During this time, the Count d'Auvergne had recovered from the wound he

had received; and, under the care of his own attendants, who, by the

clue afforded by De Coucy, had regained him, soon acquired new

strength--at least, of body. It was remarked, however, that, though

while suffering excessive exhaustion from loss of blood, his mind had

been far more clear and collected; yet, in proportion as he recovered

his corporeal vigour, his intellectual faculties again abandoned him.

His followers, who, notwithstanding the cold sternness of his manners,

loved him with true feudal attachment, kept a continual watch upon

him; but it was in vain they did so. With a degree of cunning, often

joined to insanity, he contrived to deceive all eyes; and once more

made his escape, leaving not a trace by which he could be followed.

Such was the situation of all the personages concerned in this

history, towards the end of the month of June; when suddenly the Earl

of Salisbury, with the handful of men who had accompanied him, ceasing

to hover round the king's army, harassing it with continued

skirmishes, as had been his custom, disappeared entirely, leaving all

Normandy open and undefended, A thousand vague reports were instantly

circulated through the camp; but the only correct one was, that which

was brought to the king's tent, as he sat writing after the march of

the morning.

"Well," cried Philip, as one of his most active scouts was ushered

into his presence, "what news of the Earl of Salisbury? No more _I

believes!_ Give me some certainty."

"My lord," replied the man, "I am now sure; for I saw the rear-guard

of his army in full march towards Boulogne. Mocking the jargon of the

Normans, I spoke with some of the men, when I found that the whole

host is boon for Flanders."

"Ha! so soon!" cried the king. "I knew not that they were so far

prepared."

But, to explain the king's words, we must turn to the events which had

been going on without the immediate limits of France, and which, while

he was striding from victory to victory within his own dominions,

threatened to overwhelm him by the combination of his external

enemies, with all his discontented vassals.

CHAPTER XI.

During the wars in Normandy and Maine, John had been absent, but not

inactive; and, what by his single power he could not bring about, he

resolved to accomplish by coalition. Many causes of enmity towards

Philip Augustus existed amongst all the monarchs by whose territories

his kingdom was surrounded, and not less amongst his own immediate

vassals; and John at once saw, that his only hope of ever regaining

the feofs that Philip had wrested from him, was in joining his own

power with those of every enemy of the French monarch, and hurling

him, by their united efforts, from the throne.

The English sovereign found no opposition to these schemes of policy.

Otho, emperor of Germany, had met in Philip an unceasing and

irreconcileable adversary. Philip it was who had principally opposed

his election; Philip it was who had raised candidate after candidate

against him. Philip it was who had taken advantage of his late

quarrels with the irritable pope; and had, even after his coronation,

thrown in a rival, and placed the greater part of Upper Germany in the

hands of Frederic of Sicily. Otho, therefore, thirsted for vengeance;

and the proposal of a general confederacy against the French monarch

but fulfilled his hopes and anticipated his efforts.

Ferrand, count of Flanders, was not less easily won to join the

coalition. One of the greatest vassals of the crown of France, with

territories more extensive than the royal domain itself, he had ever

been jealous of Philip's increasing power, and had, by many a breach

of his feudal duties, endeavoured to loosen the tie that bound him to

his sovereign. By the example of John, however, he now began to see

that such breach of duty would not pass unpunished. Views of ambition,

too, joined themselves to hatred and fear. He saw prospects of

independence, of sovereignty, and immense territorial aggrandisement,

as the infallible consequence of Philip's overthrow; and he therefore

was one of the first to put his name to the confederation. So great an

alliance once established, thousands of minor princes joined

themselves to it, eager to share the spoil. The dukes of Brabant and

Lemburgh, the counts of Holland, Namur, and Boulogne, whether vassals

of the king of France or not, all found some motive to unite against

him, and some excuse to their own conscience, for throwing off the

homage they had vowed.

In the mean time, the disaffection of Philip's vassals in the heart of

his kingdom was great and increasing. The immense strides which the

monarchical power had taken under his guidance; the very vast increase

of authority they had themselves cast into his hands by their judgment

against John: the extensive increase of absolute domain, which his

prompt and successful execution of that judgment had given him, made

each baron tremble for his own power; while, at the same time,

Philip's protection of the communes, his interference in matters of

justice and general right, and the appeal he granted in his court as

supreme lord against the decisions of his great vassals, made each

also tremble for the stability of the feudal system itself.

John took care to encourage discontent and apprehension. A thousand

rumours were spread concerning Philip's views and intentions. Some

declared that his ambitious mind would never be at peace till he had

re-established the empire of Charlemagne--till he had broken the power

of the barons, and wrested from their hands the administration of

justice in their territories. Some said that his plans were already

formed for throwing down their strongholds, and possessing himself of

their lands; and there was not, in fact, a report, however

extravagant, that could irritate the fears and jealousies of the

nobles of France against their king, that was not cunningly devised,

and industriously circulated.

Some believed, and some pretended to believe; and nothing was heard

of, from all parts of the kingdom, but preparations for revolt.

In the mean while, Philip was, as we have already shown, steadily

pursuing his operations against John, the more anxious for success,

because he knew that one defeat would at once call the storm upon his

head. He suffered himself not to be turned from the business he had in

hand by threatenings of any kind, having secured what he considered

sufficient support amongst his barons to repel his external enemies

and punish internal rebellion. He saw too, with that keen sagacity

which was one of his peculiar qualities, that passions were beginning

to mingle themselves in the confederacy of his enemies, which would in

time weaken their efforts, if not disunite them entirely. These

passions were not those doubts and jealousies of each other, which so

often overthrow the noblest alliances; but rather that wild and eager

grasping after the vast and important changes which can only be

brought about by the operation of many slow and concentring causes.

The designs of the confederates spread as they found their powers

increase. Their first object had been but to make war upon Philip

Augustus. Perhaps even the original proposal extended but to curb his

authority, and reduce him to the same position with his predecessors.

Gradually, however, they determined to cast him and his race from the

throne; and, calculating upon the certainty of success, they proceeded

by treaty to divide his dominions amongst them. Otho was assigned his

part, John his, and Ferrand of Flanders claimed Paris and all the

adjacent territory for himself. All laws and customs established by

Philip were to be done away, and the feudal system restored, as it had

been seen a century and a half before. Various other changes were

determined upon; but that which was principally calculated to destroy

their alliance, was the resolution to attack the power of the church,

and to divide its domains amongst the barons and the knights.

John had felt the lash of a papal censure; and, though the

ecclesiastical authority had been exercised for the purpose of raising

Otho to the imperial throne, he also had since experienced the weight

of the church's domination, and had become inimical to the sway by

which he had been formerly supported. Nothing then was spoken of less

than reducing the power of Rome, and seizing on the luxurious wealth

of the clergy.

Innocent the pope heard and trembled; and, though he the very first

had laid the basis of the confederacy against the French monarch, he

now saw consequences beyond it, that made him use every effort to stop

it in its career; but it was in vain. The hatreds he raised up against

Philip in his own dominions--the fears he had excited, and the

jealousies he had stimulated, were now producing their fruits; and a

bitter harvest they promised against himself. At the same time, as he

contemplated the approaching struggle, which was hurrying on with

inconceivable rapidity to its climax, he beheld nothing but danger

from whatever party might prove victorious. Over the King of France,

however, he fancied he had some check, so long as the question of his

divorce remained undecided, and consequently the usual doubts and

hesitations of the church of Rome were prolonged even beyond their

ordinary measure of delay.

The confederation had not been so silent in its movements but that the

report thereof had reached the ears of Philip Augustus. Care had been

taken, however, that the immediate preparations should be made as

privately as possible, so that the first intimation that the troops of

the coalition were actually in the field against him, was given by the

movement of the Earl of Salisbury, upon Flanders.

After that moment, however, "post after post came thick as hail,"

announcing the various motions of the allies. A hundred and fifty

thousand men, of all nations and arms, were already assembled on the

banks of the Scheld. John of England was in arms in Poitou; and more

than twenty strong places had submitted to him without a stroke.

Otho's imperial banner was given to the wind; and fresh thousands were

flocking to it every hour, as if his very Gothic name had called

together the myriads of the North to a fresh invasion of the more

civilised world.

At the same time, revolt and disaffection were manifest through every

district of Languedoc; and some of the nearest relations and oldest

friends of the French monarch swelled the ranks of his enemies. Such

were the tidings that every courier brought; and such were the forces

that threatened to overwhelm the kingdom of France and overthrow its

throne.

It would be vain to say that Philip Augustus saw such a mighty

combination against him without alarm; but it was not the alarm of a

weak and feeble mind, which yields to difficulties, or shrinks from

danger. No sooner did he hear the extent to which his enemies'

preparations had been carried--an extent which he had not fully

anticipated--than he issued his charter, convoking the _ban_ and

_arrière ban_ of France to meet at Soissons, and calling to his aid

all good men and true throughout his dominions.

Though far inferior in number to his enemies, the force he mustered

was any thing but insignificant. Then appeared the gratitude of the

communes towards the king who had enfrachised them. By their charters

they were bound to furnish a certain number of armed men in times of

need; but on this occasion there is every reason to believe that they

far exceeded their quota.

Nor were the nobles and the knights a few who presented themselves at

the _monstre_ at Soissons. Seldom had France shown so brilliant a

display of chivalry; and even their inferiority of number was more

than compensated by their zeal and their renown in arms.

First passed before the monarch, as he sat on his battle-horse

surrounded by the troops of his own domains, his faithful vassal,

Eudes, Duke of Burgundy, followed by all his vassals, vavassours, and

knights, with a long train of many thousand archers and men-at-arms

from all the vast lands of his kingly dukedom.

Next came Thibalt of Champagne, yet in his green youth, but

accompanied by his uncle Philip, and a contingent of knights and

soldiers that was an army in itself. Then succeeded the Counts of

Dreux, Auxerre, Ponthieu, and St. Paul, each with a long train of

men-at-arms. De Coucy leading the troops of Tankerville, the Lords of

Montmorency, of Malvoisin, St. Valary, Mareiul, and Roye, with the

Viscount of Melun, and the famous Guillaume des Barres, followed

after; while the troops willingly raised by the clergy, and the long

trains of archers and men-at-arms furnished by the free cities,

completed the line, and formed an army of more than eighty thousand

men, all bedecked with glittering banners and dancing plumes, which

gave the whole that air of splendour and pageant that excites

enthusiasm and stimulates hope.

The king's eyes lightened with joy as he looked upon them; and

conscious of his own great powers of mind to lead to the best effect

the noble host before him, he no longer doubted of victory.

"Now," said he in his own breast, as he thought of all that the last

few years had brought--the humiliation that the pope had inflicted on

him--the agony of his parting from Agnes--the vow that had been

extorted from him not to see her till the council had pronounced upon

his divorce, if its sentence should be given within six months--the

long delays of the church of Rome, which had now nearly protracted its

deliberations beyond that period--the treason which the proceedings of

Innocent had stirred up amongst his vassals, mingled with the memory

of torn affections and many bitter injuries--"now! it shall be my turn

to triumph, Agnes! I will soon be thine, or in the grave! and let me

see the man, prelate or prince, who, when I have once more clasped

thy hand in mine, shall dare to pluck it thence! Now, now!" he

murmured,--"now the turn is mine!"

Detaching a part of his new-raised army to keep in check the forces of

King John in Poitou, Philip Augustus, without a moment's delay,

marched to meet the chief body of the confederates in Flanders.

All the horrors of a great and bloody warfare soon followed the bodies

of plunderers and adventurers that went before the army, burning,

pillaging, and destroying every thing, as they advanced beyond the

immediate territories of the king. Nothing was beheld as the army

advanced, but smoking ruins, devastated fields, and the dead bodies of

women and children, mingled with the half-consumed carcasses of

cattle, and the broken implements of industry and domestic comfort. It

was a piteous and sad sight to see all the pleasant dwellings of a

land laid waste, the hopes of the year's labour all destroyed; and the

busy human emmets, that had there toiled and joyed, swept away as if

the wing of a pestilence had brushed the face of the earth, or lying

murdered on their desolate hearths.

Philip Augustus, more refined than his age, strove to soften the

rigours of warfare by many a proclamation against all useless

violence; but in that day such proclamations were in vain; and the

very unsheathing of war's flaming sword scorched up the land before it

struck.

In the mean while, the Imperial forces, now swelled to more than two

hundred thousand men, marched eagerly to meet the king, and about the

same time each army arrived within a few miles of Tournay.

Both chieftains longed for a battle, yet the ardour of Philip's forces

was somewhat slackened since their departure from Soissons. Ferrand of

Flanders and his confederates had contrived, with infinite art, to

seduce some of the followers of the French monarch, and to spread

doubt and suspicion over many others; so that Philip's reliance was

shaken in his troops, and most of the leaders divided amongst

themselves.

Such' continued the doubtful state of the royal army when Philip

arrived at Tournay, and heard that the emperor, with all his forces,

was encamped at the village of Mortain, within ten miles of the city;

but still the king resolved to stake all upon a battle; for, though

his troops were inferior, he felt that his own superior mind was a

host; and he saw that, if the disaffection which was reported really

existed amongst his barons, delay would but increase it in a tenfold

degree.

The evening had come, all his preparations were over he had summoned

his barons to council in an hour; and, sitting in a large chamber of

the old castle of Tournay, Philip had given order that he should not

be disturbed.

He felt, as it were, a thirst for calm and tranquil thought. The last

few months of his existence had been given up to all the energy of

action; his reflections had been nothing but eternal calculation--the

combination of his own movements--the anticipation of his enemy's--

plans of battle and policy; and all the thousand momentary anxieties

that press upon the general of a large and ill-organised army. He had

thought deeply and continually, it is true; but he had not time for

thoughts of that grand and extensive nature that raise and dignify the

mind every time they are indulged. Though Agnes, too, was still the

secret object that gave life and movement to all his energies--though

he loved her still with that deep, powerful love that is seldom

permitted to share the heart with ambition--though she, in fact, was

his ambition's object, and though the battle to which he strode would,

if won, place in his hands such power, that none should dare to hold

her from him--yet he had scarcely hitherto had an instant to bestow on

those calmer, sweeter, gentler ideas, where feeling mingles with

reflection, and relieves the mind from petty calculation and workday

cares. There are surely two distinct parts linked together in the

human soul--feeling and thought:--the thought, that receives, that

separates, that investigates, that combines;--the feeling, that hopes,

that wishes, that enjoys, that creates.

Philip Augustus, however, felt a thirst for that calm reflection,

wherein feeling has the greater shared and, covering his eyes with his

hands, he now abandoned himself to it altogether. The coming day was

to be a day of bloodshed and of strife,--a day that was to hurl him

from a throne, or to crown him with immortal renown,--to leave him a

corpse on the cold field of battle, or to increase his power and

glory, and restore him to Agnes. He thought of it long and deeply. He

thought of what would be Agnes' grief if she heard that her husband,

that her lover had fallen before his enemies; and he wrung his own

heart by picturing the agony of hers. Then again came brighter

visions. Hope rose up and grew into expectation; and he fancied what

would be her joy, when, crowned with the laurel of victory, and

scoffing to shame the impotent thunder of the Roman church, he should

clasp her once more in his arms, and bid her tread upon the necks of

her enemies. Ambition perhaps had its share in his breast, and his

thoughts might run on to conquest yet to come, and to mighty schemes

of polity and aggrandisement; but still Agnes had therein a share. In

the chariot of victory, or on the imperial throne, imagination always

placed her by his side.

His dream was interrupted by a quick step, and the words, "My lord!"

and, uncovering his eyes, he beheld Guerin advancing from behind the

tapestry that fell over the door.

"What now, Guerin?" cried the king somewhat impatiently. "What now?"

"My lord," replied the minister, "I would not have intruded, but that

I have just seen a fellow, who brings tidings from the enemy's camp,

of such importance, I judged that you would willingly give ear to it

yourself."

"Knowest thou the man?" demanded Philip: "I love not spies."

"I cannot say with any certainty, that I have before seen him, sire,"

replied Guerin, "though I have some remembrance of his face. He says,

however, that he was foot-servant to Prince Arthur, who hired him at

Tours; and he gives so clear an account of the taking of Mirebeau, and

the subsequent disasters, that there is little doubt of his tale. He

says moreover, that, being taken there with the rest, Lord Salisbury

has kept him with him since, to dress one of his horses; till, finding

himself so near the royal army, he made his escape like a true man."

"Admit him," said the king: "his tale is a likely one."

Guerin retired for a moment; and then returned, with a bony, powerful

man, whose short cut hair, long beard, and mustachoes, offered so

different an appearance to the face of anything like a Frenchman in

those days, that Philip gazed on him with some doubts.

"How, fellow!" cried he; "thou art surely some Polack, no true

Frenchman, with thy beard like a hermit's, and thy hair like a

hedge-hog!"

The man's tongue, however, at once showed that he claimed France for

his country justly; and his singular appearance he accounted for, by

saying it was a whim of the Earl of Salisbury.

"Answer me then," said the king, looking upon him somewhat sternly.

"Where were your tents pitched in the enemy's camp?--You will find I

know their forces as well as you; and if you deceive me, you die."

"The tents of the Earl of Salisbury are pitched between those of the

Count of Holland and the troops of the emperor, so please you, sire,"

replied the man boldly. "I came to tell you the truth, not to deceive

you."

"You have spoken truth in one thing, at least," replied the monarch.

"One more question," he continued, looking at some notes on the

table,--"one more question, and thou shalt tell thy tale thy own way.

What troops lie behind those of the Duke of Brabant, and what are

their number?"

"The next tents to those of the Duke of Brabant," replied the man,

"are those of the Duke of Lorraine, amounting, they say in the camp,

to nine hundred knights and seven thousand men-at-arms."

"Thou art right in the position, fellow, and nearly right in the

number," replied the king, "therefore will I believe thee. Now repeat

the news that you gave to that good knight."

"May it please you, sire," replied the man, with a degree of boldness

that amounted almost to affectation, "late last night, a council was

held in the tent of the emperor; and the Earl of Salisbury chose me to

hold his horse near the entrance of the tent,--for he is as proud an

Englishman as ever buckled on spurs;--and, though all the other

princes contented themselves with leaving their horses on the outside

of the second guard, he must needs ride to the very door of the tent,

and have his horse held there till he came out."

"By my faith! 'tis like their island pride!" said the king. "Each

Englishman fancies himself equal to a prince. But proceed with thy

tale, and be quick, for the hour of the council approaches."

"My story is a very short one, sire," replied the man, "for it was but

little I heard. However, after they had spoken within the tent for

some time in a low voice, the emperor's tongue sounded very loud, as

if some one had opposed him; and I heard him say, 'He will march

against us, whatever be the peril--I know him well; and then, at the

narrow passage of Damarets we will cut them off to a man, for Sir Guy

de Coucy has promised to embarrass their rear with the men of

Tankerville;--and he will keep his word too!' cried the emperor

loudly, as if some one had seemed to doubt it, 'for we have promised

him the hand of his lady love, the daughter of Count Julian of the

Mount, if we win the victory.'

"Ha!" cried the king, turning his eyes from the countenance of the

informer to that of Guerin,--"ha! this is treason, indeed! Said they

aught else, fellow, that you heard?"

"They spoke of there being many traitors in your host, sire," replied

the man; "but they named none else but Sir Guy de Coucy; and just then

I heard the Earl of Salisbury speak as if he were walking to the mouth

of the tent. 'If Philip discovers his treason,' said he, 'he will cut

off his head, and then your plan is nought.' Just as he spoke, he came

out, and seeing me stand near the tent, he bade me angrily go farther

off, so that I heard no more."

"Have Sir Guy de Coucy to prison!" said the king, turning to Guerin.

"By the holy rood! we will follow the good Earl of Salisbury's plan,

and have one traitor less in the camp!"

As he heard these words, the eyes of the informer sparkled with a

degree of joy, that did not escape the keen observing glance of the

king; but, wishing to gain more certain knowledge, he thanked him with

condescending dignity for the news he had given, and told him to wait

amongst the serjeants of arms below, till the council should be over,

when the chancellor would give him a purse of gold, as a reward for

his services. The man with a low reverence retired. "Follow, Guerin,"

cried Philip hastily. "Bid some of the serjeants look to him narrowly,

but let them treat him well. Lead him to babble, if it be possible.

However, on no account let him escape. Have this De Coucy to prison

too, though I doubt the tale."

Guerin turned to obey; but, at that moment, the pages from without

opened the doors of the chamber, giving entrance to the barons who had

been called to the council.

A moment of bustle succeeded; and by the time that Guerin could quit

the king, the man who had brought the information we have just heard

was gone, and nowhere to be found.

So suspicious a circumstance induced Guerin to refrain from those

strong measures against De Coucy which the king had commanded, till he

had communicated with the monarch on the subject. He sent down,

however to the young knight's quarters, to require his presence at the

castle on business of import; when the answer returned by his squires

was, that De Coucy himself, his squire Hugo de Barre, who had by this

time been ransomed by his lord, his page, and a small party of lances,

had been absent ever since the encampment had been completed, and no

one knew whither they had gone.

Guerin knit his brows; for he would have staked much upon De Coucy's

honour; but yet, his absence at so critical a moment was difficult to

be accounted for. He returned to Philip instantly, and found the

council still in deliberation; some of its members being of opinion

that it would be better to march directly forward upon Mortain and

attack the enemy without loss of time; and others, again strongly

counselling retreat upon Peronne.

Many weighty arguments had been produced on both sides, and at the

moment Guerin entered, a degree of silence had taken place previous to

the king's pronouncing his final decision. Guerin, however, approached

the monarch, and bending beside him, informed him, in a low voice, of

what he had just heard.

The king listened, knitting his brows and fixing his eyes upon the

table, till Guerin had concluded; then raising his head, and thinking

for a moment, without taking any immediate notice of what the minister

had said, he announced his decision on the point before the council.

"Noble lords," said he, "we have heard and weighed your opinions upon

the conduct of the war; but various circumstances will induce us, in

some degree, to modify both, or, rather, to take a medium between

them. If we advance upon the enemy at Mortain, we expose ourself to

immense disadvantage in the narrow passage by Damarets. This

consideration opposes itself on the one hand; and on the other, it

must never be said that Philip of France fled before his enemies, when

supported by so many true and faithful peers as we see around us

here;" and the monarch glanced his eagle eye rapidly from face to

face, with a look which, without evincing doubt, gathered at once the

expression of each as he spoke. "Our determination therefore is, early

to-morrow morning to march, as if towards Lille; and the next day,

wheeling through the open plains of that country, to take the enemy on

their flank, before they are aware of our designs. By dawn, therefore,

I pray ye, noble peers, have your men all arrayed beneath your

banners, and we will march against our enemy; who, be assured,

whatever fair promises he holds out, is not alone the enemy of Philip,

but of every true Frenchman. You are fighting for your hearths and for

your homes; and where is the man, that will not strike boldly in such

a quarrel? For to-night, lords, adieu! To-morrow we will meet you with

the first ray of the sun."

With these words the council broke up, and the barons took their leave

and withdrew; some well contented with the king's plan, some murmuring

that their opinion had not been conceded to, and some perhaps

disappointed with a scheme that threatened failure to the very

confederacy against which they appeared in arms.

"'Tis strange, Guerin! 'tis strange!" cried the king, as soon as his

peers were gone, "We have traitors amongst us, I fear!--Yet I will not

believe that De Coucy is false. His absence is unaccountable; but,

depend on it, there is some good cause;--and yet, that groom's tale

against him! 'Tis strange! I doubt some of the faces, too, that I have

seen but now. But I will try them, Guerin--I will try them; and if

they be traitors, they shall damn themselves to hell!"

As the king had commanded, with the first ray of the sun the host was

under arms; and stretching out in a long line under the walls of

Tournay, it offered a gay and splendid sight, with the horizontal

beams of the early morning shining bright on a thousand banners, and

flashing back from ten thousand lances.

The marshals had scarcely arrayed it five minutes, when the king,

followed by his glittering train, issued forth from the castle,

mounted on a superb black charger, and armed cap-à-pié. He rode slowly

from one end of the line to the other, bowing his plumed helmet in

answer to the shouts and acclamations of the troops, and then returned

to the very centre of the host. Circling round the crest of his casque

were seen the golden fleurs de lis of the crown of France; and it was

remarked, that behind him two of his attendants carried an immense

golden wine-cup called a hanap, and a sharp naked sword.

In the centre of the line the king paused, and raised the volant piece

of his helmet, when his face might be seen by every one, calm, proud,

and dignified. At a sign from the monarch, two priests approached,

carrying a large silver cruise and a small loaf of bread, which Philip

received from their hands; and, cutting the bread into pieces with the

edge of the sword carried by his attendant, he placed the pieces in

the chalice, and then poured it full of wine.

"Barons of France!" cried he, in a loud voice, which made itself heard

to an immense distance,--"Barons of France! Some foul liar last night

sent me word, that there were traitors in my council and rebels in my

host. Here I stand before you all, bearing on my casque the crown of

France; and if amongst you there be one man that judges me unworthy to

wear that crown, instantly let him separate from my people and depart

to my enemies. He shall go free and unscathed, with his arms and

followers, on the honour of a king! But those noble barons who are

willing to fight and to die with their sovereign, in defence of their

wives, their children, their homes, and their country--let them come

forward; and in union with their king, eat this consecrated bread, and

taste this sacred wine; and cursed be he who shall hereafter forget

this sign of unity and fellowship!"

A loud shout from the whole host was the first reply; and then each

baron, without an exception, hurried forward before the ranks, and

claimed to pledge himself as Philip had proposed.

In the midst of the ceremony, however, a tall strong man in black

armour pushed his way through the rest, exclaiming--"Give me the cup!

give me the cup!"

When it was placed in his hands, he raised it first to his head,

without lifting the visor of his helmet; but, finding his mistake, he

unclasped the volant hurriedly, and throwing it back, discovered the

wild countenance of Count Thibalt d'Auvergne. He then raised again the

cup, and with a quick, but not ungraceful movement, bowed low to

Philip, and drank some of the wine.

"Philip, king of France, I am yours till death," he said, when he had

drunk; and after gazing for a few moments earnestly in the king's

face, he turned his horse and galloped back to a large body of lances,

a little in the rear of the line.

"Unhappy man!" said the king; and turning to Guerin, he added--"Let

him be looked to, Guerin. See who is with him."

On sending to inquire, however, it was replied, that the Count

d'Auvergne was there with his vassals and followers, to serve his

sovereign Philip Augustus, in his wars, as a true and faithful

liegeman.

Satisfied, therefore, that he was under good and careful guidance, the

king turned his thoughts back to other subjects; and, having briefly

thanked his barons for their ready zeal, commanded the army to begin

its march upon Lille.

CHAPTER XII.

Between Mortain and Tournay, in a small road with high banks on either

side, the shrubs and flowers of which were covered with a thick

coating of dust, rode two of our old acquaintances, on the same

morning that the review we have just described took place in the army

of the king.

The first, armed in haubergeon and casque, with his haussecol, or

gorget, hiding his long beard, and his helmet covering his short cut

hair, it was no longer difficult to recognise as Jodelle the

Brabançois, whom we saw last in an assumed character before Philip

Augustus. By his side, more gaudily costumed than ever, with a long

peacock's feather ornamenting his black cap, rode Gallon the fool.

Though two persons of such respectability might well have pretended to

some attendants, they were alone; and Jodelle, who seemed in some

haste, and not particularly pleased with his companion's society, was

pricking on at a sharp pace. But Gallon's mare, on which he was once

more mounted, had been trained by himself, and ambled after the

coterel's horse, with a sweet sort of pertinacity from which there was

no escaping.

"Why follow you me, fool, devil?" cried the Brabançois.--"Get thee

gone! We shall meet again. Fear not! I am in haste; and, my curse upon

those idiot Saxons that let you go, when I charged them to keep you,

after you hunted me all the way from your camp to ours last night."

"Haw, haw!" cried Gallon, showing all his white sharp teeth to the

very back, as he grinned at Jodelle;--"haw, haw! thou art ungrateful,

sire Jodelle--Haw, haw! to think of a coterel being ungrateful! Did

not I let thee into all Coucy's secrets two days ago? Did not I save

thy neck from the hangman five months ago? And now, thou ungrateful

hound, thou grudgest me thy sweet company.--Haw, haw! I that love

thee,--haw, haw, haw! I that enjoy thy delectable society!--Haw, haw!

Haw, haw! Haw, haw!" and he rolled and shouted with laughter, as if

the very idea of any one loving the Brabançois was sufficient to

furnish the whole world with mirth. "So, thou toldest thy brute

Saxons to keep me, or hang me, or burn me alive, if they would, last

night--ay, and my bonny mare too; saying, it was as great devil as

myself. Haw, haw! maître Jodelle! They told me all. But they fell in

love with my phiz; and let me go, all for the sweetness of my

countenance. Who can resist my wonderous charms?" and he contorted his

features into a form that left them the likeness of nothing human.

"But I'll plague thee!" he continued; "I'll never leave thee, till I

see what thou dost with that packet in thy bosom.--Haw, haw! I'll

teaze thee! I have plagued the Coucy enough, for a blow he gave me one

day. Haw, haw! that I have! Now, methinks, I'll have done with that,

and do him some good service!"

"Thou'lt never serve him more, fool!" cried Jodelle, his eyes gleaming

with sanguinary satisfaction; "I have paid him, too, for the blow he

gave me--and for more things than that! His head is off by this time,

juggler! I heard the order given myself--ay, and I caused that order.

Ha! canst thou do a feat like that?"

"Haw, haw! Haw, haw, haw!" screamed Gallon, wriggling his snout hither

and thither, and holding his sides with laughter. "Haw, haw! thou

dolt! thou ass! thou block! thou stump of an old tree! By the Lord!

thou must be a wit after all, to invent such a piece of uncommon

stupidity.--Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw! Didst thou think, that I would

have furnished thee with a good tale against the Coucy, and given

thee means of speech with the chancellor himself, without taking

care to get the cow-killing, hammer-fisted homicide out of the way

first?--Haw, haw! thou idiot. Haw, haw, haw!--Lord! what an ass a

coterel is!--Haw, haw, haw!"

"Not such an ass as thou dreamest, fiend!" muttered Jodelle, setting

his teeth close, and almost resolved to aim a blow with his dagger at

the juggler as he rode beside him. But Gallon had always one of his

eyes, at least, fixed upon his companion; and, in truth, Jodelle had

seen so much of his extraordinary activity and strength that he held

Gallon in some dread, and scarcely dared to close with him in fair and

equal fight. He had smothered his vengeance for long, however, and he

had no inclination to delay it much longer, as the worthy Brabançois

had more reasons than one for resolving to rid himself of the society

of a person so little trustworthy as Gallon, in the most summary

manner possible--but the only question was how to take him at a

disadvantage.

For this purpose, it was necessary to cover every appearance of wrath,

that the juggler might be thrown off his guard. Jodelle smoothed his

brow therefore, and, after a moment, affected to join in Gallon's

laugh. "Thou art a cunning dealer!" said he--"thou art a cunning

dealer, sir Gallon! But, in troth, I should like to know how thou

didst contrive to beguile this De Coucy away from the army, as thou

sayest, at such a moment."

"Haw, haw!" cried Gallon--"haw, haw! 'Twas no hard work. How dost thou

catch a sparrow, sire Jodelle? Is it not by spreading out some crumbs?

Well, by the holy rood! as he says himself, I sent him a goose's

errand all the way down the river, to reconnoitre a party of men whom

I made Ermold the page, make Hugo the squire, make Coucy the knight,

believe were going to take the king's host on the flank!--Haw, haw! Oh

rare!"

"By St. Peter! thou hast betrayed what I told thee when we were

drinking two nights since," cried Jodelle. "Fool! thou wilt have my

dagger in thee if thou heedest not!"

"Oh rare!" shouted Gallon, "Oh rare! What then, did I tell the Coucy

true, when I said Count Julian of the Mount, and William de la Roche

Guyon, were there with ten thousand men?--Haw, haw! did I tell him

true, coterel? Talk not to me of daggers, lout, or I'll drive mine in

under thy fifth rib, and leave thee as dead as a horse's bones on a

common. Haw, haw! I thought the Coucy would have gone down with all

the men of Tankerville, and have chined me that fair-faced coward,

that once fingered this great monument of my beauty;" and he laid his

finger on his long unnatural snout, with so mingled an expression of

face, that it was difficult to decide whether he spoke in vanity or

mockery. "But he only went down to reconnoitre," added the juggler.

"The great ninny! he might have swallowed father and lover up at a

mouthful, and then married the heiress if he had liked! And he calls

me fool, too! Oh rare!--But where art thou going, beau sire Jodelle? I

saw all your army a-foot before I left them to come after you; and I

dreamed that they were going to cut off the king at the passage by

Bovines; and doubtless thou art bearer of an order to Sir Julian, and

Count William, with the Duke of Limburg and the men of Ardennes, to

take him in the rear. Haw, haw! there will be fine smashing of bones,

and hacking of flesh. I must be there to have the picking of the dead

men."

Thus ran on Gallon, rambling from subject to subject, but withal

betraying so clear a knowledge of all the plans of the imperial army,

that Jodelle believed his information to be little less than magical;

though indeed Gallon was indebted for it to strolling amongst the

tents of the Germans the night before, and catching here and

there, while he amused the knights and squires with his tricks of

_jonglerie_, all the rumours that were afloat concerning the movements

of the next day. From these, with a happiness that madness sometimes

has, he jumped at conclusions, which many a wiser brain would have

missed, and, like a blind man stumbling on a treasure, hit by accident

upon the exact truth.

As his conversation with Jodelle arrived at this particular point, the

road which they were pursuing opened out upon a little irregular piece

of ground, bisected by another by-path, equally ornamented by high

rough banks. Nevertheless, neither of these roads traversed the centre

of the little green or common; the one which the travellers were

pursuing skirting along the side, under the sort of cliff by which it

was flanked, and the other edging the opposite extreme. At the

intersection of the paths, however, on the very top of the farther

bank, stood a tall elm tree, which Gallon measured with his eye as

they approached.

"Haw, haw!" cried he, delighting in every recollection that might

prove unpleasant to his neighbours.--"Haw, haw! Beau sire Jodelle!

Monstrous like the tree on which they were going to hang you, near the

Pont de l'Arche! Haw, haw, haw! The time when you were like to be

hanged, and I saved you--you remember?"

"Thou didst not save me, fool!" replied the Brabançois: "'twas king

John saved me. I would not owe my life to such a foul fool as thou

art, for all that it is worth. The king saved my life to do a great

deed of vengeance, which I will accomplish yet before I die," added

Jodelle, "and then I'll account with him too, for what I owe him--he

shall not be forgot! no, no!" and the plunderer's eyes gleamed as he

thought of the fate that the faithless monarch had appointed for him,

and connected it with the vague schemes of vengeance that were

floating through his own brain.

"Haw, haw!" cried Gallon. "If thou goest not to hell, sire Jodelle,

thou art sure t'will not be for lack of thanklessness, to back your

fair bevy of gentlemanly vices. John, the gentle, sent thee thy

pardon, that thou mightest murder De Coucy for prating of his

murdering Arthur,--I know that as well as thou dost; but had my tongue

not been quicker than his messenger's horse, thou wouldst soon have

been farther on your road to heaven than ever you may be again. Oh

rare! How the crows of the _Pont de l'Arche_ must hate me! Haw, haw!

vinegar face! didst ever turn milk sour with thy sharp nose?--Hark!

Hear you not a distant clatter? Your army is marching down towards the

bridge, prince Pumkin," he rambled on; "I'll up into yon tree, and

see; for this country is as flat as peas porridge."

So saying. Gallon sprang to the ground, climbed the bank in an

instant, and walked up the straight boll of the tree, as easily as if

he had been furnished with a ladder; giving a quick glance round,

however, every step, to see that Jodelle did not take any advantage of

him.

His movements had been so rapid, that with the best intentions

thereunto in the world, the coterel could not have injured him in his

ascent; and when he was once up, he began to question him on what he

saw.

"What do I see?" said Gallon. "Why, when I look that way, I see German

asses, and Lorraine foxes, and English curs, and Flanders mules, all

marching down towards the river as quietly as may be; and when I look

the other way, I perceive a whole band of French monkeys, tripping on

gaily without seeing the others; and when I look down there," he

continued, pointing to Jodelle, "I see a Provençal wolf, hungry for

plunder, and thirsty for blood;" and Gallon began to descend the tree.

As he had spoken, there was a sound of horses heard coming up the

road, and Jodelle spurred close up under the bank, as if to catch a

glance of the persons who were approaching; but, at the same moment,

he quietly drew his sword. Gallon instantly perceived his man[oe]uvre,

and attempted to spring up the tree once more.

Ere he could do so, however, Jodelle struck at him; and though he

could only reach high enough to wound the tendon of his leg, the pain

made the juggler let go his hold, and he fell to the top of the bank,

nearly on a level with the face of the coterel, who, rising in his

stirrups, with the full lunge of his arm, plunged his sword into his

body.

Though mortally wounded, Gallon, without word or groan, rolled down

the bank, and clung to the legs of his enemy's horse, impeding the

motions of the animal as much as if it had been clogged; while at the

same time Jodelle now urged it furiously with the spur; for the sound

of coming cavaliers, and the glance of a knight's pennon from behind

the turn of the road, at about an hundred yards' distance, showed him

that he must either ride on, or take the risk of the party being

inimical to his own.

Three times the horse, plunging furiously under the spur, set its feet

full on the body of the unfortunate juggler; but still he kept his

hold, without a speech or outcry, till suddenly shouting "Haw,

haw!--Haw, haw, haw!--The Coucy! the Coucy! Haw, haw!" he let go his

hold; and the coterel galloped on at full speed, ascertaining by a

single glance, that Gallon's shout announced nothing but the truth.

De Coucy's eyes were quick, however; and his horse far fleeter than

that of the coterel. He saw Jodelle, and recognised him instantly;

while the dying form of Gallon, and the blood that stained the dry

white sand of the road, in dark red patches round about, told their

own tale, and were not to be mistaken. Without pausing to clasp his

visor, or to brace his shield, the knight snatched his lance from his

squire, struck his spurs into the flanks of his charger; and, before

Jodelle had reached the other side of the little green, the iron of

the spear struck him between the shoulders, and, passing through his

plastron as if it had been made of parchment, hurled him from his

horse, never to mount again. A shrill cry like that of a wounded

vulture, as the knight struck him, and a deep groan as he fell to the

ground, were the only sounds that the plunderer uttered more. De Coucy

tugged at his lance for a moment, endeavouring to shake it free from

the body; but, finding that he could not do so without dismounting, he

left it in the hands of his squire, and returned to the spot where

Gallon the fool still lay, surrounded by part of the young knight's

train.

"Coucy, Coucy!" cried the dying juggler, in a faint voice, "Gallon is

going on the long journey! Come hither, and speak to him before he

sets out!"

The young knight put his foot to the ground, and came close up to his

wounded follower, who gazed on him with wistful eyes, in which shone

the first glance of affection, perhaps, that ever he had bestowed on

mortal man.

"I am sorry to leave thee, Coucy!" said he, "I am sorry to leave thee,

now it comes to this--I love thee better than I thought. Give me thy

hand."

De Coucy spoke a few words of kindness to him, and let him take his

hand, which he carried feebly to his lips, and licked it like a dying

dog.

"I have spited you very often, Coucy," said the juggler; "and do you

know I am sorry for it now, for you have been kinder to me than any

one else. Will you forgive me?"

"Yes, my poor Gallon," replied the knight: "I know of no great evil

thou hast done; and even if thou hast, I forgive thee from my heart."

"Heaven bless thee for it!" said Gallon.--"Heaven bless thee for

it!--But hark thee, De Coucy! I will do thee one good turn before I

die. Give me some wine out of thy _boutiau_, mad Ermold the page, and

I will tell the Coucy where I have wronged him, and where he may right

himself. Give me some wine, quick, for my horse is jogging to the

other world."

Ermold, as he was desired, put the leathern bottle, which every one

travelled with in those days, to the lips of the dying man; who, after

a long draught, proceeded with his confession. We will pass over many

a trick which he acknowledged to have played his lord in the Holy

Land, at Constantinople, and in Italy, always demanding between each,

"Can you forgive me now?" De Coucy's heart was not one to refuse

pardon to a dying man; and Gallon proceeded to speak of the deceit he

had put upon him concerning the lands of the Count de Tankerville. "It

was all false together," said he. "The Vidame of Besançon told me to

tell you, that his friend, the Count de Tankerville, had sent a

charter to be kept in the king's hands, giving you all his feofs; and

now, when he sees you with the army, commanding the men of

Tankerville, the vidame thinks that you are commanding them by your

own right, not out of the good will of the king. Besides, he told me,

he did not know whether your uncle was dead or not; but that Bernard,

the hermit of Vincennes, could inform you."

"But why did you not--?" demanded De Coucy.

"Ask me no questions, Coucy," cried Gallon: "I have but little breath

left; and that must go to tell you something more important still.

From the top of yon tree, I saw the king marching down to the bridge

at Bovines; and, without his knowing it, the enemy are marching after

him. If he gets half over, he is lost. I heard Henry of Brabant last

night say, that they would send a plan of their battle to the Duke of

Limburg, Count Julian, and William de la Roche Guyon, whose troops I

sent you after, down the river. He said too," proceeded Gallon,

growing apparently fainter as he spoke,--"he said too, that it was to

be carried by one who well knew the French camp. Oh, Coucy, my breath

fails me. Jodelle, the coterel--he is the man, I am sure--the papers

are on him.--But, Coucy! Coucy!" he continued, gasping for breath, and

holding the knight with a sort of convulsive grasp, as he saw him

turning to seek the important packet he mentioned,--"do not go, Coucy!

do not go to the camp--they think you a traitor.--Oh, how dim my eyes

grow!--They will have your head off--don't go--you'll be of no use

with the head off--Haw, haw! haw, haw!" And with a faint effort at his

old wild laugh. Gallon the fool gave one or two sharp shudders, and

yielded the spirit, still holding De Coucy tight by the arm.

"He is gone!" said the knight, disengaging himself from his grasp.

"Our army marching upon Bovines!" continued he: "can it be true? They

were not to quit Tournay for two days.--Up, Ermold, into that tree,

and see whether you can gain any sight of them. Quick! for we must

spur hard, if it be true.--You, Hugo, search the body of the

coterel.--Quick, Ermold--hold by that branch--there, your foot on the

other! See you any thing now?"

With some difficulty, Ermold de Marcy, though an active youth, had

climbed half-way up the tree that Gallon had sprung up like a

squirrel; and now, holding round it with both legs and arms, he gazed

out over the far prospect. "I see spears," cried he,--"I see spears

marching on by the river--and I can see the bridge too!"

"Are there any men on it?" cried De Coucy:--"how far is it from the

foremost spears?"

"It is clear yet!" replied the page; "but the lances in the van are

not half a mile from it!"

"Look to the right!--look to the right!" cried the knight; "towards

Mortain, what see you?"

"I see a clump or two of spears," replied the youth, "scattered here

and there; but over one part, that seems a valley, there rises a

cloud;--it maybe the morning mist--it may be dust:--stay, I will climb

higher;" and he contrived to reach two or three branches above.

"Lances, as I live!" cried he: "I see the steel heads glittering

through the cloud of dust, and moving on, just above the place where

the hill cuts them. They are rising above the slope--now they dip down

again--thousands on thousands--never did I see such a host in

Christendom or Paynimry!"

"Come down, Ermold, and mount!" cried the knight. "Two of the servants

of arms, take up yon poor fellow's body!" he continued, "and bear it

to the cottage where we watered our horses but now--then follow

towards the bridge with all speed.--Now, Hugo, hast thou the packet?

'Tis it, by the holy rood!" he added, taking a sealed paper that the

squire had found upon Jodelle. "To horse! to horse! We shall reach the

king's host yet, ere the van has passed the bridge. He must fight

there or lose all." And followed by the small body of spears that

accompanied him, Guy de Coucy spurred on at full gallop towards the

bridge of Bovines.

The distance might be about four miles; but ere he had ridden one-half

of that way, he came suddenly upon a body of about twenty spears, at

the top of a slight rise that concealed each party till they were

within fifty yards of the other. "Down with your lances!" cried De

Coucy; "France! France! A Coucy! a Coucy!" and in an instant the

spears of his followers, to the number of about seventy, were levelled

in a long straight row.

"France! France!" echoed the other party; and, riding forward, De

Coucy was met in mid space by the Chancellor Guerin,--armed at all

points, but bearing the coat and cross of a knight hospitaller--and

Adam Viscount de Melun, who had together ridden out from the main body

of the army, to ascertain the truth of some vague reports, that the

enemy had left Mortain, and was pursuing with all his forces.

"Well met. Sir Guy de Coucy," said Guerin. "By your cry of France but

now, I trust you are no traitor to France, though strange accusations

against you reached the king last night; and your absence at a moment

of danger countenanced them. I have order," he added, "to attach you

for treason."

"Whosoever calls me traitor, lies in his teeth," replied the knight

rapidly, eager to arrive at the king's host with all speed. "My

absence was in the kings service; and as to attaching me for treason,

lord bishop," he added with a smile, "methinks my seventy lances

against your twenty will soon cancel your warrant. I dreamed not that

the king would think of marching to-day, being Sunday, or I should

have returned before. But now, my lord, my errand is to the king

himself, and 'tis one also that requires speed. The enemy are

following like hounds behind the deer. I have here a plan of their

battle. They hope to surprise the king at the passage of the river. He

must halt on this side, or all is lost. From that range of low hills,

most likely you will see the enemy advancing.--Farewell."

Guerin, who had never for a moment doubted the young knight's

innocence, did not of course attempt to stay him, and De Coucy once

more galloped on at full speed. He soon began to fall in with

stragglers from the different bodies of the royal forces; camp

followers, plunderers, skirmishers, pedlars, jugglers, cooks, and all

the train of extraneous living lumber attached to an army of the

thirteenth century. From these he could gain no certain information

of where the king was to be found. Some said he had passed the

bridge,--some said he was yet in the rear; and, finding that they were

all as ignorant on the subject as himself, the young knight sped on;

and passing by several of the thick battalions which were hurrying on

through clouds of July dust towards the bridge, he demanded of one of

the leaders, where was the king.

"I heard but now, that he was in that green meadow to the right,"

replied the other knight; "and, see!" he added, pointing with his

lance, "that may be he, under those ash-trees."

De Coucy turned his eyes in the direction the other pointed, and

perceived a group of persons, some on horseback, some on foot,

standing round one who, stretched upon the grass, lay resting himself

under the shadow of a graceful clump of ash-trees. Close behind him

stood a squire, holding a casque in his hand; and another, at a little

distance, kept in the ardour of a magnificent battle-horse, that,

neighing and pawing the grass, seemed eager to join the phalanx that

defiled before him.

It was evidently the king who lay there; and De Coucy, bringing his

men to a halt, at the side of the high road, along which the rest were

pressing, troop after troop, towards the bridge, spurred on, followed

by his squires alone, and rode up to the group at once.

Philip Augustus raised his eyes to De Coucy's face as he came up; and,

at a few paces, the young knight sprang from his horse, and casting

his rein to Hugo de Barre, approached the monarch.

"My lord," said he earnestly, as soon as he was within hearing, "I

beseech you to order a halt, and command your troops who have passed

the bridge to return. The enemy are not half a mile from you; and

before half the army can pass, you will be attacked on all sides."

De Coucy spoke rapidly, and the king answered in the same manner. "Sir

Guy de Coucy," said he, without rising, however, "you are accused to

me of treason. Ought I to listen to counsel from a man in that

situation?"

"My lord the king," replied the knight, "God send you many such good

_traitors_ as I am! There is the enemy's plan of attack;--at least, so

I believe, for I have not opened it. You will see by the seal it is

from the Duke of Brabant; and by the superscription, that it is to the

Duke of Limburgh, together with Count Julian of the Mount, and Count

William de la Roche Guyon, his allies. I reconnoitred their forces

last night; they amount to fifteen thousand men; and lie three miles

down the river."

The king took the paper, and hastily cut the silk with his dagger.

"Halt!" cried he, after glancing his eye over it. "Mareuil de

Malvoisin, command a halt!--Ho, Guerin!" he cried, seeing the minister

riding quickly towards him. "Have you seen the enemy?"

"They are advancing with all speed, sire," shouted the hospitaller as

he rode up. "For God's sake, sire, call back the troops! They are

coming up like the swarms of locusts we have seen in Palestine. Their

spears are like corn in August."

"We will reap them," cried Philip, starting up with a triumphant smile

upon his lip,--"we will reap them!--To arms! Warriors, to arms!" And

putting his foot in the stirrup, he stood with his hand upon the

horse's neck, turning to those about him, and multiplying his orders

with the prompt activity of his keen all-grasping mind. "The oriflamme

has passed the bridge; speed to bring it back, Renault.--Hugo, to the

Count of St. Pol! bid him return with all haste.--De Coucy, I did you

wrong--forget it, and strike this day as you are wont.--Guerin, array

the host as we determined. See that the faithful communes be placed in

our own battle, but let Arras and Amiens hold the second line. Let the

barons and the knights stretch out as far as may be;--remember! every

man's own lance and shield must be his safeguard.--Eustache, speed to

the Count de Beaumont; bid him re-pass the river at the ford, and take

his place at the right.--Now, Guerin, hasten! Let the sergeants of

Soissons begin the battle, that the enemy may be broken ere the

knights charge.--Away, De Coucy! Lead Tankerville well, and win the

day.--Guillaume de Mortemar, stay by our person."

Such were some of the orders given by Philip Augustus: then, springing

on his horse, he received his casque, and, raising the visor, sat in

silence gazing upon the field, which was clear and open on all sides,

except the road, through which the troops were still seen approaching

towards the bridge; and which, in the other direction, wound away

towards Tournay, through some small woods and valleys that hid the

rear guard from view.

In the meanwhile, Guerin, whose long experience as a knight

hospitaller qualified him well to marshal the army, hastened to array

all the troops that had yet arrived on the plain, taking care to keep

the entrance of the bridge free, that the forces which had already

passed and were returning upon their steps, might take up their

position without confusion and disarray. At that moment, a messenger

arrived in breathless haste from the rear of the army, stating that

the enemy were already engaged with the light troops of Auxerre, who

sustained themselves with difficulty, and demanded help. But even

while he spoke, the two bodies engaged issued forth upon the plain;

and the spears of the whole imperial army began to bristle over the

hills.

The trumpets of the French sounded as their enemies appeared; and it

seemed that the emperor was not a little surprised to find his

adversary so well prepared to meet him.

Whether the unexpected sight of so large a body of troops drawn up to

oppose them embarrassed the confederates and deranged their plans, or

whether Philip's first line covering the bridge they did not perceive

that a great part of his forces were still either on the other side of

the river, or engaged in repassing it, cannot now be told; but they

took no advantage of so favourable a moment for attack. The body

engaged with the rear of Philip's army was called back; and wheeling

to the right of the road by which they came, they took up their

position on the slope of the hills to the north of the plain, while

Philip eagerly seized the opportunity of displaying his forces on the

southern side, thus having the eyes of his soldiers turned away from

the burning sun, that shone full in the faces of the adverse host. An

army commanded by many chiefs, is of course never well led; for what

may be gained by consultation is ever lost by indecision; and the two

great faults thus committed by the confederates were probably owing to

the uncertainty of their councils.

However that might be, they suffered Philip greatly to recover the

unity of his forces, and to take up the best position on the field;

after which succeeded a pause, as if they hesitated to begin the

strife, though theirs had been the party to follow and to urge their

enemy to a battle, and though they had overtaken him at the precise

moment which they had themselves planned, and in which an attack must

have proved the most disastrous.

CHAPTER XIII.

For several minutes after the two armies were thus ranged opposite

each other, both stood without motion, gazing on the adverse host. The

front line was composed almost entirely of cavalry, which formed in

those days the great strength of an army, and uniformly decided the

event of a battle; but between the long battalions of the knights and

men-at-arms were ranged close bodies of cross-bowmen and archers, who

waited but a signal to commence the engagement with their missiles.

Standing thus face to face, with but a narrow space between them, the

two hosts seemed as if contemplating the glittering array of the

field, which, if we may believe the "_branch of royal lineages_,"

offered on either part as splendid a pageant as ever a royal court

exhibited on fête or tournament. "There," it says in its naif jargon,

"you might see many a pleasant coat of arms, and many a neat and

gentle device, tissued of gold and various shining colours, blue,

vermilion, yellow, and green. There were to be seen serried shields,

and neighing horses, and ringing arms, pennons and banners, and helms

and glittering crests."

To the left of the imperial army appeared Ferrand, Count of Flanders,

with an immense host of hardy Flemings, together with the Count de

Boulogne and several other of the minor confederates; while, opposed

to him, was the young Duke of Champagne, the Duke of Burgundy, and the

men of the commune of Soissons. To the right of the imperial army was

a small body of English, with the Duke of Brabant and his forces in

face of the Comte de Dreux, the Bishop of Beauvais, and a body of the

troops of the clergy; while in the centre of each host, and

conspicuous to both, were Otho, Emperor of Germany, and Philip

Augustus of France, commanding in person the chosen knights of either

monarchy.

In the midst of the dark square of lances that surrounded the emperor

was to be seen a splendid car, from the centre of which rose a tall

pole, bearing on the top the imperial standard, a golden eagle

hovering above a dragon; while, beside Philip Augustus, was borne the

royal banner of France,[29] consisting of an azure field embroidered

with fleurs de lis of gold. On either hand of the king were ranged the

knights selected to attend his person, whom we find named as William

des Barres, Barthelmy de Roye, Peter de Malvoisin, Gerard Scropha,

Steven of Longchamp, William of Mortemar, John of Rouvrai, William de

Garlande, and Henry, Count de Bar, all men distinguished in arms, and

chosen for their high and chivalrous qualities.

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

[Footnote 29: A different banner from the famous oriflamme which was

the standard of St. Denis.]

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

A dead silence pervaded the field. Each host, as we have said, gazed

upon the other, still and motionless, waiting in awful expectation the

first movement which should begin the horrid scene of carnage about to

follow. It wanted but a word--a sign--the levelling of a lance--the

sounding of a trumpet, to cast the whole dark mass of bloodthirsty

insects there assembled into strife and mutual destruction: but yet

there was a pause; as if each monarch felt the dreadful responsibility

which that signal would bring upon his head, and hesitated to give it.

Some reflections of the kind certainly passed through the mind of

Philip Augustus; for, turning to William de Mortemar, he said, "We

must begin the fight--I seek not their blood, but God gives us a right

to defend ourselves. They have leagued to crush me, and the carnage of

this day be upon their head. Where is the oriflamme?" he continued,

looking round for the consecrated banner of St. Denis.

"It has not yet repassed the river, sire," replied Gerard Scropha. "I

heard the tramp of the communes still coming over the bridge, and

filling up the ranks behind. The oriflamme was the first banner that

passed, and therefore of course will be the last that returns.

"We must not wait for it then," said the king. "Henry de Bar, speed to

Guerin, who is on the right, with the Count de St. Paul; bid them

begin the battle by throwing in a few men-at-arms to shake that heavy

line of the Flemings. Then let the knights charge."

The young count bowed low, and set spurs to his horse; but his very

passage along the line was a signal for the confederates to commence

the fight. A flight of arrows and quarrels instantly darkened the sky,

and fell thick as hail amongst the ranks of the French; the trumpets

sounded, the lances were levelled, and two of the king's chaplains,

who were placed at a little distance behind him, began to sing the

hundred and forty-third Psalm, while the tears rolled plentifully from

their eyes, from the effects of mingled fear, agitation, and devotion.

In the meanwhile, an hundred and fifty sergeants of arms charged the

whole force of the Count of Flanders, according to the order of the

king. His intention was completely fulfilled.[30] Dropping the points

of their lances, the French men-at-arms cast themselves into the midst

of the Flemish knights, who, indignant at being attacked by men who

had not received the honours of chivalry, fell upon them furiously,

with little regard to their own good order.

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

[Footnote 30: Lacurne de St. Palaye was decidedly wrong in attributing

the use of the lance solely to knights. Besides the example before

given, the present instance of the serjeants of Soissons puts the

matter beyond doubt. The words of Guillaume Guiart are--

"Serjanz d'armes cent et cinquante.

Criant Monjoie! ensemble brochent;

Vers les rens des Flamens deseochent

Les pointes des lances enclines," &c.

That the serjeants of arms of Soissons were simple burghers is evident

from the contempt with which the Flemish knights received them--Guil.

le Breton, in vit. Phil. Aug.]

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

In an instant, the horses of the French men-at-arms were all slain;

but being men of the commune of Soissons, trained to fight on foot as

well as on horseback, they prolonged the fight hand to hand with the

enemy's knights, and completely succeeded in throwing the centre of

the imperial left wing into disarray. At that moment, the battalion of

knights, under the Count de St. Paul, charged in support of the

men-at-arms, and with their long lances levelled in line swept all

before them, cleaving through the host of Flemings, and scattering

them abroad upon the plain, as a thunderbolt strikes a pine, and rends

it into atoms.

The strife, thus begun upon the right wing of the royal army, soon

communicated itself to the centre; where, on a small mound sat Philip

Augustus, viewing with a calm observing eye the progress of the

battle, though gradually the dust and steam of the fight, and the

confused groups of the combatants, falling every moment into greater

disorder, would have confounded a less keen and experienced glance

than his.

Though the left was now also engaged, the monarch's eye principally

rested upon the right wing of his forces, where the Count of St. Paul,

the Dukes of Burgundy and Champagne, were still struggling hard with

the Flemings, whose second and third line, having come up, had turned

the fortune of the day, and were driving back the French towards the

river.

"By the Lord of Heaven! Burgundy is down!" cried Philip. "Ho, Michael,

gallop to Sir Guy de Coucy; tell him to charge with the men of

Tankerville, to support the good Duke of Burgundy! Away!"

The sergeant to whom he spoke galloped off like lightning to the spot

where De Coucy was placed as a reserve.

"By Heaven! the duke is down, and his banner too!" continued the king,

turning to Guerin, who now had joined him. "De Coucy moves not yet.

St. Denis to boot! they will turn our flank. Is the knight a coward or

mad?--Away, Guerin! Bid him charge for his honour."

But the king saw not what De Coucy saw, that a fresh corps of the

confederates was debouching from the road behind the imperial army. If

he attacked the Flemings before this body had advanced, he not only

left his own rear unguarded, but the flank of the whole army totally

exposed. He paused, therefore notwithstanding the critical situation

of the Duke of Burgundy, till such time as this fresh body had, in the

hurry and confusion of their arrival, advanced between him and the

Flemings.

Then, however, the fifteen hundred lances he commanded were levelled

in an instant: the trumpets sounded, the chargers sprang forward, and,

hurled like an avalanche against the flank of this newly arrived

corps, the squadron of De Coucy drove them in pell-mell upon the

Flemings, forced the Flemings themselves back upon the troops of the

emperor, and left a clear space for the soldiers of Burgundy and

Champagne, to rally round their chiefs.

"Brave De Coucy!" cried the king, who had marked the man[oe]uvre. "Good

knight! Stout lance! All goes down before him. Burgundy is up. His

banner waves again. Ride, Walter the young, and compliment the duke

for me. Who are these coming down? I cannot see for the dust."

"They are the burgesses of Compiègne and Abbeville, and the oriflamme,

sire," replied Guillaume des Barres. "They want a taste of the fight,

and are forcing themselves in between us and those Saxon serfs, who

are advancing straight towards us."

As he spoke the men of the communes, eager to signalise themselves in

the service of a king who had done so much for them, marched boldly

into the very front of the battle, and mingled hand to hand with an

immense body of German infantry that were approaching rapidly towards

the king.

The French communes, however, were inferior to the burly Saxons, both

in number and in strength; and were, after an obstinate fight, driven

back to the very foot of the mound on which Philip was placed. The

knights and men-at-arms who surrounded him, seeing the battle so near

the monarch's person, charged through the ranks of the burgesses, and,

mingling with the Saxon infantry, cut them down in all directions with

their long heavy swords. The German cavalry again spurred forward to

support their own communes; and the fight became general around the

immediate person of the monarch, who remained on the summit of the

hillock, with no one but the Count de Montigny, bearing his standard,

and Sir Stephen of Longchamp, who had refrained from following the

rest into the melée.

"For God's sake! sire, retire a little!" said the knight: "if you are

hurt, all is lost."

"Not a step, for a thousand empires!" replied the king, drawing down

his visor and unsheathing his sword, as he beheld three or four German

knights spurring towards him at full career, followed by a large troop

of footmen, contending with the burghers of Compiègne. "We must do our

devoir as a knight as well as a king, Sir Stephen."

"Mine then as a knight!" cried Stephen of Longchamp, laying his lance

in rest; and on he galloped at the foremost of the German knights,

whom he hurled dead from his horse, pierced from side to side with the

iron of the spear.

The German that followed, however, without, spending a blow on the

French knight's casque, plunged his sword in his horse's chest, at a

spot where the iron barding was wanting. Rider and horse went down at

once; and the German, springing to the ground, drew a long knife from

his side, and knelt upon his prostrate adversary's chest.

"Denis Mountjoy!" cried the king, galloping on to the aid of his

faithful follower. "Denis Mountjoy! _au secours!_" But before he could

arrive, the German knight had plunged his knife through the bars of

the fallen man's helmet, and Stephen Longchamp was no more. The

monarch avenged him, however, if he could not save; and, as the

Saxon's head was bent down, accomplishing his bloody purpose, he

struck him so fierce a blow on the back of his neck, with the full

sway of a vigorous and practised arm, that the hood of his mail shirt

yielded at once to the blow, and the edge of the weapon drove on

through the backbone.

At that moment, however, the king found himself surrounded on every

side by the German foot, who hemmed him in with their short pikes. The

only knight who was near him was the Count de Montigny, bearing the

royal banner; and nothing was to be seen around but the fierce faces

of the Saxon pikemen looking out from under their steel caps, drawing

their circle closer and closer round him, and fixing their eager eyes

upon the crown that he wore on the crest of his helmet--or else the

forms of some German knights at a short distance, whirling about like

armed phantoms, through the clouds of dust that enveloped the whole

scene.

Still Philip fought with desperate valour, plunging his horse into the

ranks of the pikemen, and dealing sweeping blows around with his

sword, which four or five times succeeded in clearing the space

immediately before him.

Well and nobly too did the Count de Montigny do his devoir, holding

with one hand the royal banner, which he raised and depressed

continually, to give notice to all eyes of the monarch's danger, and

striking with the other on every side round Philip's person, which he

thus protected for many minutes from the near approach of his enemies.

It was in vain, however, that the king and his banner-bearer displayed

such feats of chivalrous valour. Closer and closer the German

burgesses hemmed them in. Many of the Saxon knights became attracted

by the sight of the royal banner, and were urging their horses through

the melée towards the spot where the conflict was raging so fiercely,

when one of the serfs crept close to the king's charger. Philip felt

his horse reeling underneath him; and, in a moment, the animal fell to

the ground, bearing its rider down along with it.

A hundred of the long, three-edged knives, with which many of the

Saxons fought that day, were instantly at the King's throat, and at

the bars of his helmet. One thought of Agnes--one brief prayer to

Heaven, was all that seemed allowed to Philip Augustus; but that

moment, the shout of "Auvergne! Auvergne!" rang upon his ear and

yielded hope.

With his head bent down to his saddle-bow, receiving a thousand blows

as he came, his horse all in foam and blood, his armour hacked,

dented, and broken, Thibalt d'Auvergne clove the hostile press with

the fierce rapidity of a falcon in its stoop. He checked his horse but

by the royal banner; he sprang to the ground; dashed, weltering to the

earth, the boors who were kneeling on the prostrate body of the king,

and, striding over it, whirled his immense mace round his head, at

every blow sending the soul of some Saxon on the cold pilgrimage of

death. The burgesses reeled back; but at the same time the knights who

had been advancing, hurled themselves upon the Count d'Auvergne, and

heaped blow upon blow on his head.

The safety of the whole host--the life and death, or captivity of the

king--the destiny of all Europe--perhaps of all the world, depended at

that moment on the arm of a madman. But that arm bore it all nobly up;

and, though his armour was actually hewn from his flesh, and he

himself bleeding from an hundred wounds, he wavered not a step; but,

still striding over the body of the king, as he lay unable to rise,

from the weight of his horse resting on his thigh, maintained his

ground till, knight after knight arriving on both sides, the combat

became more equal.

Still the fight around the royal banner was doubtful, when the

battle-cry of De Coucy was heard approaching. "A Coucy! A Coucy! St.

Michael! St. Michael!" rang over the plain; and the long lances of

Tankerville, which had twice completely traversed and retraversed the

enemy's line,[31] were seen sweeping on, in unbroken masses, like a

thunder-cloud advancing over the heaven. The regular order they had

still preserved, as well as their admirable training, and confidence

in their leader, gave them vast superiority. The German pikemen were

trampled under their tread. The knights were forced back at the point

of the spear; the communes of Compiègne and Abbeville rallied behind

them, and, in a short time, the field around the royal banner was once

more clear of all enemies.

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

[Footnote 31: This circumstance, however extraordinary, is not the

less true; and though attributed by the various chroniclers to various

persons, is mentioned particularly by all who have described the

battle of Bovines.]

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

The first thing was to free the king from the weight of his horse,

which had been stabbed in the neck, and was now quite dead. The

monarch rose; but, before he remounted, though there were a thousand

horses held ready for him, and a thousand voices pressing him to

mount, he exclaimed, "Where is the Count d'Auvergne? I owe him

life.--Stand back, Guillaume des Barres! your foot is on his chest.

That is he in the black armour!"

It was indeed the unhappy Count d'Auvergne, who had borne up under a

multitude of wounds, till the life of the king was in safety. He had

then fallen in the melée, striking still, and lay upon a heap of dead

that his hand had made. By the king's order, his casque was instantly

unlaced; and Philip himself, kneeling beside him, raised his head upon

his knee, and gazed in the ashy face to see if the flame of life's

frail lamp was extinct indeed in the breast of him who had saved him

from the tomb.

D'Auvergne opened his eyes, and looked faintly in the face of the

monarch. His lips moved, but no sound issued from them.

"If thou diest, Auvergne," said Philip, in the fulness of his

gratitude, "I have lost my best subject."

The count made another effort to speak. The king stooped over him, and

inclined his ear. "Tell her," said the broken accents of the dying

man,--"tell her--that for her love--I died--to save your life."

"I will," said Philip Augustus!--"on my faith, I will! and I know her

not, or she will weep your fall."

There was something like a faint smile played round the dying knight's

lip; his eyes fixed upon the king, and the spirit that lighted them

passed away for ever!

"Farewell, Auvergne!" said the king. "Des Barres, see his body removed

and honoured. And now, good knights," cried he, springing on

horseback, "how fares the fight? My eyes have been absent too long.

But, by my faith! you have worked well while I was down. The enemy's

left is flying, or my sight deceives me."

"'Tis true, my lord;--'tis true!" replied Guillaume des Barres; "and

Ferrand of Flanders himself is taken by the Duke of Burgundy."

"Thank God for that!" cried Philip, and he turned his eyes quickly to

the centre. "They seem in strange confusion there. Where is the

imperial standard? Where is Otho himself?"

"Otho has to do with Peter of Malvoisin and Gerard the Sow," replied

William des Barres, laughing, "and finds them unpleasant neighbours

doubtless. But do you know, sire, that a pike head is sticking in your

cuirass?"

"Mind not that!" cried the king; "Let us charge! Otho's ranks are

broken; his men dispersed; one gallant charge, and the day is ours.

Down with your lances, De Coucy! Men of Soissons, follow the king!

knights, remember your own renown! Burghers, fight for your firesides!

Denis Mountjoy! Upon them! Charge!"

It was the critical moment. Otho might have rallied; and his forces

were still more than double those of the king; while the Count de

Boulogne and the English, though the Earl of Salisbury had been dashed

from his horse by the mace of the bellicose Bishop of Beauvais,

were still maintaining the fight to the left. The well-timed and

well-executed charge of the king, however, accompanied, as he was, by

the choice chivalry of his realm, who had gathered about him to his

rescue, decided the fate of the day. The Germans fled in confusion.

Otho himself narrowly escaped being taken; and though a part of the

right wing of the confederates retreated in somewhat better array, yet

the defeat even there was complete, and the Earl of Salisbury and the

Count de Boulogne were both made prisoners.

For nearly six hours the combat lasted; and, when at last the flight

was complete, the number of prisoners was so great, that Philip dared

not allow his troops to pursue the fugitives for any length of way,

lest he should be mastered at last by those he had just conquered.

At five o'clock the trumpets sounded to the standard to recall the

pursuers; and thus ended the famous battle of Bovines--a strife and a

victory scarcely paralleled in history.

CHAPTER XIV.

The hurry and confusion of the battle was over; order was greatly

restored; and the victorious army had encamped on the banks of the

river, when Philip Augustus retired to his own tent; and, after having

been disarmed by his attendants, commanded that they should leave

him alone for an hour. No one was permitted to approach; and the

monarch sat down to meditate over the vast and mighty deed he had

accomplished.

Oh, what a whirlpool of contending feelings must have been within his

bosom at that moment! Policy, triumph, ambition, hate, revenge, and

love, each claimed their place in his heart.

The recollection of the difficulties he had overcome; the fresh memory

of the agitating day in which he had overcome them; the glorious

prospects yet to come--the past, the present, and the future, raised

their voices together, and, with a sound like thunder, called to him,

"Rejoice!"

But Philip Augustus sat with his hands clasped over his eyes, in deep

and even melancholy thought. A feeling of his mortality mingled, he

knew not why or how, even with the exultation of his victory. To his

mind's eye, a shadow, as if from the tomb, was cast over the banner of

his triumph. A feeling of man's transitory littleness,--a yearning

after some more substantial glory, chastened the pride of the

conqueror; and, bending the knee before Heaven's throne, he prayed

fervently to the Giver of all victory.

After long, deep thought, he recalled his attendants; received several

messengers that had come on from Lille; and, ordering the hangings of

his tent to be drawn up, he commanded the various chieftains who had

distinguished themselves in that day's conflict to be called around

him.

It was a beautiful summer evening; and the rays of the declining sun

shone over the field of battle, into the tent of the victor, as he sat

surrounded by all the pomp of royalty, receiving the greatest and

noblest of his land. For each he had some gratulatory word, some

mention of their deeds, some praise of their exertions; and there was

a tempered moderation in his smile, a calm, grave dignity of aspect,

that relieved his greater barons from the fears which even they, who

had aided to win it, could not help feeling, respecting the height to

which such a victory might carry his ambition. There was not a touch

of pride in his deportment--no, not even of the humility with which

pride is sometimes fond to deck itself. It was evident that he knew he

had won a great battle, and rejoiced--that he had vanquished his

enemies--that he had conquered a confederated world;--but yet he never

felt himself more mortal, or less fancied himself kindred to a god. He

had triumphed in anticipation--the arrogance of victory had exhausted

itself in expectation; and he found it not so great a thing to have

overcome an universe as he had expected.

"Thanks, brave Burgundy! thanks!" cried he, grasping the hand of the

duke, as he approached him. "We have won a great triumph; and Burgundy

has fully done his part. By my faith! Lord Bishop of Beauvais, thy

mace is as good a weapon as thy crosier. I trust thou mayest often

find texts in Scripture to justify thy so smiting the king's enemies."

"I spill no blood, sire," replied the warlike bishop: "to knock on the

head, is not to spill blood, let it be remarked."

"We have, at all events, with thine aid, my Lord of Beauvais," said

the king, smiling at the prelate's nice distinction,--"we have, at all

events, knocked on the head a great and foul confederation against our

peace and liberties.--Ha! my young Lord of Champagne! Valiantly hast

thou won thy knighthood.--Guillaume des Barres, thou art a better

knight than any of the round table; and to mend thy cellarage, I give

thee five hundred acres in my valley of Soissons. And Pierre de Dreux,

too, art thou, for once in thy life, satisfied with hard blows? De

Coucy, my noble De Coucy! to whom I did some wrong before the battle.

As thou hast said thyself, De Coucy, God send me ever such traitors as

thou art! However, I have news for thee, will make thee amends for one

hard word. Welcome, St. Valery!--as welcome as when you came to my

succour this fair morning. Now, lords, we will see the prisoners--not

to triumph over them, but that they may know their fate."

According to the king's commands, the several prisoners of high rank,

who had been taken that morning, were now brought before him; a part

of the ceremony to which even his own barons looked with some doubt

and anxiety, as well as the captives themselves; for, amongst those

who had fought on the other side, were many who were not only traitors

to the king, inasmuch as violating their oath of homage rendered them

so--but traitors under circumstances of high aggravation, after

repeated pardon and many a personal favour; yet who were also linked,

by the nearest ties of kindred, to those in whose presence they now

stood as prisoners. The first that appeared was the Earl of Salisbury,

who, in the fear caused by the number of prisoners, had been bound

with strong cords, and was still in that condition when brought before

the king.

"I am sorry to see you here, William of Salisbury," said Philip

frankly. "But why those cords upon your hands? Who has dared, so

unworthily, to bind a noble knight? Off with them! quick! Will you not

yield yourself a true prisoner?

"With all my heart, sir king," replied the earl, "since I may no

better. The knaves tied me, I fancy, lest the prisoners should eat up

their conquerors. But, by my faith! had the cowardly scum who have run

from the field, but fought like even your gownsmen, we should have won

few prisoners, but some glory."

"For form's sake, we must have some one to be hostage for your faith,"

said the king, "and then good knight, you shall have as much liberty

as a prisoner may.--Who will be William of Salisbury's surety?"

"That will I," said De Coucy, stepping forward. "In life and lands,

though I have but little of the last."

"Thank thee, old friend," said the earl, grasping his hand. "We fought

in different parts of the field, or we would have tried some of our

old blows; but 'tis well as it is, though 'twas a bishop, they tell

me, knocked me on the head. I saw him not, in faith, or I would have

split his mitre for his pains."

Prisoner after prisoner was now brought before the king, to most of

whom he spoke in a tone to allay their fears. On Ferrand of Flanders,

however, he bent his brows, strongly moved with indignation, when he

remembered the presumptuous vaunting of that vain light prince, who

had boasted that, within a month, he would ride triumphant into Paris.

"Now, rebellious vassal," said the monarch with severe dignity of

aspect, "what fate does thy treason deserve? Snake, thou hast stung us

for fostering thee in our bosom, and the pleasures of Paris, shown to

thee in the hospitality of our court, have made thee covet the

heritage of thy lord. As thou hast boasted, so shall it befall thee;

and thou shalt ride in triumph into our capital; but, by heaven's

queen! it shall not be to sport with jugglers and courtesans!"

Ferrand turned deadly pale, in his already excited fears,

misconstruing the king's words. "I hope, my lord," said he, "that you

will think well before you strike at my life. Remember, I am but your

vassal for these lands of Flanders, in right of my wife--that I am the

son of an independent monarch, and my life may not----"

"Thy life!" cried Philip, his lip curling with scorn,--"Fear not for

thy pitiful life! Get thee gone! I butcher not my prisoners; but, by

the Lord! I will take good care that ye rebel not again! Now, Renault

of Boulogne," he continued, turning to the gigantic count of Boulogne,

who, of all the confederates, had fought the longest and most

desperately, entertaining no hope of life if taken, both from being

one of the chief instigators of the confederacy, and from many an old

score of rebellion not yet wiped off between himself and the king. He

appeared before the monarch, however, with a frank smile upon his

jovial countenance, as if prepared to endure with good humour the

worst that could befall; and seeing that, as a kind of trophy, one of

the pages bore in his enormous casque, on the crest of which he had

worn two of the broad blades of whalebone, near six feet high, he

turned laughing to those around, while the king spoke to Ferrand of

Flanders--"Good faith," said he, "I thought myself a leviathan, but

they have managed to catch me notwithstanding."

"Now, Renault of Boulogne," said the king sternly--"how often have I

pardoned thee--canst thou tell?"

"Faith, my lord!" replied the count, "I never was good at reckoning;

but this I do know, that you have granted me my life oftener than I

either deserved or expected, though I cannot calculate justly how

often."

"When you do calculate, then," said Philip, "add another time to the

list; but, remember, by the bones of all the saints! it is the last!"

"Faith! my lord, you shall not break their bones for me," replied the

count. "For I have made a resolution to be your good vassal for the

future; and, as my good friend Count Julian of the Mount says, my

resolutions are as immoveable as the centre."

"Ha, Count Julian!" said the king. "You are welcome, fair count; and,

by Heaven, we have a mind to deal hardly with you. You have been a

comer and goer, sir, in all these errands. You have been one of the

chief stirrers-up of my vassals against me; and by the Lord! if block

and axe were ever well won, you have worked for them. However, here

stands sir Guy de Coucy, true knight, and the king's friend; give him

the hand of your daughter, his lady-love, and you save your head upon

your shoulders."

"My lord, it cannot be," replied old sir Julian stoutly. "I have

already given the knight his answer. What I have said, is said--my

resolutions are as immoveable as the centre, and I'd sooner encounter

the axe than break them."

"Then, by Heaven! the axe shall be your doom!" cried Philip, giving

way to one of his quick bursts of passion, at the bold and obstinate

tone in which his rebellious vassal dared to address him. "Away with

him to the block! and know, old mover of rebellions, that your lands

and lordships, and your daughter's hand, I, as your sovereign lord,

will give to this brave knight, after you have suffered the punishment

of your treason and your obstinacy."

Sir Julian's cheek turned somewhat pale, and his eye twinkled; but he

merely bit his lip; and, firm in his impenetrable obstinacy, offered

no word to turn aside the monarch's wrath. De Coucy, however, stepped

forward, and prayed the king, as sir Julian had been taken by his own

men, to give him over to him, when he doubted not he would be able to

bring him to reason.

"Take him then, De Coucy," said Philip; "I give you power to make what

terms with him you like; but before he quits this presence, he

consents to his daughter's marriage with you, or he quits it for the

block. Let us hear how you will convert him."

"What I have said, is said!" muttered sir Julian,--"my resolutions are

as immoveable as the centre!"

"Sir Julian," said De Coucy, standing forward before the circle, while

the prisoner made up his face to a look of sturdy obstinacy, that

would have done honour to an old, well-seasoned mule, "you told me

once, that I might claim your daughter's hand, if ever--Guillaume de

la Roche Guyon, to whom you had promised her, being dead--you should

be fairly my prisoner, and I could measure acre for acre with your

land. Now, I have to tell you, that William de la Roche fell on

yonder plain, pierced from the back to the front by one of the lances

of Tankerville, as he was flying from the field. You are, by the

king's bounty and my good fortune, my true and lawful prisoner; and

surely the power of saving your life, and giving you freedom, may be

reckoned against wealth and land."

"No, no!" said sir Julian. "What I have said----"

But he was interrupted by the king, who had recovered from the first

heat into which sir Julian's obstinacy had cast him, and was now

rather amused than otherwise with the scene before him. "Hold, count

Julian!" cried he, "Do not make any objection yet. The only difficulty

is about the lands, it seems--that we will soon remove."

"Oh, that alters the case," cried count Julian, not sorry in his heart

to be relieved from the painful necessity of maintaining his

resolution at the risk of his life. "If you, sire, in your bounty,

choose to make him my equal in wealth--William de la Roche Guyon

being dead, and I being his prisoner,--all the conditions will be

fulfilled, and he shall have my daughter. What I have said is as firm

as fate."

"Well then," replied the king, glancing his eye towards the barons,

who stood round, smiling at the old knight's mania, "we will not only

make De Coucy your equal in wealth, sir Julian, but far your superior.

A court of peers, lords!--a court of peers! Let my peers stand

around."

Such of the spectators as were by right peers of France, advanced a

step from the other persons of the circle, and the king proceeded.

"Count Julian of the Mount!" said he in a stern voice, "We, Philip

the Second, king of France, with the aid and counsel of our peers, do

pronounce you guilty of _leze majesté_; and do declare all your feofs,

lands, and lordships, wealth, furniture, and jewels, forfeited and

confiscate to the Crown of France, to use and dispose thereof, as

shall be deemed expedient!"

"A judgment! a judgment!" cried the peers while the countenance of

poor Count Julian fell a thousand degrees. "Now, sir," continued the

king, "without a foot of land in Europe, and without a besant to bless

yourself,--William de la Roche Guyon being dead, and you that good

knight's prisoner,--we call upon you to fulfil your word to him, and

consent to his marriage with your daughter, Isadore, on pain of being

held false and mansworn, as well as stubborn and mulish."

"What I have said is said!" replied count Julian, putting forth his

wonted proposition in a very crest-fallen tone. "My resolutions are

always as firm as the centre.--De Coucy, I promised her to you, under

such circumstances. They are fulfilled, and she is your's--though it

is hard that I must marry my daughter to a beggar.

"Beggar, sir!" cried the king, his brow darkening again; "let me tell

you, that though rich enough in worth and valour alone to match the

daughter of a prince, sir Guy de Coucy, as he stands there, possesses

double in lands and lordships what you have ever possessed. De Coucy,

it is true: the lands and lordships of Tankerville, and all those fair

domains upon the banks of the broad Rhone, possessed by the Count of

Tankerville, who wedded your father's sister, are now yours, by a

charter in our royal treasury, made under his hand, some ten years

ago, and warranted by our consent. We have ourself, pressed by the

necessities of the state, taken for the last year the revenue of those

lands, purposing to make restitution--to you, if it should appear that

the count was really dead--to him, if he returned from Palestine,

whither he was said to have gone. But we find ourself justified by an

unexpected event. We acted in this by the counsel of the wise and

excellent hermit of Vincennes, now a saint in God's paradise: and we

have just learned, that the count de Tankerville himself it was who

died ten days ago in the person of that same Bernard, the anchorite of

Vincennes. He had lived there in that holy disguise for many years;

and it was so long since we had seen him, the change in his person, by

fasts and macerations, was so great, and his appearance as a hermit

altogether so different from what it was as the splendid Count of

Tankerville, that, though not liable to forget the faces we have seen,

in his case we were totally deceived. On his death-bed he wrote to us

this letter, full of pious instruction and good counsel. At the same

time, he makes us the unnecessary prayer of loving and protecting you.

You, therefore, wed the proud old man's daughter, far his superior in

every gift of fortune; and, as some punishment to his vanity and

stubbornness, we endow you and your heirs with all those feofs that he

has justly forfeited, leaving you to make what provision for his age

you yourself may think fit."

Count Julian hung his head; but here let it be said, that he had never

any cause to regret that the king had cast his fortunes into such a

hand; for De Coucy was one of those whose hearts, nobly formed, expand

rather than contract under the sunshine of fortune.

CHAPTER XV.

Six days had elapsed after the scenes we have described in our two

last chapters, and Philip Augustus had taken all measures to secure

the fruits of his victory, when, at the head of a gay party of knights

and attendants, no longer burdened with warlike armour, but garmented

in the light and easy robes of peace, the conquering monarch spurred

along the banks of the Oise, anxious to make Agnes a sharer of his

joy, and to tell her that, though the crafty policy of Rome still

prolonged the question of his divorce, he was now armed with power to

dictate what terms he pleased, and to bring her enemies to her feet.

The six months had now more than expired, during which he had

consented not to see her; and that absence had given to his love all

that magic light with which memory invests past happiness. The

brightest delight, too, of hope was added to his feelings,--the hope

of seeing joy reblossom on the cheek of her he loved, and the

inspiration of the noblest purpose that can wing human endeavour

carried him on,--the purpose of raising, and comforting, and bestowing

happiness.

It may easily be believed, then, that the monarch was in one of his

gayest and most gladsome moods; and to De Coucy, who rode by his side,

full of as high hopes and glad anticipations as himself, he ever and

anon poured forth some of the bright feelings that were swelling in

his bosom.

The young knight, too, hurrying on towards the castle of Rolleboise,

where Isadore, now his own, won by knightly deeds and honourable

effort, still remained, uncertain of her fate--gave way at once more

to the natural liveliness of his disposition; and, living in an age

when Ceremony had not drawn her rigid barrier between the monarch and

his vassal, suffered the high spirits, which for many months had been,

as it were, chained down by circumstance, to shine out in many a quick

sally and cheerful reply.

The death of his companion in arms, the unhappy Count d'Auvergne,

would indeed throw an occasional shade over De Coucy's mind. But the

regrets which we in the present age experience for the loss of a

friend in such a manner--and which De Coucy was formed to feel as

keenly as any one--in that age met with many alleviations. He had died

knightly in his harness, defending his monarch; he had fallen upon a

whole pile of enemies his hand had slain; he had wrought high deeds,

and won immortal renown. In the eyes of De Coucy, such a death was to

be envied; and thus, though, when he thought of never beholding his

friend again, he felt a touch of natural grief for his own sake; yet,

as he remembered the manner of his fate, he felt proud that his friend

had so finished his career.

It was a bright July morning, and would have been extremely hot, had

not an occasional cloud skimmed over the sky, and cast a cool though

fleeting shadow upon the earth. One of these had just passed, and had

let fall a few large drops of rain upon them in its course, the glossy

stains of which on his black charger's neck Philip was examining with

the sweet idleness of happiness, when De Coucy called his attention to

a pigeon flying overhead.

"A carrier pigeon, as I live! my lord!" said the knight. "I have seen

them often in Palestine. Look! there is its roll of paper!"

"Has any one a falcon?" cried the king, apparently more agitated than

De Coucy expected to see, on so simple an event. "I would give a

thousand besants for a falcon!"

One of the king's pages, in the train, carried, as was common in those

days even during long journies, a falcon on his wrist; and, hearing

the monarch's exclamation, he, in a moment, unhooded his bird, and

slipped its gesses. Lifting its keen eyes towards the skies, the hawk

spread its wings at once, and towered after the pigeon.

"Well flown, good youth!" cried the king. "What is thy name?"

"My name is Hubert," replied the boy, somewhat abashed, "My name is

Hubert, beau sire."

"Hubert? What, nothing else? Henceforth, then be Hubert de

Fauconpret;" and having sportively given this name to the youth--a

name which descended distinguished to after years, he turned his eyes

towards the falcon, and watched its progress through the sky. "The

bird will miss his stroke, I fear me," said the king, turning towards

De Coucy; and then, seeing some surprise at his anxiety painted on the

young knight's countenance, he added, "That pigeon is from Rolleboise.

I brought the breed from Ascalon. Agnes would not have loosed it

without some weighty cause."

As he spoke, the falcon towered above the pigeon, struck it, and at a

whistle brought it, trembling and half dead with fear, to the page,

who instantly delivered it from the clutches of its winged enemy, and

gave it into the hands of the king. Philip took the scrap of paper

from the poor bird's neck, caressed it for a moment, and then again

threw it up into the air. At first, it seemed as if it would have

fallen, from the fear which it had undergone, though the well-trained

falcon had not injured it in the least. After a few faint whirls,

however, it gained strength again, rose in a perpendicular line into

the sky, took two or three circles in the air, and then darted off at

once directly towards Paris.

In the meanwhile, Philip Augustus gazed upon the paper he had thus

received; and, whatever were the contents, they took the colour from

his cheek. Without a word, he struck his horse violently with his

spurs, urged him into a gallop, and, followed by his train as best

they might, drew not in his rein till he stood before the barbican of

the castle of Rolleboise.

Pale cheeks and anxious eyes encountered his glance, as he dashed over

the drawbridge the moment it was lowered. "The queen?" cried he, "the

queen? How fares the queen?" But, without waiting for a reply, he

sprang to the ground in the court, rushed past the crowd of

attendants, through the hall, up the staircase, and paused not, till

he reached the door of that chamber which he and Agnes had inhabited

during the first months of their union; and in which, from its happy

memories, he knew she would be fond to dwell. There, however, he

stopped, the beating of his heart seeming almost to menace him with

destruction if he took a step farther.

There was a murmur of voices within; and, after an instant's pause, he

opened the door, and gliding past the tapestry, stood at the end of

the room.

The chamber was dim, for the night was near; but at the farther

extremity was the faint light of a taper contending with the pale

remains of day. He could see, however, that his marriage-bed was

arrayed like the couch of the dying, that there were priests standing

round in silence, and women in tears; while one lovely girl, whose

face he knew not, knelt by the bed-side, and supported on her arm the

pale and ashy countenance of another, over which the grey shadow of

death seemed advancing fast.

Philip started forward. Could that be Agnes--that pale, blighted

thing, over whose dim and glassy eyes a strange unlife-like film

was drawn, the precursor of the shroud? Could that be Agnes--the

bright--the beautiful--the beloved?

A faint exclamation, which broke from the attendants as they beheld

him, reached even the heavy ear of the dying. The film was drawn back

from her eyes for a moment; life blazed up once more, and concentrated

all its parting light in the full, glad, ecstatic gaze which she fixed

upon the countenance of him she loved. A smile of welcome and farewell

hung upon her lip; and, with a last effort, she stretched forth her

arms towards him. With bitter tears, Philip clasped her to his bosom.

Agnes bent down her . . . head upon his neck and died!

Oh, glory! oh, victory! oh, power! Ye shining emptinesses! Ye bubbles

on the stream of time!

THE END.

LONDON:

Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE,

New-Street-Square.

End of Project Gutenberg's Philip Augustus, by George Payne Rainsford James