "Tell me, good Gallon, for

the love of Heaven, are you serious in your news?"

"Good Gallon!--Haw! haw!" shouted the jongleur,--"Good Gallon! He'll

call me pretty Gallon next!--Haw, haw, haw!--Coucy, you are mad!"

"For God's sake!" cried the knight earnestly, "do not drive me mad

really; but, for once, try to give me a connected answer. Say! What

was it you heard that traitorous king say to the beardless, womanly

coward, William de la Roche Guyon?"

"Give you a connected answer!" replied Gallon, suddenly assuming an

unwonted gravity. "Why should you doubt my giving you one? I'm not

mad, Coucy! I'll tell you what the king said, as wisely as he that

spoke it. William de la Roche, whispered he, with the face of a cat

lapping a saucer full of cream--William de la Roche, you have stood by

me this day in my need, and I will not forget it."

And Gallon, though with a countenance as unlike that of John of Anjou

as any human face could well be, contrived to imitate the king's look

and manner, so as to leave no earthly doubt, not only that he had said

what the fool attributed to him, but that he had also precisely said

it as was represented.

"Well then," continued the jongleur, "the noble king bade him, fair

William de Roche as aforesaid, take the fair Lady Isadore from the

castle of Moulineaux, hard by Rouen, where her father, Count Julian

the Wise, had left her under the care of the Lady Plumdumpling, or

some such English name; and when he had got her, to carry her whither

he would, as quickly as possible. And the sweet potentate John, with

true kingly consideration for the happiness of his lieges, added this

sage counsel to the aforesaid William, namely, that if he liked, he

might marry the maid; but if he liked light love better than broad

lands, he might make his leman of her."

"By the Lord, fool! if thou deceivest me, thou shall rue it!" cried De

Coucy. "I believe not thy tale! How came her father to trust her from

his sight?"

"I fear me, my lord. Gallon is right," said Ermold de Marcy, who

various negotiations had somewhat rubbed off the rawness of his youth,

and given him confidence to address his master more boldly. "In my

wanderings about, striving to achieve your ransom, I have heard much

of Count Julian and his proceedings; and I thus learned, that not long

after your capture, he left the court of King John, to raise all his

vassals for the great alliance that, men say, is forming against King

Philip, leaving the Lady Isadore as a hostage for his faith, with the

Lady Plymlymman of Cornouaille, chatelaine of the castle of

Moulineaux. So that Gallon's tale is too likely to be true."

While the page spoke, the juggler drew his two eyes together upon De

Coucy's countenance, watching, with a fiendish sort of pleasure, the

workings of all those powerful feelings that the news he had given had

cast into commotion. At length he burst into a loud laugh. "Haw, haw!"

cried he. "Haw, haw, haw! De Coucy's in a rage!--Now, Coucy, now,

think of the very best way of cleaving me down Guillaume de la Roche

from the crest to the saddle. Haw, haw, haw! Oh, rare! Crack his skull

like a walnut-shell, and leave him no more brains than a date-stone.

Haw, haw! haw, haw!"

CHAPTER VII.

There was a party of travellers wound down through the beautiful

valleys, and over the rich hills that lie between Pacy and Rolleboise,

proceeding slowly and calmly, though with a certain degree of

circumspection, as if they were not at all without their share of the

apprehensions to which travellers of every kind were exposed in those

days, and yet were embarrassed by the presence of some one, whose sex

or age prevented them from proceeding more rapidly.

At the head of the cavalcade were seen, agitated by the breeze,

various of those light habiliments which have been used in all ages to

give the female figure a degree of butterfly flutter, which seems to

court pursuit; and it appeared out of consideration for the frailer

limbs of the part of the troop thus clothed, that the iron-clad

warriors which formed the main body proceeded at so slow and easy a

pace.

The whole party might consist of fifty persons, four or five of whom,

by their pennons and arms, were distinguished as knights; while the

rest showed but the sword and buckler of the squire, or the archer's

quiver, long bow, and round target. Except an _éclaireur_ thrown out

before to mark the way, the female part of the troop took the lead;

and, as far as could be judged from appearance, the rest was but an

escort attending upon them.

One of the knights, however, whose helmet nodded with plumes, and

whose arms were glittering with gold, ever and anon spurred forward,

and, with bending head and low musical voice, addressed a few words to

the fair girl who headed the troop, demanding now whether she was

fatigued, now whether she felt the cold, now promising speedy repose,

and now offering a few words of somewhat commonplace gallantry,

concerning bright eyes, rosy lips, and inspiring smiles.

To his questions concerning her comfort, the lady replied briefly, and

as coldly as courtesy permitted; and to his gallant speeches, the

chilling unmoved glance of her large dark eye might have afforded

sufficient answer, had he been one easily rebuffed. The only

uncalled-for words which she addressed to him herself tended but to

ask where it was that her father had appointed to meet her; and on his

replying that a place called Drocourt had been named, some five

leagues farther, she relapsed into silence.

The young knight, however, though on every check he received he sunk

back into himself with an air of deep despondency, still returned to

his point, holding perseverance to be the most serviceable quality in

the world in all dealings with the fair; and thus, from time to time,

he continued his assiduities, notwithstanding cold looks and scanty

answers; till at length the road, descending, began to wind along the

banks of the Seine.

Here his attention became more entirely directed to precautions

against surprise; and the increased haste and circumspection which he

enjoined, seemed to imply that he found himself upon hostile and

dangerous ground.

"See you no ferry boat," cried he, "along the river!--Look out,

Arnoul!--look out! We must get across as soon as may be."

"The ferry lies beyond this woody tongue of land, my lord," replied

the man. "'Tis not half a mile hence, and there is no town between; so

we may pass easily;" and, spurring on, the party entered the pass,

between the wood which skirted down from the road to the river on the

one side, and the high chalky cliffs on the other.

The knight in the gilded armour had received a fresh rebuff from the

lady whose favour he seemed so anxious to win; and, having retired to

his companions, who, as we have shown, were a few steps behind, was

conversing with them in an earnest but under-tone, when from an ambush

in the wood, which had escaped even the eyes of the advanced scout,

rushed forth a body of horsemen, with such rapid force as to separate

entirely the female part of the cavalcade from their escort.

It was done in an instant; but, in truth, it needed such rapidity of

attack to render it, in itself, any thing short of madness; for, when

the escort recovered in a degree from their first astonishment, they

found that seven men formed the whole force that had thrown them into

such confusion. Before, however, this became apparent, the leader of

their adversaries shouting, "A Coucy! A Coucy!" spurred like lightning

upon the knight we have before mentioned, and at one blow of his

battle-axe dashed him under his horse's feet. A squire behind shared

the same fate; a man-at-arms followed; and each of De Coucy's

followers, fighting as if inspired by the same daring valour that

animated their lord, the escort were driven back along the road,

leaving four or five saddles vacant. Then, however, the tide of the

battle turned. The knights at the head of the escort saw the handful

of men to which they were opposed, and, ashamed of yielding a step to

so scanty a body, four of them united their efforts to attack De

Coucy, while another rallied their followers; and the young knight was

in turn driven back, now striking at one, now at another, now parrying

the blows that were aimed at himself, and now showering them thick

upon the head of the opponent that he had singled out for the moment.

Separated from the escort which attended her, the lady we have

mentioned, with her women, had in the meanwhile endeavoured to escape

from the scene of strife which had so suddenly arisen, by hurrying on

upon the road; but the scout, who had turned at the first noise of the

affray, caught her bridle, and, notwithstanding her prayers and

entreaties, would not suffer her to proceed.

The danger indeed to which she was exposed was not for the moment

great, as, by this time, the first impetuous attack of De Coucy and

his followers had driven the escort back beyond the turn of the wood;

and nothing could be gathered of the progress of the fight but from

the trampling of the horses heard sounding this way or that, and the

cries and shouts of the combatants approaching or receding as the

battle turned.

"Lady Isadore! Lady Isadore!" cried a girl who followed her. "It is

the Sire de Coucy. Hear you not his battle-cry? and I am sure I saw

Ermold the page strike down an archer twice as big as himself. God

send them the victory!"

"Hush! foolish girl! hush!" cried Isadore of the Mount, leaning her

head to listen more intently. "Hark, they are coming this way! Free my

bridle, soldier! Free my bridle, for the love of Heaven! How dare you,

serf, to hold me against my will? You will repent, whoever wins!"

The soldier, however, heeded neither the lady's entreaties nor her

threats, though it so happened that it would have proved fortunate to

himself had he done so; for, in a moment after, De Coucy, driven back

by the superior force to which he was opposed, appeared at the turn of

the wood, striking a thundering blow on the crest of one of the

knights who pressed closely on him, while the three others spurred

after at about three horse-lengths' distance.

No sooner had the blow descended, than the knight's quick glance fell

upon Isadore. "Fly, Isadore, fly!" cried he. "You have been deceived

into the power of traitors!--Fly! up the path to the right! To the

castle on the hill!" But, as he spoke, he suddenly perceived the

soldier holding her rein, and forcing her horse up a bank somewhat of

the current of the fight. Like lightning, De Coucy wheeled his

charger; and, disappointing, by the turn he took, a blow that one of

his adversaries was discharging at his head, he swung his battle-axe

round in the air, and hurled it with sure and unerring aim at the

unhappy scout. It needed a firm heart and well-practised hand to

dismiss such a fatal missile in a direction so near the person of one

deeply beloved. But De Coucy had both; and rushing within two feet of

Isadore of the Mount, the head of the ponderous axe struck the soldier

full on the neck and jawbone, and dashed him from his horse, a ghastly

and disfigured corpse.

"Fly, Isadore! fly!" repeated De Coucy, at the same moment drawing his

sword, and spurring his charger furiously against the first of his

opponents. "Fly up to the right! The castle on the hill!--the castle

on the hill!"

Isadore required no second injunction, but parted like an arrow from

the scene of the battle, while De Coucy made almost more than mortal

efforts to drive back the enemy.

Though he thus gave her time to escape, his valour and skill were of

course in vain, opposed to numbers not inferior to himself in personal

courage, and clothed in arms equal to those by which he was defended.

All he could do was to give his scattered followers time again to

collect about him; and then, satisfied with having delivered Isadore,

to keep up a defensive fight along the road.

Even this, however, was difficult to conduct successfully in the face

of a body of men so much superior to his own in numbers eager to

avenge themselves upon him, and hurried on by the knowledge, that,

being upon adverse ground, they must win their revenge quickly, or not

at all. The four knights pressed on him on all sides, striving to bear

him down to the earth; his armour was hacked and splintered in many

parts; his shield was nearly cleft in two with the blow of a

battle-axe; several of the bars of his visor were dashed to pieces, so

as to leave his face nearly uncovered; but still he retreated slowly,

with his face to his enemies, shouting from time to time his

battle-cry, to cheer the spirits of his men, and striking terrible

sweeping blows with his long sword, whenever his opponents made a

general rush upon him.

One of these united attacks, however, had nearly proved fatal to the

gallant young knight; for, in suddenly backing his horse to avoid it,

the animal's feet struck against a felled tree, and he went down at

once upon his haunches. "A Coucy! a Coucy!" cried the knight, striving

to spur him up; but all four of his antagonists pressed upon him at

once, beating him down with repeated blows, when suddenly two new

combatants were added to the fight, Philip Augustus and the Count

d'Auvergne.

Both, though we have seen them in a preceding chapter opposed hand to

hand, suddenly ceased their mutual conflict, and rushed forward to

strike upon the side of De Coucy. The Count d'Auvergne, warned by his

friend's well-known battle-cry, rushed, bare-headed as he was, into

the midst of the struggle, and, striking with all the energy of

insanity, dashed at once the foremost of the young knight's opponents

to the earth. The king, recognising instantly, by the Norman fashion

of their harness, the followers of his enemy King John, sprang on his

horse; and, with the same chivalrous spirit that induced him in former

days to attack King Richard's whole army near Courcelles with scarce

two hundred knights in his own train, he cast himself in the foremost

of the battle, and plied his weapon with a hand that seldom struck in

vain.

The struggle, by its greater equality, now became more desperate; but

it was soon rendered no longer doubtful, by the sight of a body of

horse coming down at full speed on the road from the castle. The

Normans, who had followed Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, now hastened to

effect their retreat, well knowing that whatever fresh troops arrived

on the spot must necessarily swell the party of their adversaries.

They made an effort, however, in the first place, to deliver their

companion who had been struck down by the Count d'Auvergne; but

finding it impossible, they turned their horses, and retreated along

the line of road over which they had advanced, only pausing for an

instant at the spot where the contest had first begun to aid William

de la Roche himself, who had, as we have shown, been cast from his

horse by a blow of De Coucy's battle-axe; and now sat by the

road-side, somewhat stunned and dizzied by his fall, and completely

plundered of his fine armour.

"Haw! haw!" shouted some one from the top of one of the leafless trees

hard by, as they remounted the discomfited cavalier. "Haw! haw! haw!"

and in a moment. Gallon the fool cast down one of the gay gauntlets on

the head of its former owner, laughing till the whole cliffs rang, to

see it strike him on the forehead, and deluge his fair effeminate face

with blood. The Normans had not time to seek vengeance; for De Coucy's

party, reinforced by the troop from the castle, hung upon their rear,

and gave them neither pause nor respite till the early night,

following a day in February, closed in upon the world; and, fatigued

with so long a strife, the pursuers drew the rein, and left them to

escape as they might.

So fierce and eager had been the pursuit, that scarce a word had

passed between De Coucy's party and their new companions, till, by

common accord, they checked their horses' speed.

It was then that the two brothers in arms turned towards each other,

each suddenly grasping his friend's hand with all the warmth of old

affection. "D'Auvergne!" cried De Coucy, gazing on his friend's face,

down which the blood was streaming from a wound in his temple, giving

to his worn and ashy countenance, in the twilight of the evening, an

appearance of scarcely human paleness.

"De Coucy!" replied D'Auvergne, fixing his eyes on the broken bars of

the young knight's helmet. "De Coucy!" he repeated; and, turning away

his head with a look of painful consciousness, he carried his hand to

his brow, as if sensible of his infirmity, adding, "I have been ill,

my friend--the hot sun of the desert, and Agnes' cold words when I

delivered her father's message--a message I had sworn on my knighthood

to deliver----"

"Ha! Then it was not"--cried Philip eagerly: "but let us return to

some place of repose!" added he, remembering his disguise, and cutting

across a topic which, besides being painful to himself, he loved not

to hear canvassed near the ears of strangers. "Let us return to some

place of repose. We have to thank you, sir knight," he added, turning

to the leader of the horsemen who had joined them from the castle--"we

have to thank you for your timely aid."

"Not so, beau sire," replied the knight, bowing to his saddle-bow. "We

were warned of the strife by a lady, who claimed refuge in the castle;

and we instantly came down to strike for France."

"You did well!" replied the king. "Hark, you, sir knight;" and

approaching his horse, he spoke for some moments to him in an

under-voice, to which the only reply was, "You shall be obeyed."

In the mean while, the men-at-arms and the followers of De Coucy, who

had paused to breathe after the first heat of the affray, began to

mingle in conversation upon the events that had just taken place, and

the causes which had given rise to them; and very soon all the noise

and clamour of explanation, and wonderment, and questioning, and

boasting succeeded, which usually follows any very active struggle. In

the course of this hubbub, De Coucy's name, situation, quality, the

news he had heard concerning Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, and the

means he had taken to surprise him, and deliver the lady Isadore, were

explained to every body whom it might concern, with that almost

childish frankness and simplicity, which was one of the chief

characteristics of the age of chivalry.

To this the king listened attentively; and then, turning to De Coucy,

he said, "Sir Guy de Coucy, this adventure which you have just

achieved is worthy of your other exploits! I will beg leave to ride

with your train to Paris, where doubtless you are going. This good

knight," he added, pointing to the leader of the troop from the

castle, "informs me, that the lady your good sword has delivered from

that traitor Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, is in safety with the fair

queen Agnes, and he adds, that it is the queen's will, that no man,

except the garrison of the castle, shall be admitted within the

walls."

"If such be the case, I must submit of course," replied De Coucy; "and

yet I would fain speak but a few words to the lady Isadore, to inform

her why I attacked her escort; for, beyond all doubt, they lured her

away from the château of Moulineaux, upon some fine pretext."

"I will take care that your conduct be rightly stated, beau sire,"

replied the officer. "But as to your speaking with the lady, I fear it

cannot be; for the queen will doubtless hold her, both as a liege

vassal of the crown, and as hostage for her father's faith; and she

has vowed, that during her absence from our noble lord the king, no

man shall enter her gates, except such persons as the king himself has

placed about her. Be assured, however, sir knight, that the lady shall

receive all honourable treatment, and that your high deeds and noble

prowess shall be spoken of in becoming terms."

De Coucy mused a moment. "Well," said he at length; "what must be,

must be! To Paris then! for I bear the king both sad and important

news."

"Ha?" cried Philip; but then again remembering his disguise, he added,

"Are they such as a stranger may hear?

"They are such, sir unknown knight," replied De Coucy, "as will be

soon heard of far and wide. But the king's ears must be the first to

hear my tale. D'Auvergne," he added, turning to the count. "I pray

you, let my page bind up that gash upon your temple. If I see rightly

by this pale light, the blood is streaming from it still. Let him

stanch it for thee, I pray!"

"Not so, not so! good friend," replied, the count, who, while this

conversation had been passing amongst the rest, had been leaning

silently against an oak, with his eyes bent thoughtfully upon the

ground,--"Not so! It does me good. Methinks that every drop which

trickles down and drops on the dust at my feet, takes some of the fire

out of my brain. I have been mad, I fear me, De Coucy, I am not quite

right yet; but I know, I feel, that I have done this good knight some

wrong. Pardon me, sir knight," he added, advancing to the king, and

extending his hand, "pardon me, as you are a good knight and true."

"I do, from my soul," replied the monarch, grasping the count's

offered hand, and casting from his heart at the same moment far

greater feelings of enmity than any one present knew but himself:--"I

do from my soul. But you stagger! you are faint! Bind up his wound,

some one! Stanch the blood; he has lost too much already!"

The monarch spoke in a tone of command that soon called prompt

obedience. The Count d'Auvergne's wound was instantly bound up; but,

before the bleeding could be stopped, he fainted, and in that state

was borne to the cave from which he had first issued to attack the

king. Here he was laid on a bed of moss and straw, which seemed to

have formed his usual couch; and was after some difficulty recalled to

animation.

De Coucy, having so far seen him restored to a state of safety,

burthened with the tidings of Arthur's murder, which he was eager to

announce as soon as possible to the sovereign and peers of France,

took leave of his unhappy friend; and leaving his page and one of his

men to guard and tend him, he set out with the king on the road to

Paris. Two prisoners who had been taken, as well as one of De Coucy's

followers severely wounded, were left in charge of the seneschal of

the castle, who also undertook to see the rights of sepulture bestowed

on one or two of the soldiers whose lives had been sacrificed in the

affray.

CHAPTER VIII.

The particulars of De Coucy's journey to Paris are not worth

recording. He paused for two hours at a village near Meulan, with his

followers and his royal companion, for the purpose of resting their

weary horses; but neither of the knights took any repose themselves,

though the fatigues they had undergone might well have called for it.

The conduct of De Coucy somewhat puzzled the king; for it evinced a

degree of calm respect towards him, which Philip judged the young

knight would hardly have shown had he not recognised him by some of

those signs, which, when seized on by a keen and observing eye, render

disguises almost always abortive.

At the same time, neither by indiscreet word, or meaning glance, did

De Coucy betray that he had any absolute knowledge of the quality of

him whose limbs that plain armour covered. He spoke frankly and freely

on all subjects, started various topics of conversation himself, and

in short, took care to bound his respect to grave courtesy, without

any of that formal reverence which might have directed the attention

of others to what he had observed himself.

There was one, however, in the train not quite so cautious.

Gallon the fool--though we left him last at the top of one of the

highest oaks in the wood, whither he had carried, piece by piece, the

rich armour he had stripped from Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, together

with a well-lined pouch of chamois leather--had since taken care to

rejoin the victorious party, with all his acquirements nicely bundled

up on the crupper of his horse, forming a square not unlike the pack

with which wandering minstrels travelled in those days.

On the road he was very still and thoughtful. Whether it was that he

was calculating in silence the value of his plunder, or that he was

sullen from fatigue, his companions could not well tell, but when the

party stopped, Gallon watched his opportunity, when De Coucy was

alone, gazing at the pale moon, and indulging in such dreams as

moonlight only yields. Stealing up to his lord, the juggler peered

cunningly in his face, saying in a low voice, "Oh, Coucy! Coucy! I

could show you such a trick for taming a lion;" and at the same time

he bent his thumb back over his shoulder, pointing to where the

monarch stood at a few yards' distance.

"Silence, fool!" said the knight, in a deep stern voice, adding, a

moment afterwards, "What mean you, Gallon?"

"Did you not hear him cry, 'Denis Mountjoy! Denis Mountjoy!' when he

joined the fight?" demanded Gallon.--"Coucy, Coucy! you might tame a

lion, an' you would!"

De Coucy caught Gallon by the arm, and whispered in his ear a stern

menace if he kept not silence. After which he turned at once to the

king, saying aloud, "We had better to horse, fair sir, or it will be

late ere we reach the city."

"Haw, haw!" shouted Gallon,--"Haw, haw!" and bounding away, he was the

first in the saddle.

When they were within sight of Paris, the king thanked De Coucy for

the pleasure of his fair company; and, saying that they should

doubtless soon meet at the court, he took leave of the young knight,

as if his road lay in somewhat a different direction, and rode on, his

horse putting forth all his speed to reach the well-known stable. The

young knight followed more slowly; and, proceeding across the bridge,

directed his steps to the palace on the island.

In the court he found a crowd of inferior ecclesiastics, with robes,

and stoles, and crosses, and banners, and all the pompous display of

Romish magnificence, mingled with the king's serjeants-at-arms, and

many a long train of retainers belonging to several of the great

vassals of the crown, who seemed to be at that moment at the court.

The young knight dismounted in the midst of them, and sent in to crave

an audience of the king, giving his business, as it well deserved, the

character of important.

A reply was soon returned, purporting that Sir Guy de Coucy was ever

welcome to the king of France, and the knight was instantly marshalled

to the presence-chamber.

Philip stood at the further extremity of the magnificent Gothic hall,

a part of which still remains in the old palace of the kings of

France. He was habited in a wide tunic of rich purple silk, bound

round his waist by a belt of gold, from which hung his sword of state.

The neck and sleeves were tied with gold, and from his shoulders

descended a mantle of crimson sendal, lined throughout with ermines,

which fell in broad and glossy folds upon the floor. On his head he

wore a jewelled cap of crimson velvet, from under which the glossy

waves of his long fair hair fell down in some disarray upon his

shoulders. In any other man, the haste with which he had changed his

apparel would have appeared; but Philip, in person even, was formed to

be a king; and, in the easy grace of his figure, and the dignified

erectness of his carriage, hurry or negligence of dress was never

seen; or appeared but to display the innate majesty of his demeanour

to greater advantage.

He stood with one foot rather advanced, and his chest and head thrown

back, while his eagle eye fixed with a keen and somewhat stern regard

upon a mitred prelate--the abbot of Three Fountains Abbey--who seemed

to have been speaking the moment before De Coucy entered, Guerin the

chancellor, still in the simple dress of the knights hospitallers,

stood beside the king; and around appeared a small but brilliant

circle of nobles, amongst whom were to be seen the dukes of Burgundy

and Champagne, the counts of Nevers and Dampierre; and the unhappy

count of Toulouse, afterwards sacrificed to the intolerant spirit of

the Roman Church.

"How is this?" said Philip, just as the young knight passed into the

hall;--"Will Rome never be satisfied? Do concessions wrung from our

very heart's blood but stimulate new demands? What has Innocent the

Third to do with the wars of Philip of France against his traitorous

and rebellious vassal, John duke of Normandy? What pretext of clerical

authority and the church's rights has the pontiff now to show, why a

monarch should not in his own dominions compel his vassals to

obedience, and punish crime and baseness? By the holy rood! there must

be some new creed we have not heard of, to enjoin implicit obedience,

in all temporal as well as spiritual things, to our moderate,

temperate, holy father, Innocent the Third, and his successors for

ever! We pray thee, my lord abbot, to communicate to us all the tenets

of this blessed doctrine; and to tell us, whether it has been made

manifest by inspiration or revelation."

"You speak scornfully, my son," said the abbot mildly, "ay, and

somewhat profanely; but you well know the causes that move our holy

father to interfere, when he sees two christened kings wasting their

blood, their treasure, and their time, in vain and impious wars

against each other, while the holy sepulchre is still the prey of

miscreants and infidels, and the land of our blessed Redeemer,--the

land in which so many saints have died, and for which so many heroes

have bled,--still lies bowed down to heathens and blasphemers,--you

well know the causes that move him to interfere, I say, and therefore

need ask no new motive for his christianlike and holy zeal."

"His christianlike and holy zeal!!" exclaimed the king, holding up his

hands. "Ay, abbot," he continued, his lip curling with a bitter smile,

"I do know the causes, and Christendom shall find I estimate them

justly. For all answer, then, to the mild good father pope his

exhortation to peace, I reply that Philip is king of France; and that,

though I will, in all strictly ecclesiastical affairs, yield reverence

and due submission to the supreme pontiff; yet when he dares--ay, when

he dares, abbot--to use the word command to me, in my just wars, or in

the dispensation of justice unto my vassals, I shall scoff his idle

threats to scorn, and, by God's will, pursue my way, as if there were

neither priest nor prelate on the earth. Now, fair Sir Guy de Coucy!

most welcome to Philip of France!" he continued, abruptly turning away

from the abbot and addressing the young knight. "We were arming even

now to march to deliver you and our fair cousin Arthur Plantagenet.

What cheer do you bring us from him?"

"I had hoped, my liege," replied De Coucy, with a pained and

melancholy air, "that fame, who speeds fast enough in general to bear

ill news, would have spared me the hard and bitter task of telling you

what I have to communicate. He for whom you inquire is no more! Basely

has he been murdered in the prisons of Rouen by his own uncle, John

king of England!"

Philip's brow had been cloudy before; but as the young knight spoke,

fresh shadows came quickly over it, as we see storm after storm roll

up over a thundery sky. At the same time, each of the nobles of France

took an involuntary step forward, and with knitted brow, and eager,

horrified eyes, gazed upon De Coucy while he told his news.

"God of heaven!" exclaimed the monarch rapidly. "What would you say?

Are you very sure, sir knight? Not with his own hand? His nephew too!

His own brother's child! As noble a boy as ever looked up in the face

of heaven! Speak, sir knight! Speak! What was the manner of his death!

Have you heard? But be careful that each word be founded on certain

knowledge, for on your lips hangs the fate of thousands!"

De Coucy related clearly and distinctly all that had occurred on the

day of Arthur's murder--all that he had seen, all that he had heard;

but, with scrupulous care, he took heed that not one atom of surmise

should mingle with his discourse. He painted strongly, clearly,

minutely, every circumstance; but he left his auditors to draw their

own conclusions.

The nobles of France looked silently in each other's faces, where each

read the same feelings of horror and indignation that swelled in his

own bosom. At the same time, the king glanced his keen eye round the

circle, with a momentary gaze of inquiry at the countenances of his

barons, as if he sought to gather whether the feelings of wrath and

hatred which the young knight's tale had stirred up in his heart were

common to all around.

"Now, by the bones of the saints!" cried he, "we will this day--nay

this hour,--send a herald to defy that felon king, and dare him to the

field. Ho! serjeant-at-arms, bid Mountjoy hither!"

"I have already, my lord," said De Coucy, "presumed, even before

bearing you this news, to defy king John before his court; and,

accusing him of this foul murder, to dare his barons--all, or any who

should deny the fact--to meet me in arms, upon the quarrel."

"Ha!" cried Philip eagerly. "What said his nobles?--Did they believe

your charge? Did they take up your gage, sir knight?"

"It seems, sire," replied De Coucy, "that the tidings of the prince's

murder were already common amongst the English barons; and, from what

I could gather, some of their body had already charged John of Anjou

with it before I came. As to my gauntlet, several of the knights

stepped forward to raise it--for, to do the lords of England justice,

they are never backward to draw the sword, right or wrong--but Lord

Pembroke interposed; and, taking up the gage, said that he would hold

it in all honour, till the king should have cleared himself, to their

satisfaction, of the accusation which I brought against him; hinting

some doubt, however, that he could do so. Nevertheless, he promised

either to meet me in arms in fair field of combat, or to return me my

gage, acknowledging the king's quarrel to be bad."

"'Tis evident enough!" cried the king. "The barons of England--who are

ever willing to support their monarch in any just cause," he added,

with a peculiar emphasis, not exactly reproachful, but certainly

intended to convey to the ears on which it fell a warning of the

monarch's expectations,--"the barons of England are already aware of

this hateful deed, or not one of them would for a moment hesitate to

draw the sword in defence of his king. Poor Arthur!" he continued,

casting his eyes on the ground, and letting his mind wander over the

past,--"poor Arthur! thou wert as hopeful a youth as ever a mother was

blessed withal--as fair, as engaging a boy--and now thine unhappy

mother is sonless, as well widowed. I had hoped to have seated thee on

the throne of thine ancestors, and to have made thy mother's heart

glad in the sight of thy renewed prosperity. But thou art gone, poor

child! and left few so fair and noble behind. In faith, lords! I could

weep that boy's loss," continued the king, dashing a drop from his

proud eye. "His youth promised so splendidly, that his manhood must

have proved great.--Lord Abbot," he added gravely, turning to the

abbot of Three Fountains, "you have marked what has passed this

day--you have heard what I have heard,--and, if there needs any

farther answer to him that sent you to preach me from my purpose of

punishing a rebellious vassal, tell him that John of Anjou has added

murder to treachery; and that Philip of France will never sheathe the

sword till he has fully avenged the death of Arthur Plantagenet!"

"I have indeed heard what has passed, sire, with horror and dismay,"

replied the abbot; "but still, without at all seeking to impugn the

faith or truth of this good knight, whose deeds in defence of the holy

sepulchre have been heard of by all men, and warrant his Christian

truth--yet still he saw not the murder committed."

Philip knit his brow and gnawed his lip impatiently, glancing his eye

round the circle with a scornful and meaning smile; and muttering to

himself, "Roman craft--Roman craft!"

Whether the abbot heard it or not, he took instantly a higher tone. "I

irritate you, sir king!" said he, "by speaking truth; but still you

must thus far hear me. The pope--the holy head of the common Christian

church, finding himself called upon to exert all the powers entrusted

to him for the deliverance of the holy city of Jerusalem, has resolved

that he will compel all Christian kings to cease their private

quarrels, and lay by their vindictive animosities, till the great

object of giving deliverance to Christ's sepulchre be accomplished."

"Compel!" cried Philip, the living lightning flashing from his eyes.

"By heaven! priest, the king he can compel to sheathe the sword of

righteous vengeance out against a murderer is formed of different

metal from Philip of France. So tell the pontiff! Let him cast again

the interdict upon the land if he will. The next time I pray him to

raise it, shall be at the gates of Rome with my lance in my hand, and

my shield upon my breast. My supplication shall be the voice of

trumpets, and my kneeling the trampling of my war-horse in the courts

of the capitol.--What say ye, barons! Have I spoken well?"

"Well! Well! Well!" echoed the peers around, enraged beyond moderation

at the prelate's daring protection of a murderer; and at the same

moment the Duke of Burgundy laid the finger of his right hand upon the

pommel of his sword, with a meaning glance towards the king.

"Ay, Burgundy, my noble friend! thou art right," said Philip; "with

our swords we will show our freedom.--Look not scared, sir abbot, but

know, that we are not such children as to be deceived with tales of

holy wars, when the question is, whether a murderer shall be punished.

Away with such pretences! This war against the assassin of my noble

boy, Arthur of Brittany, is _my_ holy war, and never was one more just

and righteous.--Ha, Mountjoy!" he added, as the king of arms entered,

"we have a task for thee, fitted for so noble a knight and so learned

a herald. John of Anjou has murdered Arthur Plantagenet, his nephew,

in prison. Here stands in witness thereof. Sir Guy de Coucy--"

"Good knight and noble! if ever one lived," said the herald, bowing

his head to De Coucy.

"Go then to the false traitor John," continued the king, "defy him in

our name! tell him that we will have blood for blood; and that the

death of all the thousands which shall fall in his unrighteous quarrel

we cast upon his head. Tell him, that we will never sheathe the sword,

so long as he possesses one foot of ground in France; and that when we

have even driven him across his bulwark of the sea, we will overleap

that too, and the avenging blade shall plague him at his very

hearth.--Yet hold!" cried Philip, pausing in the midst of the passion

into which he had worked himself, and reining in his wrath, to guide

it in the course of his greater purposes; as a skilful charioteer

bends the angry and impetuous fire of his horses, to whirl him on with

more energetic celerity to the goal within his view. "Yet

hold!--------" and Philip carried his hand to his brow, catching, as

by inspiration, the outline of that bright stroke of policy which,

more than any other act of his whole reign, secured to the monarchs of

France the absolute supremacy of their rule--the judgment of John of

Anjou, the greatest feudatory of the crown, by the united peers of

France.

If he made the war against John a personal one between himself and the

king of England, he might be supported by his barons, and come off

victorious in the struggle, it was true; but if he summoned John, as

Duke of Normandy, to receive judgment from his sovereign court in a

case of felony, it established his jurisdiction over his higher

vassals, on a precedent such as none would ever dare in after years to

resist. It did more; for, if John were condemned by his peers, of

which Philip entertained not a moment's doubt, the barons of France

would be bound to support their own award; and the tie between them

and him would become, not the unstable one of voluntary service,

rendered and refused as caprice might dictate, but a strictly feudal

duty with which all would be interested to comply.

Philip saw, at a glance, the immense increase of stability which he

might give to his power by this great exercise of his rights; and,

clear-sighted himself, he hardly doubted that his barons would see it

also, and perhaps oppose his will. Certain, however, that by the

feudal system his right to summon John, and judge him in his court,

was clear and undeniable, he resolved to carry it through, at all

events; but determined, first, to propose it to his nobles as a

concession that he himself made to their privileges.

What is long and tedious, as the slow eye or slower pen travels over

the paper, is but the work of a moment to the mind; and Philip had, in

the pause of one brief instant, caught every consideration that

affected the idea before him, and determined upon his line of conduct.

"Hold!" said he to the herald--"hold! My lords," he continued, turning

to the nobles, by whom he was surrounded, "in my first wrath against

this base murderer, I had forgot that, though I have the indisputable

right of warring upon him as a monarch, yet I cannot justly punish him

as a felon, strictly speaking, without your judgment previously

pronounced upon him. I would not willingly trespass upon the

privileges of any of my noble vassals; and therefore, lords--you Dukes

of Burgundy and Champagne, and whatever other peers of France are

present, I resign the judgment of this John of Anjou into your hands.

I will summon him to appear before my court of peers, at the end of

twenty days, to answer the charges brought against him. The peers of

France shall judge him according to their honour and his demerits; and

I will stand by in arms, to see that judgment executed." The peers of

France could hardly have refused to assist at the trial to which

Philip called them, even had they been so willed; but, far behind the

monarch in intellect, and indignant at the baseness of John of Anjou,

they now eagerly expressed their approval of the king's determination;

and again plighted themselves to support him in his war against the

English sovereign, whether that war was maintained as a consequence of

the judgment they should give, or as a continuation of that which had

already commenced.

The herald, then, was instantly despatched to Rouen, for the purpose

of displaying the articles of accusation against John at the court of

Normandy, and of summoning him to appear on the twentieth day at

Paris, to answer the charges to be there substantiated. At the same

time, the legate of the holy see, very well convinced that, in the

present case, the thunders of the church would fall harmless at the

feet of Philip, though launched with ever so angry a hand, took leave

of the monarch with a discontented air; and as he left the hall, the

monarch's lip curled, and his eye lightened, with a foretaste of that

triumph which he anticipated over the proud priest who had so darkly

troubled the current of his domestic happiness.

"Beau Sire De Coucy," said the king, turning to the young knight with

a bland smile, as he recalled his thoughts from the contemplation of

the future, "notwithstanding the sad news you have brought us, you are

most welcome to the court of France. Nor will we fail to repay your

sufferings, as far as our poor means will go. In the mean while, we

beg of you to make our palace your home till such time as, with

sounding trumpets and lances in rest, we shall march to punish the

assassin of Arthur Plantagenet. Then shall you lead, to aid in the

revenge I know you thirst to take, all the fair host raised on the

lands of the Count de Tankerville, full a thousand archers and two

hundred knights. At supper, noble lords," continued the king, "I trust

that all here will grace my board with their presence. Ere then, I

have a bitter task to perform--to break to a fond mother the death of

her noble boy, and to soothe the sorrows of a helpless widow."

CHAPTER IX.

One unchanging cloud of perpetual sorrow lowered over the days of the

unhappy Agnes de Meranie. The hope that the council which had been

called to decide upon the king's divorce might pronounce a judgment

favourable to her wishes, dwindled gradually away, till its

flickering, uncertain light was almost more painful than the darkness

of despair. The long delays of the church of Rome, the tedious

minutiae of all its ceremonious forms, the cavillings upon words, the

endless technicalities, however sweet and enduring was her

disposition, wore her mind and her frame, and she faded away like a

rose at the end of summer, dropping leaf by leaf towards decay.

She delighted no longer in things wherein she had most joyed. The

opening flowers of the spring, the chanting of the wild melodious

birds, the reviving glow of all nature's face after the passing of the

long, chill winter, brought her no happiness. Her heart had lost its

young expansion. Her eye§ were covered with a dim, shadowy veil, that

gave its own dull, sombre hue to all that she beheld. Her ears were

closed against every sound that spoke of hope, or pleasure, or

enjoyment. Her life was one long, sad dream, overjoys passed away, and

happiness never to return.

For many and many an hour, she would wander about through the woods;

but when she saw the young green leaves opening out from the careful

covering with which nature had defended their infancy, she would

recall the time when, with her beloved husband, she had watched the

sweet progress of the spring, and would weep to find him no longer by

her side, and to see in the long, cold future an unchanging prospect

of the same dull vacancy. Often, too, she would stray to the top of

one of the high hills near the castle, and, gazing over the

wide-extended view--the sea of woods waving their tender green heads

below her--the mingling hills, and valleys, and plains beyond--the

windings of the broad river, with the rich, rich vale through which it

flows--and the distant gleams of towers and spires scattered over the

fair face of the bright land of France, she would sigh as she looked

upon the proud kingdom of her Philip, and would quickly shrink back

from the wide extension of the scene to the small limit of her heart's

feelings and her individual regrets.

She shrunk, too, from society. Her women followed, but followed at a

distance; for they saw that their presence importuned her; and it was

only when any message arrived from the king, or any news was brought

concerning the progress of his arms, that they broke in upon her

reveries. Then, indeed, Agnes listened as if her whole soul was in the

tale; and she made the narrators repeat over and over again every

small particular. She heard that one castle had fallen--that another

district had submitted--that this baron had come over to the crown of

France--or that city had laid its keys at the feet of Philip, dwelling

on each minute circumstance, both of warfare and of policy, with as

deep and curious an interest as if her life and hope had depended on

the issue of each particular movement.

It was remarked, too, that the oftener the name of Philip was repeated

in the detail, the more interest she appeared to take therein, and the

more minute was her questioning; and if any eminent success had

attended his arms, it would communicate a gleam of gladness to her

eyes, that hardly left them during the whole day.

At other times she spoke but little, for it seemed to fatigue her;

and, though from the blush of her cheek, which every evening seemed to

come back brighter and brighter, and from a degree of glistening

splendour in her eye, which grew more brilliant than it had ever been

even in her happier days, her women augured returning health, yet her

strength visibly failed; and that lovely hand, whose small but rounded

symmetry had been a theme for half the poets of France, grew pale and

thin, so that the one loved ring nearly dropped from the finger round

which it hung.

It was not from a love of new things or new faces, for no one was more

constant in all her affections than Agnes de Meranie; but though she

avoided even the society of her own immediate followers, several of

whom had attended upon her in her own land, yet Isadore of the Mount,

from the time she had taken refuge in the castle where she was still

detained by royal order, was often welcomed by the queen with a smile

that the others could not win.

Perhaps the secret was, that Isadore never tried to console her--that

she seemed to feel that the name of comfort under such circumstances

was but a mockery; and though she strove, gently and sweetly, to

divert the mind of the unhappy princess from the immediate subject of

her grief, she did it by soft degrees, and never sought for a gaiety

that she did not feel herself, and which she saw was sadly discordant

with all the feelings of the queen when affected by others in the hope

of pleasing her.

One morning, towards the end of March, on entering the apartments of

the queen, Isadore found her with her head bent over her hand, and her

eyes fixed upon the small circle of gold that had bound her to Philip

Augustus, while drop after drop swelled through the long lashes of her

eyelids, and fell upon the ring itself. Seeing that she wept, Isadore

was about to retire; for there is a sacredness in grief such as hers,

that a feeling heart would never violate.

The queen, however, beckoned her forward, and looking up, wiped the

tears away. "One must be at a sad pitch of fortune, Isadore," said

she, with a painful smile at her own melancholy conceit,--"one must be

at a sad pitch of fortune, when even inanimate things play the traitor

and leave us in our distress. This little magic symbol," she

continued, laying one finger of the other hand upon the ring,--"this

fairy token, that in general is destined to render two hearts happy or

miserable, according to the virtue of the giver and the receiver--it

has fallen from my finger this morning, though it has been my comfort

through many a sorrow. Is not that ominous, Isadore?"

"Of nothing evil, I hope, lady," replied Isadore. "Trust me, 'tis but

to show that it will be put on again under happier auspices."

"'Twill be in heaven, then," replied Agnes, fixing her eyes on the

thin fair hand which lay on the table before her. "'Twill be in

heaven, then! Do you too deceive yourself, lady?--Isadore, Isadore!

the canker-worm of grief has not only eaten the leaves of the blossom,

it has blasted it to the heart. I would not die if I could avoid my

fate, for it will give Philip pain; but for me, lady,--for me, the

grave is the only place of peace. Care must have made some progress

ere that ring, round which the flesh once rose up, as if to secure it

for ever as its own, would slip with its own weight to the ground."

Isadore bent her head, and was silent; for she saw, that to speak of

hope at that moment would be worse than vain.

"I had been trying," said the queen, clinging to the subject with a

sort of painful fondness,--"I had been trying to write something to

Constance of Brittany, that might console her for the loss of her poor

boy Arthur. But I blotted many a page in vain, and found how hard it

is to speak one word of comfort to real grief. I know not whether it

was that my mind still selfishly turned to my own sorrows, and took

from me the power of consoling those of others, or whether there is

really no such thing as consolation upon earth; but, still as I wrote,

I found each line more calculated to sadden than to cheer. At last I

abandoned the task, and letting my hand which had held the paper drop

beside me, this faithless pledge of as true a love as ever bound two

hearts, dropped from my finger and rolled away from me. Oh! Isadore,

'twas surely an evil omen! But it was not that which made me weep. As

I put it on again, I thought of the day that it had first shone upon

my hand, and all the images of lost happiness rose up around me like

the spectres of dead friends, calling me too to join the past; and oh!

how the bright and golden forms of those sunny days contrasted with

the cold, hard sorrow of each hour at present. Oh! Isadore, 'tis not

the present, I believe, that ever makes our misery; 'tis its contrast

with the past--'tis the loss of some hope, or the crushing of some

joy--the disappointment of expectation, or the regrets of memory. The

present is nothing--nothing--nothing, but in its relation to the

future or the past."

"How painful, then, must be that contrast to the poor duchess of

Brittany," said Isadore in reply, taking advantage of the mention that

the queen had made of Constance, to lead her mind away from the

contemplation of her own griefs. "How bitter must be her tears for

that gallant young Prince Arthur, when all France is weeping for him!

Not a castle throughout the land but rings, they say, with the tale of

his murder. Not a bosom but beats with indignation against his

assassin. I have just heard, that Sir Guy de Coucy, who was his

fellow-prisoner, defied John Lackland in the midst of his barons, and

cast down his gauntlet at the foot of the very throne. The messenger,"

she added, casting down her eyes as the queen raised hers, for there

came a certain tell-tale glow into her cheek as she spoke of De Coucy,

that she did not care to be remarked,--"the messenger you sent to the

canon of St. Berthe's has but now returned, bringing news from Paris

concerning the court of peers held upon the murderer, and affirming

that he has refused to appear before the barons of France--at least,

so says my girl Eleanor."

The news of Arthur's death, and various particulars concerning it, had

spread in vague rumours to every castle in France. Many and various

were the shapes which the tale had assumed, but of course it had

reached Agnes de Meranie and her suite in somewhat of a more authentic

form. All that concerned Philip in any way was of course a matter of

deep interest to her, Isadore's plan for withdrawing her mind for the

moment from herself had therefore its full effect, and she instantly

directed the messenger to be brought to her, for the purpose of

learning from him all that had occurred at the court of peers, to

which assembly, however, we shall conduct our reader in his own

person.

CHAPTER X.

To those who have not studied the spirit of the feudal system, it

would seem an extraordinary and almost inconceivable anomaly, that one

sovereign prince should have the power of summoning to his court, and

trying as a felon, another, of dominions scarcely less extensive than

his own. But the positions of vassal and lord were not so incoherent

or ill-defined as may be imagined. Each possessor of a feof, at the

period of his investiture, took upon himself certain obligations

towards the sovereign under whom he held, from which nothing could

enfranchise him, as far as that feof was concerned; and upon his

refusing, or neglecting to comply with those obligations, the

territory enfeofed or granted returned in right to what was called the

capital lord, or him, in short, who granted it.

To secure, however, that even justice should be done between the

vassal and the lord--each equally an interested party--it became

necessary that some third person, or body of persons, should possess

the power of deciding on all questions between the other two. Thus it

became a fundamental principle of the feudal system, that no vassal

could be judged but by his peers,--that is to say, by persons holding

in the same relative position as himself, from the same superior. For

the purpose of rendering these judgments, each great baron held, from

time to time, his court, composed of vassals holding directly from

himself; and, in like manner, the king's court of peers was competent

to try all causes affecting the feudatories who held immediately from

the crown.

John therefore was summoned to appear before the court of Philip

Augustus, not as King of England, which was an independent

sovereignty, but as Duke of Normandy, and Lord of Anjou, Poitou, and

Guyenne, all feofs of the crown of France. No one, therefore, doubted

the competence of the court, and John himself dared not deny its

authority.

It was a splendid sight, the palace of the Louvre on the morning

appointed for the trial. Each of the great barons of France, anxious

that none of his peers should outvie him in the splendour of his

train, had called together all his most wealthy retainers, and

presented himself at the court of the king, followed by a host of

knights and nobles, clothed in the graceful flowing robes worn in that

day, shining with gold and jewels, and flaunting with all the gay

colours that the art of dyeing could then produce. Silks and velvets,

and cloths of gold and silver, contended in gorgeous rivalry, in the

courts and antechambers of the palace. Flags and pennons, banners and

banderols, fluttered on the breeze; while all the most beautiful

horses that could be procured, were led in the various trains, by the

pages and squire, unmounted; as if their graceful forms were too noble

to bear even the burden of a prince.

In the great hall itself the scene was more solemn, but scarcely less

magnificent. Around, in the midst of all the gorgeous decorations of a

royal court on its day of solemn ceremony, sat all the highest and

noblest of France, clothed in those splendid robes of ermine, which,

independent of any associations of their value, from the very snowy

whiteness, and the massy folds into which that peculiar fur falls,

gives an idea of majesty and grandeur that no other dress can convey.

Each bore upon his coroneted[27] brow the lines of stern and

impressive gravity; for all deeply felt how solemn was the occasion on

which they had met, how terrible was the cause of their assembly, and

how mighty would be the consequences of their decision. The feeling

was near akin to awe; and many of the younger peers scarcely seemed to

breathe, lest they should disturb the silence.

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

[Footnote 27: Seldon has said that the custom of bearing coronets by

peers is of late days. In this assertion, however, he is apparently

mistaken, the proofs of which may be seen at large in Ducange,

Dissért, xxiv. R. Hoved. 792. Hist. des Compte de Poitou, &c. The

matter is of little consequence, except so far as the representation

of the manners and customs of the times is affected by it.]

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

In the centre, surrounded by all the insignia of royalty, upon a

throne raised several steps above the hall, and covered by a dais of

crimson and gold, sat Philip Augustus--a monarch indeed, in mind, in

person, and in look. There was a simple bandlet of gold around his

brows[28], raised with _fleurs de lis_, and jewelled with fine uncut

stones; but the little distinction which existed between it and the

coronets of his peers would have hardly marked the sovereign. Though

personal appearance, however, is indeed no sign of dignity, either of

mind or station, yet Philip Augustus was not to be mistaken. There was

royalty in his eye and his carriage. The custom of command shone out

in every line; and though there were many noble and princely persons

present, there was none like him.

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

[Footnote 28: The closed crown was not introduced until the reign of

Louis XII. or Francis I.]

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

On the king's left hand stood Mountjoy, king-at-arms, holding a

scroll, containing the appeal of Constance, Duchess of Brittany, to

the peers of France, for the punishment of John, called unjustly--it

went on to state--King of England, for the murder of Arthur

Plantagenet, his nephew and born sovereign, her son.

On the right, stood De Coucy, neither armed nor clothed in his robes

as peer, though, however small his territories, their being free and

held under no one, gave him such a right; but being there as the chief

accuser of John, he sat not of course amongst those called to judge

him.

Several of the peers' seats were vacant; and, before proceeding to the

immediate business on which the court had met, various messengers were

admitted, to offer the excuses of the several barons, who, either from

want of power or inclination, were not present in person. The apology

of most was received as sufficient; but, at the names of several, the

king's brow darkened, and he turned a meaning look to his chancellor,

Guerin, who stood at a little distance.

When this part of the ceremony was concluded, Philip made a sign to

the king of arms, who, having waved his hand to still a slight murmur

that had been caused by the admission of the messengers, proceeded to

read the petition of Constance of Brittany; and then, followed by a

train of heralds and marshals, advanced to the great doors of the

hall, which were thrown open at his approach; and, in a loud voice,

summoned John, Duke of Normandy, to appear before the peers of France,

and answer to the charge of Constance Duchess of Brittany.

Three times he repeated the call, as a matter of ceremony; and,

between each reiteration, the trumpets sounded, and then gave a pause

for reply.

At length, after a brief conversation with some persons without, the

heralds returned, introducing two persons as deputies for John, who,

as every one there already knew, was not, and would not be present.

The one was a bishop, habited in his pontifical robes, and the other

the well-known Hubert de Burgh.

"Sir deputies, you are welcome," said the king, as the two Normans

advanced to the end of the table in the centre of the hall. "Give us

the cause why John of Anjou does not present himself before his peers,

to answer the charges against him? Say, is he sick to the death? Or,

does he dare deny the competence of my court?"

"He is neither sick, sire," replied the bishop, "nor does he, as Duke

of Normandy, at all impugn the authority of the peers of France to

judge upon all questions within the limits of this kingdom." Philip's

brow relaxed. "But," continued the bishop, "before trusting himself in

a city, and a land, where he has many and bitter enemies, he demands

that the King of France shall guarantee his safety."

"Willingly," replied Philip; "let him come! I will warrant him from

harm or from injustice."

"But will you equally stake your royal word," demanded the bishop,

fixing his eyes keenly on the king, as if he feared some deceit--"will

you stake your royal word that he shall return safely to his own

land?"

"Safely shall he return," replied the king, with a clear, marked, and

distinct voice, "if the judgment of his peers permit him so to do."

"But if the peers condemn him," asked the bishop, "will you give him a

safe conduct?"

"No! by the Lord of heaven and earth!" thundered the king. "No! If his

peers condemn him, he shall suffer the punishment his peers award,

should they doom him to the block, the cord, or the wheel! Their

sentence shall be executed to the letter."

"You well know then, sire king," replied the bishop calmly, "that

John, King of England, cannot submit himself to your court. The realm

of England cannot be put at the disposition of the barons of France,

by its king submitting to their judgment; neither would our English

barons suffer it."

"What is that to me?" cried Philip. "Because my vassal, the Duke of

Normandy, increases his domains, do I, as his sovereign, lose my

rights? By heaven's host, no! Go, heralds, to the courts, and the

bridges, and the highways, and summon John of Anjou to present himself

before his peers! Sir bishop, you have done your embassy; and, if you

stay but half an hour, you shall hear the judgment of our court, on

the cause of which we have met to take cognizance."

The bishop, however, and his companion, took their leave and departed;

the bishop bowing low, in reverence to the court; and the stout Hubert

de Burgh turning away after a calm careless glance round the peers of

France, as if he had just concluded a piece of needless ceremony, of

which he was heartily tired.

For a moment or two after the deputies were gone, the barons continued

to converse together in a whisper, while Philip sat without speaking,

glancing his quick keen eye from one countenance to another, as if he

would gather beforehand the terms of the judgment they were afterwards

to pronounce. Gradually, complete silence began again to spread itself

over the court; one baron after another dropping the conversation that

he held with his neighbour, till all was still. There is always

something awful in very profound silence; but when the silence of

expectation on any great occasion has been prolonged for any extent of

time, it becomes a sort of painful charm, which requires no small

resolution to break.

Thus the peers of France, when once the stillness had completely

established itself, sat without word or motion, waiting the return of

the heralds, awed by the very quiet; though many of the more timid and

undecided would fain have asked counsel of those next whom they sat,

had they dared to break the spell that seemed to hang over the

assembly.

Many a vague doubt and many a fear attached itself to the duty they

were called upon to perform; for, even in that day, it was no small

responsibility to set a world in arms, and renew that deluge of

bloodshed that had so lately ceased. From time to time, under the

influence of these feelings, the several peers gazed in the

countenances of their fellows, to see if they were shaken by the same

hesitations as themselves. But it is ever the bold that lead; and here

and there, scattered through the assembly, might be seen a face that

turned to no one for advice or support; but, with the eyes fixed on

the ground, the brow bent, and the lips closed, seemed to offer a

picture of stern determined resolution. It was these men who decided

the deliberations of the day. For their opinions all waited, and all

voices followed their lead.

At length the doors of the hall were again thrown open; and Mountjoy

king-at-arms, presented himself, informing the court that he had

summoned John of Anjou, Duke of Normandy, in the courts, on the

bridges, and the highways; and that he did not appear.

There was now a deep pause, and Philip turned his eyes to the Duke of

Burgundy. He was a man of a dull, saturnine aspect, stout even to

corpulency, with shaggy eyebrows overhanging his dark eyes, but with a

high, finely formed nose, and small, well-shaped mouth, so that his

countenance was stern without being morose, and striking without being

handsome.

The great baron rose from his seat, while there was a breathless

silence all around; and laying his hand upon his heart, he said in a

clear stern tone, "I pronounce John of Anjou guilty of murder and

disloyalty; I hold him a cruel and perverse traitor; and I declare

that for these crimes, his feofs of Normandy, Anjou, Poitou, Maine,

and Guyenne, are justly forfeited to his sovereign lord, and he

himself worthy of death, upon my honour!"

A murmur of approbation succeeded, for a great proportion of the

barons had already determined upon a similar judgment; and those who

had remained undecided, were glad of some one with whose opinion to

establish their own. One after another now rose; and, notwithstanding

all the hesitation which many had felt the moment before, there was

not one dissenting voice from the condemnation pronounced by the Duke

of Burgundy. Had there been any strong mind to oppose, half the peers

would have followed him like a flock of sheep, but there was none; and

they now all eagerly, and almost turbulently, pronounced judgment

against John of Anjou, sentencing him unanimously to forfeiture of all

his feofs, and every pain inflicted on high felony.

The silence was succeeded by a babble of tongues perfectly

extraordinary; but the moment after, the voice of the king was heard

above the rest, and all was again hushed.

What would in the present day smack of stage effect, was in perfect

harmony with the manners, habits, and feelings of those times, when a

spirit unknown to us--a moving principle whose force is now exhausted,

or only felt even feebly in the breasts of a few--the spirit of

chivalry, impelled men to every thing that was singular and striking.

Philip rose majestically from his throne, drew his sword from the

scabbard, and, advancing to the table, laid the weapon upon it naked.

Then, gazing round the peers, he exclaimed, "To arms! to arms! nobles

of France, your judgment is pronounced! 'tis time to enforce it with

the sword!--to arms! to arms I lose no moments in vain words. Call

together your vassals. Philip of France marches to execute your

sentence against John of Anjou; and he calls on his barons to support

their award! The day of meeting is the tenth from this, the place of

_monstre_ beneath the walls of château Galliard! let cowards leave me,

and brave men follow me! and I will punish the traitor before a year

be out."

So saying, he waved his hand to his peers; and, followed by the

heralds and men-at-arms, left the hall of assembly.

The younger and less clear-sighted of the peers eagerly applauded

Philip's brief appeal! but there was, in fact, a tone of triumph in

it, which struck the more deep-thinking barons, and perhaps made them

fear that they had that day consecrated a power, which might sooner or

later be used against themselves. Doubt kept them silent, however; and

they separated at once, to prepare for the campaign before them.

Philip Augustus lost no time. Scarcely had the herald carried to John

of England the news of his condemnation by the court of peers, than

every part of his dominions in France were invaded at once with an

overpowering force.

Disgusted with his baseness, his treachery, and his levity, the barons

of England afforded him but little aid, and the nobles of his French

dominions, in most instances, yielded willingly to the king of France,

who offered them friendship and protection on which they could rely.

The greater towns, indeed, of Maine and Normandy still held for John,

and made some show of resistance: but what by superior force and skill

in war, and what by politic concessions, before two months were over

the major part had been led to submit to Philip.

The war was of course begun, as was ever the case in those days, by

hordes of plunderers of every description, who, on the very first call

to arms, inundated Normandy, pillaging, ravaging, and destroying,

sparing neither sex nor age, and, by their excesses, driving the

people to submit willingly to the authority of the French monarch, who

alone could afford them any sufficient protection. To the towns,

Philip held out the promise of being rendered free communes under

royal charters; to the barons he offered security in all their rights

and privileges; and to the people, peace and safety. With these

offers, and the sight of their accomplishment wherever they were

accepted, on the one hand, and an immense and conquering army on the

other, it is not at all wonderful that triumph should follow every

where the royal standard of France.

John fled timidly into Guyenne, while the Earl of Salisbury, with

small and inefficient forces, endeavoured in some degree to check the

progress of the French monarch. Battles there were none, for the

inequality of the two armies totally prevented William Longsword from

hazarding any thing like a general engagement; but sieges and

skirmishes succeeded each other rapidly; and De Coucy had now the

opportunity of drinking deep the cup of glory for which he had so long

thirsted.

At the head of the retainers of the Count de Tankerville, which formed

as splendid a leading as any in the army, he could display those high

military talents, which had always hitherto been confined to a

narrower sphere. He did not neglect the occasion of doing so, and in

castle and in bower, throughout all the land of France, wherever great

deeds were spoken of, there was repeated the name of Sir Guy de Coucy.

In the mean while, still confined to the castle of Rolleboise, Isadore

of the Mount heard, from day to day, of her lover's feats of arms;

and, though she often trembled for his safety, with those timid fears

from which a woman's heart, even in the days of chivalry, was never

wholly free; yet, knowing the impulse that carried him forward, and

proud of the affection that she had inspired and that she returned,

whenever the name of the young knight was mentioned, her eye sparkled

and her cheek glowed with love, and hope, and expectation.

Her father, she thought, after the base attempt made to carry her off

by William de la Roche Guyon--of the particulars of which she was now

fully aware--would never press her to wed so base a traitor; and who

stood so fair to win the place that he had lost as Guy de Coucy? Thus

whispered hope. Fear, however, had another discourse; and perhaps she

listened as often to the tale of the one, as the other.