We have visited St. Aliquis in days of peace, and at peace the
seigneury remains while we tarry. But peace and pageants no more deadly
than tourneys are seldom the continuous state of things. "Rumors of
wars" there are every day; actual wars every few years. Let the saints
be praised if such contests are largely local, are not bitterly fought
out, and are composed before they have caused worse things than the
harrying of certain villages of helpless, innocent peasants.
In spite of the efforts of clergy and of kings it will be truthfully
written of feudal France that "war was practically a permanent scourge
almost everywhere. _In the society of that day war was the normal
state._" When these wars are waged by mighty kings one can at least
take the comfort that perhaps they are settling long-standing questions
concerning many people, and, however dreadful, may pave the way for
lasting peace. Such a war has lately found its climax in the decisive
battle of Bouvines, whereof more anon. But most of the wars are for
miserably petty stakes. Time was when every insignificant sire holding
a feeble tower considered that he had the right to declare war on any
neighbor with whom he argued the rights to a trout stream. Yet the
case is changing. Suzerains are insisting that the lower class of
vassals arbitrate their quarrels and not embroil the neighborhood.
Nevertheless, the superior type of barons still claim war as their
"noble right." The amount of local fighting can hardly be computed.
[Sidenote: Varieties of Baronial Wars]
There is something abnormal about a powerful seigneur who (if blessed
with a long lifetime) does not have at least _one_ war with each of
his several suzerains, a war with the bishops and abbots with whom he
has contact, a war with each neighboring noble of equal rank, unless
their houses are unwontedly friendly, and a war with at least some of
his own vassals. A war can start out of a dispute about a bit of land,
an ill-defined boundary, or the exact obligations of a feudal tenure.
Theoretically, the suzerain can interfere between wrangling vassals.
Practically, he had better let them fight it out, at least till there
seems real danger that their fiefs will be permanently injured. Then he
can sometimes compel a truce.
Unfortunately, however, God often permits the bitterest wars to be
fought within the fief itself. Sons fight with fathers--"the Old Man"
will not let his grown boys rule the seigneury to their liking.[67]
Younger brothers battle with elder brothers over the inheritance.
Nephews attack uncles who seem prolonging their guardianship. Sons even
attack a widowed mother to seize her dower lands. These are only some
of the things which make the devil rub his taloned fingers.
Nevertheless, certain limitations are intruding, customs that have
nearly the force of law.[68] For example, if a vassal attacks his
suzerain, none but his own family (among his noble followers) can aid
him. Also, in any case, at least a week's notice must be given ere
the war is commenced. After the war does begin, forty days' respite
must also be granted your foe's relatives ere attacking them. In the
interval they are entitled to proclaim their neutrality and so to
become safe. Again, one is supposed to respect priests and women and
minors. Finally, if a truce is made the suzerain is bound to punish the
violators. Such understandings rob warfare of part of its horrors, but
do not prevent infinite blood and misery.
As for that motive which prevails in other ages for waging
wars--_patriotism_--often it does not seem to exist so vitally.
Certainly Frenchmen ought to make a common front against Germans,
Italians, English, etc., but lapses from this obligation are not always
condemned as morally outrageous. Quite recently the Count of Boulogne,
being at odds with King Philip, took money from both the King of
England and the Emperor of Germany to raise up enemies against the King
of France; and the count evidently felt that this was a proper measure
against an obnoxious suzerain. The great significant tie is that of
_personal loyalty_.[69] It is horrible to betray the prince to whom
you have sworn fealty. A suzerain will call out his host by a summons
to "my vassals," he will seldom think of appealing to "my fellow
countrymen."
[Sidenote: Few Battles and Little Strategy]
We have said that wars are incessant; yet there is one strange thing
about them--_pitched battles are very rare_. The campaigns abound
in petty skirmishes--valorous duels, surprises of small castles,
occasional clashes of cavalry, and, above all, in the pitiless ravaging
of the lands, farms, and villages of the helpless peasantry. What
better way to put pressure on your foe than to reduce his villeins to
such misery that they can render him nothing in money or kind and that
he thus be brought to poverty? If you have the weaker force you will
not think of meeting an invader in battle. You will shut yourself up
in your castles when you see the burning villages, stifle your pride,
remain passive, and trust that after the "forty days' service" of
your enemy's vassals is expired they will weary of the operations and
not venture to besiege your strongholds. Then when the foe's army is
beginning to disperse you can employ some neutral baron or abbot to
negotiate peace.
Even when kings are in the field, with really large armies, somehow
the opposing forces seldom risk a decisive encounter. They maneuver,
skirmish, and negotiate underhandedly with the uncertain elements in
the hostile camp. The upshot often is that the invading army, having
devoured all the provisions in the open country and not daring to
besiege strong cities with a powerful enemy close at hand, retreats
homeward.
Of course, sometimes there are great battles with great results. Such
in the eleventh century was Senlac, when Duke William the Norman won
all England. Such, more recently, was the famous day at Bouvines. Such
marked several of the Crusades against the Infidels, particularly the
great and successful First Crusade, and the Third Crusade, when Richard
the Lion Hearted seemed to come nearer than any other feudal general to
being a really able tactician, if not a great strategist.
These battles are few and far between--and even the mighty Richard's
ideal style of fighting was rather that of a headlong cavalier followed
by only fifteen knights and with his ponderous ax hewing a bloody lane
through a host of Infidels, than that of a careful commander coolly
directing a mighty army. Besides, most of the wars between second-class
barons involve very small forces. They are only affairs for hundreds.
If matters come to grips, the best captain is he who orders "Advance,
banner bearer! Follow me, vassals!" and leads the headlong charge.
Enormous pains have been taken in training the individual warrior. For
personal prowess the French cavalier is as formidable an individual
as ever shared the sins of mankind. But he is trained only in simple
evolutions when maneuvering in companies. He dislikes taking orders. He
wearies of long campaigns. His camps are very unhygienic and subject to
pestilence. Wars, in short, are to him superb games, exciting, spiced
with danger, and played for large stakes--which give the zest; but,
save in the Crusades and certain other rare cases, the higher objects
which supply wars with their sole justification escape him entirely.
"Warfare," in the true scientific sense of the word, is something
whereof your baron is usually in complete ignorance.
Earlier in this recital it has been seen that Baron Conon, soon after
he obtained the seigneury, engaged in a brisk feud with the Viscount of
Foretvert. This was so like many other feuds in the region that it is
well to obtain an authentic history thereof from Father Grégoire, who
knows all the circumstances.
[Sidenote: Beginning of a Feud]
The origin of the quarrel (he tells us) was commonplace. Doubtless
the viscount had a contemptuous opinion of his then young and untried
neighbor. There was a wood betwixt the two seigneuries which had
been haltingly claimed by Foretvert; but all through terrible Baron
Garnier's time none but St. Aliquis peasants had been suffered to
cut fagots there. Now suddenly Huon, one of the forester's helpers,
appeared before Conon in a piteous plight. His thumbs had been hewn
clean off. He had been chopping timber on the debatable land, had been
seized by the viscount's men, haled before their master, and the latter
had ordered this treatment, adding, with a grin: "This is the drink
penny for touching a twig in my forests. Tell your young lord to spread
these tidings among his villeins."
When Conon had heard this taunt, his squires trembled at the workings
of his face. Then and there he pulled out his sword, placed his
hands on the hilt, pressing upon the reliquary, and swore "By God's
eyes!"[70] that he would make the viscount and all the spawn of
Foretvert swallow enough of their own blood to be drunk to damnation.
"Certes," says Father Grégoire, "he could not as a Christian baron do
less; for the lord who lets another seigneur oppress his villeins is no
lord; and if he had failed to resent such an insult none of his vassals
would have obeyed him."
That same day one of Conon's squires rode to Foretvert. He bore a
"cartel," a bunch of fur plucked from his master's pelisson.[71] He
was only a young squire, but carried his head high. There was some
danger in being such a messenger. The squire had to be as insolent as
possible without actually provoking Foretvert to violate the protection
due to a herald. Into the great hall of the offending seigneur strode
said squire, carrying a bough of pine in his left hand, the bunch of
fur in the right. His coming had been anticipated. The greetings, as
he was led up to the dais where the viscount presided, were cold and
ceremonious. Then the squire straightened his slim form and shook out
his long mantle.
"Sire Viscount, my master, the Baron of St. Aliquis, demands of you
satisfaction. If you do not make good the wrongs you have done to him
and his, I loyally defy you in his name."
And down he flung the cartel.
"It is fitting," returned the viscount, mockingly, "a mere boy should
be a squire for a lad. Tell your very youthful master that I will soon
teach him a lesson in the art of war."
So with a few more such exchanges the squire rode homeward. Meantime
at St. Aliquis things were stirring. The great bell on the donjon was
ringing. Zealous hands were already affixing the raw hides to the
projecting wooden hoardings upon the battlements. All the storehouses
for weapons in the bailey were being opened for a distribution of arms.
From the armory forge came a mighty clangor of tightening rivets. The
destrers must have caught the news, they stamped so furiously in the
stables. In the great hall Conon sat with Adela (a wise head in martial
matters), Sire Eustace, and the other knights in serious debate.
[Sidenote: Mustering the Vassals]
Simultaneously, messengers were pricking away to all the little
villages and to the fortalices of the vassals. To the villeins they
cried: "The baron proclaims war with Foretvert. Bring your cattle
and movables near to the castle for protection." To the vassals they
announced, "Come with all the men you are bound in duty to lead,
seven days from to-day, to St. Aliquis, armed and provisioned for
service; and hereof fail not or we burn you." This right to burn the
dwellings of vassals who failed to obey the summons to the ban was one
of long standing in feudal lands. Other messengers proclaimed the
ban by blowing the trumpet at every crossroads in the barony. To have
disobeyed this call would have been the depth of feudal depravity. None
of the vassals ventured to hesitate. On the contrary, most of them,
like good liegemen, affected to show joy at this chance to follow their
seigneur, crying at once, "My horse! My horse!" and ordering out all
their retainers.
The abbot of the monastery now, as duty bound, visited both leaders
and vainly tried to negotiate peace. He met with courteous thanks
and prompt refusals. While he was thus squaring with his conscience,
Conon was notifying all his outlying relatives. He was also sending
to several powerful barons who had received armed assistance from St.
Aliquis in the past, and who were now tactfully reminded of this fact.
He likewise sent an especially acceptable messenger to his suzerain
the duke, to convince the latter that Foretvert was entirely wrong,
and that the duke had better not interfere. Thanks to this energy
and diplomacy, by the end of the week the whole countryside had been
roused, the peasants had driven most of their cattle so close to
St. Aliquis castle that they could be protected, and many villeins,
deserting their hovels, were camping in the open (it being fine summer
weather) in the space between the barbican and bailey. As for Conon,
with pride he mustered his "array"--one hundred knights or battle
worthy squires; two hundred sergeants--horsemen of non noble birth;
and some seven hundred footmen--villeins with long knives, pikes,
arbalists, big axes, etc.--of no great value in open battle, but sure
to have their place in other work ahead.
From Foretvert reports came in of similar preparation. But the viscount
had quarreled with some of his relations. He had broken a promise he
once made to help a certain sire in a feud. His immediate vassals
responded to his call, but they felt that their lord ought to have
consulted them ere provoking St. Aliquis so grossly. In a word, their
zeal was not of the greatest.
Nevertheless, the viscount, an impetuous and self-confident man, having
hastily assembled his forces, the very day the week of intermission
ended invaded Conon's territory. He expected to find his enemy's
peasants still in the fields and the St. Aliquis retainers in the
process of mustering. To his amazement, he discovered that the villages
were almost empty and most of the cattle driven away. Nevertheless, he
foolishly allowed his men to scatter in order to ravage everything left
at their mercy. Soon hayricks were burning, standing crops were being
trampled down, and the thatch on the forsaken huts was blazing. Here
and there troopers were driving before their spears oafish peasants who
had lingered too long. The hands of these wretches were tied behind
their backs. Beside them trudged their weeping wives and children.
Every sheep, pig, and chicken discoverable was, of course, seized.[72]
The ravagers soon had enough booty to load their horses to such a
degree that one of Foretvert's more experienced knights warned him his
men were becoming dangerously encumbered in case of an encounter.
[Sidenote: A Passage at Arms]
The viscount laughed at these fears, yet was about to sound trumpets
to recall the foraging parties; when, lo! down a wood road, through a
forest that had been imperfectly scouted, came charging the whole St.
Aliquis levy, with Conon's great banner racing on ahead. Half of the
viscount's men were dispersed; the other half barely got into a kind
of order when their enemies were upon them, thrusting, slashing, and
laying about like fiends. Such being the case, Foretvert had cause to
bless the Virgin that he got safely from the field. He only did so
because his squire most gallantly stabbed the horse of Sire Eustace
just as he was closing with the viscount. The squire himself was
brained by the seneschal's mace an instant later. Five of the Foretvert
knights were slain outright, despite their armor. Four more were pulled
from their horses and dragged off as prisoners for ransom.
Of the foraging parties, the leaders got home by putting their horses
at speed, but the miserable footmen were intercepted by scores. Many of
these were slain while dropping their sinful booty. About forty were
taken prisoners, but, being only villeins (from whom no ransom was to
be expected), Conon promptly hanged ten as a warning against further
ravaging of his lands, and took the other thirty back to his castle to
be hanged later in case this first hint should not prove effective.[73]
This unusually decisive engagement ought, in the opinion of many, to
have ended the war. Conon now invaded the Foretvert domains and with
proper precautions sent out _his_ ravaging parties, who soon taught
their foes a lesson as to how to devastate a countryside. But the
viscount, although sorely shaken and deserted now by many, arrogantly
refused to make those concessions which Conon declared "his honor
required ere he could think of peace." The war thus promised not to
terminate until, by incessant raids and counter-raids, the peasants of
both seigneuries had been brought to the edge of starvation.
The viscount, of course, reckoned that at the end of their ordinary
"forty days' service" Conon's vassals and allies would leave him.
Most feudal levies were wont thus to melt away, after a very short
campaign, and leave their leader bereft of almost all save his
immediate retainers. Foretvert could then regather his men and resume
the contest. But the saints so ordered it that Conon had been a
thrifty seigneur as well as a popular suzerain and neighbor. He now
offered his allies and vassals good deniers if they would serve until
the autumn rains. He also hired the services of some fifty horsemen
and two hundred footmen, led from Lorraine by an iron-handed soldier
of fortune, Ritter Rainulf of the Moselle, who would put his German
mercenaries at the beck of about any baron offering good silver.
Mercenaries did not serve for "forty days," but for as many months as
they received steady wages--a great advantage.
Conon likewise hired a base-born fellow, Maître Jerôme. The knights
complained that the baron gave him too great pay and confidence, but
Maître Jerôme had been one of the king's best engineers in the siege of
the great castle, Château Gaillard, on the Seine, when Philip Augustus
took that supposedly impregnable fortress from John of England in 1204.
Now the castle of Foretvert itself was almost as strong as St. Aliquis,
and no siege thereof was worth considering. But the viscount had a
smaller fortalice, Tourfière, which lay closer to Conon's lands and was
not so formidable.
[Sidenote: Siege of a Castle]
Tourfière consisted merely of a single curtain of walls around the
courtyard of a central keep, with, of course, a palisaded barbican
before the gate. There was a moat, but not deep, and flooded only in
wet weather, and the foundations of this stronghold did not rest,
apparently, on solid rock--a matter upon which Maître Jerôme laid great
stress after a discreet reconnaissance. Suddenly, to the amazement of
many, Conon with all his forces appeared before Tourfière and summoned
its castellan, Sire Gauthier, the viscount's nephew, to surrender--a
demand refused with derision.
Sire Gauthier commanded some twenty knights, squires or sergeants, also
at least ninety armed villeins--a sufficient force, it seemed, for a
small castle, especially as the women in the place could drop stones,
throw down burning pitch hoops, pour boiling water, and help twist
back the casting engines. The defenders thus prepared to resist with
energy, confident that Conon could not keep his heterogeneous levies
together much longer and that the siege would break up ignominiously.
But, despite his villein blood, Maître Jerôme ordered the siege in
a marvelously skillful manner. No chess player could have moved his
pieces better than did he. First he persuaded the baron to resist his
impulse to attempt the walls by a sudden rush with scaling ladders,
pointing out that Gauthier, besides his arbalists, had four great
trenchbuts (stone-hurlers worked by counterweights) and also two
catapults, giant bows mounted on standards and able to send a heavy
arrow clean through a man in full armor.
"We must take Tourfière by the crowbar and spade, and not by the sword,
fair Seigneur," said Jerôme, smilingly; whereupon a great levy of
Conon's serfs began cutting timber and building a palisade all around
the besieged castle, to stop sorties or succoring parties. Meantime
Jerôme was directing the making of trenchbuts and catapults for the
besiegers. With these they soon smashed the wooden hoardings which had
protected the battlements, making it impossible for the garrison to
mount the walls, save at a few places or in great emergencies, lest
they be picked off by the attackers' arbalists. The trenchbuts also
cast small kegs of "Greek fire" (a compound of pitch, sulphur, and
naphtha) inside the castle court. These terrible fire balls could not
be quenched by water, but only by sand. By desperate efforts, indeed,
the defenders prevented decisive harm, but some of the buildings in the
courtyard were burned and Sire Gauthier's men became wearied in their
efforts to fend off disaster.
[Illustration: A CATAPULT
A sort of sling which one tightened with the aid of a windlass and
which threw heavy projectiles.]
In bravado the defenders took two prisoners and hanged them on the
highest tower. Conon retaliated by immediately hanging four prisoners
just out of bowshot of the castle, and causing his largest trenchbut
to fling a dead horse clear over the battlements and into the court.
Meantime a remarkable energy of the assailants, just outside their
palisades, was observable by Sire Gauthier. The castellan took counsel
with his most experienced men, for the besiegers seemed shaping very
many timbers.
[Sidenote: Siege Engines and Towers]
His advisers were divided in opinion. Some said that Conon was planning
to build a _beffroi_. This was a most ambitious undertaking ordinarily
used only in great sieges. A _beffroi_ was a movable tower built of
heavy timbers and raised to at least the height of the wall attacked.
Its front was covered by rawhides to repel arrows and fire-balls. It
was worked forward on rollers or clumsy wheels until close to the
hostile parapet. Then, when almost touching, a swinging bridge from
the summit was flung across to the wall, a host of assailants swarmed
up a ladder in the rear and over the bridge to the battlements. The
defenders then needed all their valor to keep their castle from speedy
capture.
[Illustration: AN ATTACK WITH THE AID OF A TOWER
(From Viollet-Le-Duc); the moat has been filled up, the tower covered
with skins to protect it from fire and rolled up to the wall.]
Others in the garrison, however, derided the idea that a _beffroi_ was
projected. It would be winter ere such a complicated structure could
be completed. They said that the baron was preparing battering rams
and a "cat." The battering ram was simply a heavy timber with a metal
head, swung by chains from a kind of wooden trestle. Set up close under
a wall it was pulled back and forth by ropes, and by repeated blows
knocked down the masonry. The "cat" was a long, narrow, tent-shaped
structure of heavy timbers covered with hides or iron to turn missiles
from the parapets. One end of this was built out until it came into
contact with the walls, when skillful miners under its protection
quarried their way through the masonry with pickaxes.
[Illustration: A MANTELET IN WOOD]
These methods were easier to prepare than the _beffroi_, although not
so effective. The defenders felt sure they would be used when the
attackers were seen making _mantelets_, large wooden shields mounted
on small wheels, to protect the crossbowmen when they crept up to
clear the walls--a needful preliminary to advancing either the cat or
the ram. Their certainty increased when one night, by a sudden rush,
Conon's men stormed through the weak palisade of the barbican and,
forcing their way near to the walls, began filling up the moat with
_fascines_--bundles of fagots. By using his trenchbuts and catapults
to best advantage, Sire Gauthier felt confident, however, that he had
prevented them from leveling the moat sufficiently to make a firm
foundation for siege engines. The Tourfière men, therefore, shouted
arrogantly: "Take your time, St. Aliquis hirelings! Your 'Madame Cat'
will never gnaw our rats."[74]
Presently, after a couple of weeks, the besiegers were seen in great
activity, as if arraying themselves for an assault. Gauthier was
convinced they were about, in desperation, to try to scale his walls
with ladders. Then of a sudden a panic-stricken sergeant ran up to his
watchtower. Wafts of smoke were escaping near the foundations of the
curtain wall near the gate!
[Sidenote: Undermining the Wall]
Gauthier instantly realized what had happened, but it was too late.
Under an elaborate feint with other preparations, Maître Jerôme had
taken advantage of the soft ground beneath the castle and had driven a
mine, beginning at a safe distance in the rear and cunningly concealing
the entrance and the earth excavated until it was fairly under a vital
section of the wall. Then a large chamber had been cleared and wooden
posts soaked with tallow had been put under the masonry to keep it
from falling on the miners. As the last of them retreated, a torch
was set to the woodwork, the whole chamber having been crammed with
inflammables. Presently the fire ate away the posts. With a thundering
crash a vital section of the wall collapsed.
[Illustration: ATTACK ON A WALL WITH THE AID OF THE SAP
At the top of the wall the scaffolding can be seen (theoretical figure
from Viollet-Le-Duc).]
The besieged had not realized the situation in time to drive a
countermine or to erect a second wall inside the danger point. The
moment the St. Aliquis men saw the wall topple they rushed forward.
The defenders met them bravely in the breach and there was bloody
swordplay, but the thrust of numbers was irresistible. Gauthier and
part of his men fled, indeed, to the donjon and barred the entrance,
but they were utterly demoralized. All the women and children, packed
into the tower, were shrilly lamenting the dead and were otherwise
frantic. Most of the provisions had been in a storehouse outside the
donjon. The end, therefore, was certain. At the end of the next day the
garrison in the donjon surrendered on promise of life and limb for all,
and courteous treatment for the knights.
The storming of Tourfière ended the war. Conon might, indeed, have
ruined Foretvert utterly, but now the duke intervened. It was not
for his interests to have any vassal rendered unfit to meet his
feudal obligations. Conon, however, was able to exact very high
terms. For evacuating Tourfière he obtained the cession of a village
whose peasants paid very large dues, and two of the viscount's best
vassals also transferred their homage to St. Aliquis. The contending
parties swore to peace upon the most precious relics at the abbey, and
exchanged the kiss of amity. Henceforth Foretvert, a sadder and wiser
seigneur, has been outwardly friendly with his powerful neighbor and
even came as a sulky guest to Alienor's wedding.
FOOTNOTES:
[67] Primogeniture did not exist on the Continent as in England. The
elder son was entitled to the largest share of the estate, but by no
means to the whole.
[68] They became formal law by about 1260, in the days of Louis IX.
[69] French opinion, of course, condemned this count, not for being a
traitor to his country, but for breach of fealty to his personal lord.
[70] The terrible oath of Henry II of England and other great
chieftains.
[71] Later custom would probably have sent a fur-trimmed glove.
[72] Such plunderings were common enough, though the best knightly
sentiment was against participating directly in them. Says a bard,
Geraud de Borneil, "O fie on the knight who drives off a flock of
bleating sheep--and then appears before a lady!"
[73] These prisoners were lucky if they finally escaped without at
least mutilation. To "give your captives (of villein blood) the empty
sleeve or the wooden leg" seems to have been direfully common in feudal
wars.
[74] Similar taunts were delivered at the well-known siege of
Carcasonne in 1240.