The castle makes the feudal ages possible. It is because western Europe
is covered with thousands of strongholds, each of which can stand off
a considerable army, that we have the secular institutions of the
thirteenth century. To be the owner and lord of at least one castle is
the dream of every nobleman, and in fact until he can hoist his own
banner from his own donjon he hardly has a defined place in the feudal
hierarchy.
[Sidenote: The Castle of St. Aliquis]
As we have seen, the castle of St. Aliquis is now nearly three hundred
and fifty years old. Since it has been continuously inhabited by
enterprising owners, its structure has been as continuously changing.
However, if we had come to the barony only fifty years ago, we would
have found a decidedly primitive structure. The general plan of
Heribert's original stronghold was then still retained: first, on the
landward side of the triangle above the two converging rivers there
was a rather deep moat, next a parapet whereof the lower part was made
of earth taken from this same moat, and upon the mound rose a strong
palisade of tree trunks. Within the palisade were barns, outbuildings,
and barracks for such of the baron's men as did not live in the inner
stronghold. Then last of all was the donjon, the castle proper--a huge
square tower built with little art, but which defied attack by mere
solidity. The entrance to this grim tower was by a steep inclined plane
leading to a small door in the second story. In case of danger, if
the palisade were forced, the seigneur and his men retreated into the
tower, knocked down the wooden gangway, and shouted defiance to the
enemy. The mass and height of the donjon baffled any ordinary methods
of attack save that of blockade and starvation--and there would be six
months' supply of wheat, salt beef, and ale in the tower vaults.
[Illustration: TYPICAL CASTLE OF THE MIDDLE AGES
(Without large barbican court)]
Nevertheless, this seemingly impenetrable fortress did not suffice. In
the first place, superior methods of siege warfare were developing: the
stoutest fortifications could be cracked.[4] In the next place, if the
donjon were hard to enter, it was almost equally hard to sally forth
from it. No rapid sortie could be made from the door in the second
story; the defense must be wholly passive. Finally, this stark masonry
tower was a most uncomfortable place, with its cavernous "halls" barely
lighted by tiny loopholes, frigid in winter, stifling in summer,
unsanitary--in short, almost intolerable for habitation by a large body
of men. After the First Crusade (1094-99) numerous cavaliers came home
with great tales of the fortresses of the Byzantines and the Saracens.
During the twelfth century, consequently, castle architecture underwent
a remarkable transformation. Richard the Lion Hearted built Château
Gaillard in Normandy. His mighty rival, Philip Augustus, built the
famous Louvre to dominate Paris, and erected other new-style castles
with cylindrical towers at Montargis, Poissy, Dourges, and elsewhere.
Already by 1220 the plans are being drawn for a great castle at Coucy
(built between 1223 and 1230) which is to be almost a model for all
subsequent fortress builders, until the advent of gunpowder.
[Sidenote: Castle Rebuilt Scientifically]
Baron Garnier, whatever his crimes, had certainly understood the art
of war. He rebuilt St. Aliquis in a thoroughly scientific manner,
employing a learned masterbuilder and "sage," an elderly Fleming who
had seen the best fortifications of the Infidels and had lived long
in those famous Syrian-Christian fortresses like Krak des Chevaliers,
which by the mere excellence of construction had enabled small
garrisons of western "Franks" to defy the full power of Saladin.
Instead of a mere ditch, palisade, and then a single vast tower, St.
Aliquis has consequently become a huge complex of defenses within
defenses, each line of resistance a little harder to penetrate and
with every outwork commanded by an inner fortification. If at last you
come to the central donjon, it still looms up above you--defiant and
formidable, and you can have your fill of desperate fighting, only
perhaps to be bloodily repulsed in the end. Of course, the donjon can
indeed be starved out, but it is not very often that any enemy of St.
Aliquis will have resources and persistence enough to keep his troops
together until the castle supplies are exhausted. He must either
get possession pretty quickly or not at all--and Garnier's Fleming
certainly took pains he should not get in quickly!
In examining St. Aliquis or its rivals, one must remember that they
are the creations of men who have devoted most of their thought to the
problems of war. Every possible contingency has been anticipated. The
architect and his employer have practically spent their lives studying
"how can a castle be made to hold out as long as possible?" Being,
despite their sins, highly intelligent men, it is not surprising that
they produce remarkable results.
We are approaching the castle as the morning mists are lifting from
the Claire and the Rapide. Ahead of us, out of the dispersing fog, is
rising what seems a bewildering mass of towers, walls, battlements gray
and brown, with here and there a bit of green, where a little earth
has been allowed to lodge and a few weeds shoot forth. High above all
soars the mass of the great central tower, the donjon, from the summit
of which Baron Conon's banner is now idly trailing.
We come down a road that takes us over the toll bridge across the
Rapide and find ourselves in a kind of parade ground where there are
only a few cattle sheds and possibly a rude cabin or two for such
of the baron's herdsmen as must sleep outside overnight. This open
ground is the scene for martial exercises, rallyings of the vassals,
and even for tournaments. Many people are headed toward the castle,
mostly from the village of peasants just westward across the river;
but there is also the subprior on a mule, riding over from the abbey,
and also a messenger who has spurred down very early from Pontdebois
with a communication from the bishop. As we near the castle its tower
and inner and outer wards become more distinct. We readily believe
that it took Garnier's architect three years to carry through the
work; that all the peasants of the barony had been put to grievous
_corvées_ (forced labor) digging, hewing and dragging stone, or working
the great derricks; and that ten expert stonecutters and fully eighty
less skilled masons had been hired in from Paris, Rheims, and Orléans,
besides a master mason who demanded rewards that seemed outrageous for
a mere villein and not for a belted knight.
[Sidenote: The Barbican and Lists]
These speculations end as we come, not to the castle, but to a
semicircular palisade inclosing the regular gate on the landward side.
This palisade is too high to scramble over; the piles are too sharply
pointed and stout enough to stand considerable battering. This outwork
is the barbican--the first of the long series of obstacles awaiting
the foe. Of course, it could not be defended in a regular siege, but
its purpose is to stop any surprise attack long enough to enable the
garrison to rally, close the great gate, and man the walls. The whole
crowd of folk now entering make for the heavy wooden barrier which is
just being thrown open by a rather sleepy porter. Since it is a time
of profound peace, he lets them all stream inside, merely requiring
everyone to leave his weapons in his custody. We pass unchallenged,
thanks to the kind _fée_ aforementioned, who has rendered us as
invisible as the owner of Gyges's ring. If, however, we had been guests
of noble rank, we would have proceeded onward to the inner gate and
rung loudly on a heavy metal gong hanging there. One of the baron's
squires would then have greeted us. If we had been the baron's equal
or superior in the social scale, Conon himself would next have come
down to lead us in; if somewhat inferior, we would have been conducted
by the squire to the great hall, where we would have removed hood
and gloves before the magnate presented himself. But we have much to
examine ere we penetrate the seigneurial hall.
Once inside the barbican, one discovers that between this extreme
barrier and the fortress proper there is another open space with a
road, and another place for equestrian exercises extending from the
Claire straight over to the abrupt slopes of the Rapide. The palisades
run all the way from river to river. This space within the barbican
forms the lists, where two young sergeants are breaking in a balky
stallion. The lists are a great convenience in peace time, but the real
utility is in war, and they are even more important in the castles that
have land on every side. They supply a good road by which men can be
hurried round the castle circuit in reasonable safety. On the other
hand, if the enemy suddenly forces the barriers, he finds himself most
awkwardly in a limited space between the palisade and the castle moat,
with all the arbalists (crossbows) playing on him from the walls above.
Inside the lists and next to the masonry walls runs the moat. It is
some twenty feet wide, partly filled now with scum-covered rain water.
In the spring the varlets have great joy here hunting frogs, but as the
year advances it assuredly breeds mosquitoes. It constitutes, however,
another formidable barrier to an enemy, and that is its sole object.
After crossing these lists, the path leads straight to the drawbridge.
This has just been lowered by means of heavy counterpoises swung on
a kind of trestle overhead, for even in peace times no seigneur will
sleep soundly before the drawbridge is up. The portcullis, the frame
of iron bars which is lowered whenever the bridge is raised, has also
been hoisted in its groove by the gateway. The heavy oaken gates, faced
with metal, have not been unbarred, however. A smaller door, just big
enough for a horse, has been opened in one of them, admitting to the
castle proper. Despite the earlier scrutiny at the barbican, one now
catches a watchful eye at the small window in the turret close beside
the portcullis. The chief porter has a very responsible position. Many
a fortress has been lost because he has been careless or unfaithful. He
would, in any case, be chargeable if he admitted unwelcome guests or
idle rascals. Porters are often accused of being gruff, insolent, fat,
and lazy, but part of their bad name comes because they have to repel
bad characters.
[Sidenote: The Bailey, Gates and Towers]
And now we are about to enter the outer ward, or bailey, of the
castle of St. Aliquis. The walls and towers of these outer defenses
are less formidable than those of the inner ward; yet they seem of
massive thickness and imposing altitude. There is a solid round tower
covering either side of the gate; to about fifteen feet these twain
rise above the moat naked and sheer, then are pierced with narrow
slits intended, not to let in light, but to permit archers to cover
every inch of the way from the barbican to the drawbridge. Even if the
foe should cross the moat, shatter the portcullis, and split open the
heavy doors, he would be merely at the beginning of terrible hours of
ax- and sword-play. He would be in a narrow and low vaulted passage,
with many loopholes on either side for archers, and also with slits
in the ceiling for pouring down boiling oil, seething pitch, molten
lead, and other pleasantries; and if he rushed past all these forms of
death into the courts, there, behind him, capable still of very stout
defense, would rise the two strong gate towers, rendering every attempt
to re-enforce the original attacking party a dice-throwing with death,
and making retreat equally dangerous. Few leaders, therefore, will be
foolish enough to try to storm St. Aliquis simply by a desperate rush
against the gate.
From the two gate towers, right and left, there extends a considerable
stretch of sheer wall terminating at either extremity with two more
towers which mark the corners on the landward side of the fortress.
These four towers, of course, by projecting far beyond this curtain
wall, are posted so as to permit a steady fire of missiles on any
enemy who may somehow ensconce himself close under the wall. The two
sections of curtain wall themselves are some dozen feet thick, with a
firm walk along their summit, protected by a stone parapet. To enable
the defenders, however, to drop stones and other forms of destruction
upon attackers who may be under the very base of the wall and defying
the bolts from the towers, a structure of heavy timbers can be built
out all along the wall overhanging the moat. These wooden hordings
are strong enough to withstand many stones from the casting engines,
but they can sometimes be set on fire. In a siege, therefore, they
will be covered with raw hides. The same will also be put over the
conical wooden roofs which cap the towers. Since this is a time of
peace, however, the hordings stand weather-stained and bare. To cover
the entire woodwork with hides will be one of the first tasks of the
garrison in case of a serious alarm.
As we survey the outer walls of the castle, it is clear that no enemy
will try to batter down the towers. Even if he could penetrate their
shells, he would merely find himself in a dark, cavernous, vaulted
chamber, with the defenders flinging down death from above. He would
then have to bore through the inner wall, nearest the court, under
every disadvantage. The towers are built so completely of masonry that
it is impossible to burn them. Winding stairs, leading up through the
stonework, conduct from one stage to another; and these staircases are
so narrow and tortuous that a single warrior with an ordinarily lively
ax can stop a hundred men ascending.[5] The attack, therefore, must
be on the curtain walls. But even here, supposing one has scaled the
battlements, more troubles are awaiting. The only way downward from
the curtain walls is through the towers at the end of the parapets. To
leap into the court inside means broken bones. The gangways along the
parapet are intercepted at several points by wooden bridges. These
can be easily knocked away, leaving yawning gaps defying any leaper.
If you reach the towers they are all barred, and the arbalists are
shooting down on the captured gangways from a dozen loopholes. Finally,
be it said, each tower is a little fortress by itself. It has its own
cistern, fireplace for cooking, and storeroom. Even if isolated, its
garrison can hold out stoutly. So much for the task of attacking merely
the outer ward of St. Aliquis.
[Illustration: VIEW OF THE COURT AND THE DONJON]
[Sidenote: Inner Court and Donjon]
The problems of the towers and the curtain wall detain one long,
for they sum up the fundamental principles of thirteenth-century
fortifications. But now before us opens the broad court of the bailey
itself, the scene of much of the homely life of the castle; in fact,
the place now swarms with people busy with all kinds of activities.
The pavement is none too clean. There are large muck piles, and one
sees hens and a few pigs and dogs foraging everywhere. A genuine
village really exists inside the bailey. To the right of the gate is
a rambling, thatched-roof stable where in a long row of stalls the
fifty-odd horses of the seigneur are champing their morning fodder.
Near the stables stand tall ricks of hay. Behind these are a second
line of inelegant wooden structures: they are the barracks for the less
favored castle servitors, and for a part of the heavy-handed men at
arms whom Baron Conon keeps for instant duty.
[Sidenote: Buildings and Life in the Bailey]
On the left side of the gate are several more buildings. To be noted
are a commodious carpenter shop where saw and hammer are already
plying; a well-appointed smithy where at one ringing forge the
baroness's white palfrey is being reshod, and at another the master
armorer is putting a new link into a mail shirt. The castle smith's
position is no sinecure. He has to keep a great quantity of weapons
and armor in constant order; he has to do all the recurring small
jobs around the great establishment; and in emergency to manufacture
quantities of lance heads and arbalist bolts, as well as perhaps to
provide the metal work for siege engines on which may rest the fate
of the castle. Conon's first armorer is accordingly one of the most
important and best rewarded of all the servitors.
Besides these workshops there is a long storehouse, a repository for
not merely the food, but all other kinds of supplies needful in a
siege. Near by stands a smaller, shedlike structure, puzzling at first
to strangers, but which explains itself by the shrill screams and cries
issuing thence. It is the baron's hawk house, the mews, where the chief
falconer is now feeding the raw meat to the great hawks and falcons in
which his noble masters take delight. Close to these secular buildings,
however, there rises somewhat incongruously an elegant Gothic chapel,
with soaring pinnacles, a rose window at the end of the small nave,
sculptured saints flanking the portal, and within one finds glorious
stained glass, more saints' images and carvings, and a rich altar. This
is the little castle church to which very many dwellers of St. Aliquis,
including messire and madame, had repaired piously at gray dawn, and
where now good Father Grégoire has just finished a rather hasty mass.
The bailey, in short, is overrunning with activities. Horses are
neighing, cows are being milked, an overladen donkey is braying.
Yonder in one corner is a small building with a tall chimney. Here is
the seigneur's great oven, whither not merely the castle folk, but a
great number of the peasants, resort to bake their bread. In front of
the chapel bubbles a little fountain, and chattering women, scantily
attired, are filling their water pots. Children in various degrees of
nakedness and dirtiness play everywhere. Noises of every kind blend
in a hubbub. Lastly we notice, close to the inner drawbridge, another
building again with a tall chimney. This is the castle cookhouse,
where the dinners are prepared for the great hall within. A glance
through the door shows the vast fireplace where one can roast a whole
sheep or a small beef entire. The cookhouse is located here because
of the danger of fire in the inner castle, and because the position
is convenient for the great number of the servitors who must eat in
their barracks. When it is mealtime, however, this arrangement compels
a prodigious running to and fro all through the dinner hour between
kitchen and hall on the part of the twenty-odd sergeants and squires
who serve Baron Conon's guests and family. It bothers not the appetites
of pious Christians that their food is cooked amid contending odors
and that many of the doings near the cookhouse make its condition
extraordinarily unsanitary.
We have now crossed the bailey and its teeming life. Before us rises
the inner ward of the castle. Here are the gate and the walls of the
bailey over again, but far more pretentious and formidable. There is
another moat filled with muddy water; another drawbridge larger than
the outer one. The two gate towers are higher; their structures are
thicker, more solid. The curtain walls are so lofty that arbalistiers
thereon can pick off the enemy who may have gained the parapet of the
outer defenses. Finally, between the gate towers and the towers at
the end of the curtains, both to right and left, there is interposed
an extra tower, making the flanking fire much more close and deadly.
Consequently, the foe who could force his way into the bailey would
thus probably find it merely a bloody cockpit. The retreating garrison
would set fire to all the rude wooden buildings, and rake the outer
court with their bows and engines. If it would cost dearly to win the
bailey, what would it not cost to storm the castle proper?
[Sidenote: Inner Court, Donjon and Palais]
The gate to the inner ward is flung wide, but the portcullis still
slides in its grooves, being dropped every night to make sure that low
fellows from the barracks do not prowl around the seigneurial residence
in the darkness. Just at present swarms of people are going to and fro
between the two great sections of the castle, and jostling and laughing
in the narrow passages. As we pass through to the inner ward we realize
a certain touch of refinement. The pavement is cleaner. Most of the
servitors are better dressed and better mannered. Before us opens the
great court of the castle, set with stone flags and reasonably well
swept. Here the baron and his brother will practice their martial
exercises when the weather is bad and they must avoid the tilting
grounds. Here the horses will be mounted when Conon, Adela, and all
their noble friends assemble to ride out for hunting or hawking. On
either side the stately towers set into the walls frown downward, but
our gaze is ahead. Straight before one rises first a rather elegant
stone building with large pointed windows and a high sloping roof, and
then looming before that an enormous round citadel--one that dwarfs all
the other towers. It stands at the apex of the triangle; on one side
is the castle court, but to right and left the crags at its base are
falling precipitously away to the Rapide and the Claire.
The stone building is the _palais_, the actual residence of the baron.
The giant tower is the donjon, the great keep of the castle, built on
the site of Heribert's old stronghold, but twenty times as formidable.
The _palais_ is nearest to us, but since the apartments of the seigneur
are there, and we wish to examine these later, it is best to pass
around one end thereof and visit the donjon first.
Baron Garnier had built his donjon about one hundred and ten feet high
and some fifty-five feet in diameter, with walls a dozen feet thick.
This size is large, but not extraordinary. At Coucy they are planning
a tower two hundred and twenty-five feet high and ninety-five feet in
diameter. If Garnier had built a little earlier he would have made it
square, like that pitiless tower at Loches, which is only one hundred
feet high, but is seventy-six feet on its longest side. To enter the
donjon we go over still another drawbridge, although the ditch below
is dry, and on penetrating a small door in the masonry we wind up a
passageway through the thick wall. Passing from the bright morning
light of the court, one seems plunged into pitchy darkness. Strangers
stumble up steep stairways, with here and there a twinkle of light from
loopholes a couple of feet high, although barely wide enough at their
openings to allow the free flight of an arrow. Far below may be caught
glimpses of the twinkling, rushing Rapide, and of the bright green
country stretching away in the distance.
[Sidenote: The Donjon]
When St. Aliquis was rebuilt by Baron Garnier's architect, although
the donjon was greatly improved, much of the old masonry of the
original tower was retained, as well as the general arrangement of the
staircases, loopholes, and succession of _halls_, chambers, and lofts.
We see what the castle resembled in Heribert's day. By a turn or two in
the gaunt entrance we come to the original great hall of the castle.
It is offensively dark; the windows are mere loopholes at the end
of deep, cone-shaped passages let into the walls. Even on this balmy
June morning the atmosphere is clammy. As our eyes adjust themselves,
however, we see that we are in a huge vaulted chamber with a great
fireplace, and with a kind of wooden gallery about eight feet above
the floor, around the entire circuit. In this great chamber can be
assembled a good fraction of the entire garrison. The seigneur or his
spokesmen standing in the center or near the fireplace can give orders
which every man present can understand. Directions can thus be given
for any move needful for the defense of the castle.
[Illustration: UPPER HALL OF THE DONJON]
As we shall see, there is now a newer and better hall in the more
modern and airy _palais_, but the older hall is still used at great
feasts for the overflow of guests. Even now are standing long oaken
tables, duly hacked by the trencher knives of many boisterous diners;
and on the walls--blackened by the smoke from the great fireplace--are
hanging venerable trophies of the chase, antlers, the head of a bear,
great boar tusks, as well as an array of all kinds of hunting weapons
used by departed generations.
If we were to follow the staircase down from the hall we would come
to an even darker vaulted apartment used sometimes as a supplementary
dormitory for the humbler guests, but also (to the astonishment of
later-day medical usage) with small rooms set off to be used as a kind
of sick ward; because every physician, whether schooled at Salerno,
Cordova, or Montpellier, will tell you that darkness is the friend of
health and that few invalids can hope to get better unless they are
kept as shaded and sequestered as possible.
[Sidenote: The Prison and the Watch Tower]
If we wished to pursue still lower, descending a black staircase with
lanterns, the rocks would begin to drip dampness. We could hear the
rushing of the Rapide against the base of the castle. The journey would
end at a barred iron door. Within would be a fetid, reeking chamber lit
only by two or three tiny chinks in the masonry, and with the bare rock
for the floor. Here is Baron Conon's prison. He is counted a merciful
seigneur, yet he thinks nothing of thrusting genuine offenders therein
and keeping them for weeks, if not months, before releasing or hanging.
Lucky if Maître Denis, the turnkey, remembers to bring down a coarse
loaf each day, and if the rats do not devour the prisoners' toes; but
we shall consider all such nice matters later[6].
It is alleged that from these lower vaults there is an underground
passage leading from the castle to a secret sallyport at the foot
of the precipice by the Rapide. If a passage exists, however, it is
known only to Conon and a very few trusted retainers. But not all such
stories are false; many castles have such secret passages; and at Coucy
they are quietly planning to introduce a rather elaborate system of the
same. Quite possibly St. Aliquis possesses something of this nature.
Far pleasanter is it now to ascend from the main hall through a couple
of stages of upper and airier chambers (now used as apartments by part
of the castle folk) until by a dizzy ladder we reach the summit of the
donjon itself. Here on one edge of the broad platform is a little round
turret carrying us still higher. From the turret flutters the orange
banner of St. Aliquis, with some kind of a black dragon (in memory,
possibly, of the viking raid) broidered upon it, and the arrogant
legend of the noble family, "Rather break than bend." To lower this
banner were a horrid disgrace. Never is it to be struck unless the
castle surrenders, when it will be sadly flung into the moat.
Under the flagstaff is a stout projecting beam rigged with a pulley.
Here is a gibbet in case the baron wishes to hang offenders as a
warning for the countryside. Fortunately, however, Adela has a dislike
to seeing the corpses dangling, and has persuaded Conon to order his
recent hangings at the ordinary gallows across the Claire by the
village. On the flag turret is always a watchman; day or night some
peasant must take his turn, and even in peace he has no sinecure. He
must blow on his great horn at sunrise, at "cover fire" at night,
when the baron's hunt rides out and returns, and again when a strange
retinue approaches the gate. The whole wide countryside spreads in a
delightful panorama below him at present, but on winter nights, when
every blast is howling around the donjon, the task is less grateful. No
wonder that peasants impressed for this service complain that "watchmen
have the lot of the damned."
So back through the donjon and again to the castle court. The donjon is
purely military. In times of peace it is a mere storehouse, prison, and
supplementary barrack for the seigneur's people. In war it is the last
position where the garrison can stand desperately at bay. A hundred
years earlier Adela and her sister-in-law, Alienor, would have lived
out most of their days in the cheerless dark chambers directly above
the main hall. Now they are more fortunate. They dwell in the elegant
Gothic arched _palais_.
[Sidenote: Great Hall of the Palais]
The _palais_ consists of a long, somewhat narrow building thrusting
out into the inner court, and of other structures resting against the
western curtain wall on one side, but with their larger inner windows
looking also into the court. The rooms are high, with enormous
fireplaces where great logs can warm the apartments in winter. The
ceilings are ribbed and vaulted like a church, and some of the masonry
is beautifully carved. Where the bare walls are exposed they are often
covered with a stucco on which are sketched fresco scenes somewhat
after the style of stiff Byzantine paintings, or the famous tapestry of
Queen Mathilde at Bayeux. All the tints are flat red, yellow, or brown,
without perspective or fine lines, and in a kind of demi-silhouette.
Little touches of green, violet, and blue relieve the bareness, and
despite many awkward outlines and other limitations many of the scenes
are spirited as well as highly decorative. Some of the pictures are
religious. We notice "Christ on the Cross" between the "Synagogue" and
the "New Law," a "Last Judgment," an episode in the life of St. Aliquis
himself; also many secular pictures based often on the jongleur's
epics. Thus from the "Song of Roland" there is the tearing by wild
horses of the traitor Ganelon.
The windows in this _palais_ betray the luxury of the owner. They are
not closed by wooden shutters, as are most other apertures in the
castle. They are of glass, with very small panes set in lead. The panes
in the smaller rooms are uncolored, although hardly of transparent
whiteness, but in the huge dining hall they are richly colored as in
a church, giving a jewel-set galaxy of patron saints (_e.g._, St.
Martin, the warrior saint of France) and of knights and paladins from
Charlemagne and King Artus down, gazing benignantly upon the feasters
below.
This new hall is, of course, the finest apartment in the castle. Here
amid wood- and stone-work deeply carved the baron's household sits down
to dinner. It is, however, more than a mere dining room. Great feudal
ceremonies, such as the receiving of homage, here take place. Hither
also in bad weather or on winter evenings nearly all the castle folk
will resort. Messire will sit on the dais upon his canopied chair;
everybody else will wedge in as closely as possible, and after infinite
chatter, jesting, dice playing, and uproar the ever-popular jongleurs
will take station near the fireplace, do their tricks, sing songs, or
recite romances. The hall is, in short, the focus of the peaceful life
of the castle.
There are other rooms in the _palais_, but, considering the number
of people who have to live therein, they seem rather few. There is
little real privacy in St. Aliquis. The baron has a special closet
indeed, where he can retire and hope that he is not overheard, but
the great chamber for himself and the baroness is ordinarily full of
servitors. Next to the chamber is a second room where the baron's sons
sleep while they are little, and where honored guests can be lodged.
Conon's brother and sister have each a large apartment, but there seems
a singular lack of anterooms, boudoirs, and other retiring rooms. It
is perfectly good manners to ask noble guests to share the same rooms
with the family; and a couple of the baroness's maids will sleep on
pallets within her chamber, with the baron's favorite squire just
outside the door. As for the lesser folk at night, they often stretch
unceremoniously on the tables or even on the floor in the main hall.
The possession of a strictly private room is indeed a decided luxury;
even a great noble is often able to go without it.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY APARTMENT
From the restoration by Viollet-Le-Duc. At the left the chair where
sits the seigneur, the bed separated by a screen from the rest of the
hall; at the back, between the two windows, a cupboard; opposite the
fireplace, a large table. Tapestries ornament the walls.]
[Sidenote: Tables, Rushes and Tapestries in Hall]
The furniture of these apartments seems scanty, but it is at least very
solid. In the hall there are lines of tables set upon trestles, faced
by long backless seats. Here it is often needful to remove these tables
to arrange for a feudal ceremony or for a dance; but at one end
of the apartment is a raised dais, and at right angles to the others
runs the ponderous oaken table of the master. Conon faces the hall
from a high carved chair under a wooden canopy. The other seats on the
dais have the luxury of backs and arms. The fireplace is an enormous
construction, thrusting far into the room, where long logs on high
andirons can heat the stonework so it will glow furiously for hours.
To keep off the heat in winter there are fire screens of osier, but of
course in summer these disappear. Every festival day the paved floors
of the rooms in the _palais_ are strewn, if possible, with new rushes
and flowers--roses and lilies, flags and mint, making a soft crackling
mass under one's feet. They are fragrant and pleasant while fresh, and
even through the winter are allowed to remain to protect against the
chill of the floor. By springtime they are dried and are very filthy,
for the diners throw their bones and bits of bread and meat into them,
and the dogs and cats roaming about cannot devour all of such refuse.
Certain seigneurs, indeed are introducing the use of "Saracen carpets,"
gorgeous rugs either imported from the East or made up in France after
imported patterns; but these are an expensive innovation, and Conon as
yet keeps to his river rushes.
Of another luxury, however, he is rightly proud. Stowed away
in carefully guarded cupboards is a quantity of admirable wall
tapestries, some of the precious sendal (taffeta) silk, some of hardly
less valuable Sicilian woolen stuff. Their designs are of blazing
magnificence. There is one of great elaboration showing "The Seven
Virtues and the Seven Vices," another giving a whole sequence of scenes
concerning Charlemagne. But such precious ornaments must be kept for
great occasions. The order, "Hang the tapestries," is a sign to the
servitors that Conon contemplates a tourney or a great feast or a visit
from the duke. For to-day the _palais_ contents itself with its simple
fresco decoration.
The bedroom furniture is equally simple. The chamber of the baron and
his wife is lit by three windows with arched tops pierced into the
masonry, overlooking the castle court. There is a little table by the
fireplace holding a board of chessmen and there are a few backless
stools and long narrow benches. In the window places are comfortably
upholstered "She and I" seats facing one another. Opposite the
fireplace is a chair of state for the baron, with high carved back and
arms, a wooden canopy of equally heavy carving, and a footstool covered
with red silk. There are several ponderous wardrobes, and especially a
number of very massive iron-bound chests containing valuable garments,
jewels, and the like. Bureaus and chests of drawers hardly exist in
this age, and ordinary chests take their place. Indeed, no bedroom is
fitted properly unless it has a solid chest at the foot of the bed
for the prompt reception of any guest's belongings. When a castle is
taken the cry, "Break open the chests!" is equivalent to calling to the
victors, "Scatter and pillage!"
Near one of the windows in the wall there is also a large crucifix
carved of dark wood, and beneath it on a shelf is a small silver box
richly chased with figures of saints and angels. This is a reliquary
containing a trophy brought from the Holy Land by a crusader--a cluster
of hair of St. Philip the Apostle, likewise some ravelings of the robe
of St. Anna, mother of the Virgin. Before these sacred objects the
baron and baroness kneel on red-silk cushions and say their prayers
morning and night.
[Illustration: A THIRTEENTH CENTURY BED
Reconstructed by Viollet-Le-Duc, from a manuscript in the Bibliothèque
nationale.]
[Sidenote: Furniture and Beds]
But the central object of the chamber is the bed. To have a fine bed
for the master and mistress is the ambition of every feudal household.
It stands under a great canopy, with heavy curtains of blue taffeta.
The bed itself, a great mass of feather mattresses and gorgeously
embroidered coverlets, projects its intricately carved footboard far
into the room. The whole structure is set upon a platform. When the
baron and baroness have retired, their attendants will pull the thick
curtains and practically inclose them in their own secluded bedroom.
The curtains cut off air, but that is no disadvantage, because every
physician tells you that night air is most unhealthful.
This nearly completes the furnishings of the chamber, save for various
perches, wooden hooks, and racks set here and there for clothes and
sometimes for the baroness's hunting hawks, and two bronze lamps
swinging on chains, which give a very imperfect illumination. If more
brilliance is needed (and if the great fireplace is not throwing out a
glare) one can do as they do in the great hall for extra lighting--set
resinous torches in metal holders along the walls. However, for
ordinary purposes the baron and baroness prefer the less odorous wax
candles. In fact, a very tall wax candle stands near to the bed and is
allowed to burn all night. This keeps away pixies and the Devil, and
makes things generally more cheerful for Christians.
The other apartments of the castle are similarly furnished, although
with less magnificence. Of course, in the barracks for the lower
servitors and the men at arms each man is lucky if he has a large bag
crammed with straw for a bed, a solid blanket, and a three-legged stool
whereon to sit by day.
Thus have been inspected exterior, the stone, and the wooden aspects of
St. Aliquis. The task is next to see the doings of the people who give
to the unyielding fortress its significance and life.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] See chap. xiv.
[5] Often at dark turns in these towers the floor would be made of
wooden scaffolding, easy to destroy; and the attacker would (if not
wary) suddenly tumble to the cellar of the tower.
[6] See ch. x.