FRANK AND BRETON.
The Emperor rode rapidly forward toward the hunting pavilion. The
seigneurs of his suite received the angry order of their master with
silent obedience, and, reining in their horses, proceeded at a slower
gait towards the rendezvous. Lost among them, Amael rode along, steeped
in thought, revolving the recent conversation he had with Charles, and
at the same time more and more a prey to anxiety at the prolonged
absence of Vortigern. The Emperor's courtiers shivered under their robes
of silk and drabbled feathers, and silently grumbled at the whim of
their Emperor, whereby the looked-for time was retarded when they might
warm themselves at the fire of the pavilion, and revive their spirits
with supper. Arrived in the close neighborhood of the pavilion, they
alighted from their horses. They had been conversing together about a
quarter of an hour, when Amael, who had also alighted and leaned
pensively against one of the nearby gigantic trees of the forest,
noticed Octave hastening in his direction and calling out to him:
"Amael, I was looking for you--come quick!"
The aged Breton tied his horse to the tree and followed Octave. When
both had walked a little distance away from the group of the Frankish
seigneurs, the young Roman proceeded:
"I feel mortally uneasy on the score of Vortigern. Your grandson having
been carried away by his horse early in the hunt, Thetralde and
Hildrude, two of the Emperor's daughters, followed him on the spot. What
may have happened? I can not guess. I am told positively that Hildrude,
who seemed greatly irritated, rode back to Aix-la-Chapelle with two
other sisters and all the concubines of the Emperor who had come to the
chase. Thetralde must have remained alone behind with Vortigern in some
part of the forest."
"Finish your account."
"I know from experience how easy-going are the morals of this court.
Thetralde has taken notice of your grandson. She is fifteen, has been
brought up amidst her sisters, who have as many paramours as their own
father has mistresses. Despite himself, Vortigern has made a lively
impression upon the heart of Thetralde. The two are children. They have
vanished together, and must have been lost together, seeing that three
of the Emperor's daughters have returned to the palace and the other two
are at the pavilion. Only Thetralde is not to be found. If she lost her
way in the company of Vortigern--I would this morning have been of the
opinion that it was to be hoped--"
"Heaven and earth!" broke in the aged Breton, growing pale. "How dare
you joke on such a matter!"
"This morning I would have considered the adventure highly amusing. This
evening it seems to me redoubtable. A minute ago, angered at something
or other, the Emperor clapped both his spurs to his horse's flanks,
ordered that none should follow him, and rushed towards the pavilion.
Rothaide and Bertha, daughters of Charles, notified of their father's
approach by the clatter of his horse, and believing that his whole
suite was with him, sped away to the upper chambers of the
pavilion--Bertha with Enghilbert, the handsome Abbot of St. Riquier,
Rothaide with Audoin, one of the Emperor's officers."
"And then?"
"The Emperor arrives all alone and dismounts. 'Where are my daughters?'
he calls out impatiently to the Grand Nomenclator of his table who
happens to be superintending the preparations for the supper. The Grand
Nomenclator answers in great embarrassment: 'August Emperor, allow me to
go and announce your arrival to the Princesses; they have withdrawn to
the upper chambers in order to take some rest while waiting for supper.'
'I shall go myself and see them,' replies Charles, saying which, he
clambers up the stairs. Old Vulcan surprising Venus and Mars at their
amorous escapade, could not have been more furious than was the august
Emperor when he surprised his daughters in the arms of their gallants.
The Grand Nomenclator having remained near the door of the staircase
soon heard an infernal racket in the chambers above. The irate Charles
was plying his hunting whip right and left over the two amorous couples.
A profound silence ensued thereupon. The Emperor having the habit of not
noising such things about came down again, calm in appearance, but pale
with rage, and--"
Octave's narrative was at this point suddenly interrupted by tumultuous
cries that proceeded from the pavilion. Slaves were seen rushing out of
the building with lighted torches in their hands, and immediately the
shrill voice of Charles himself was heard calling out:
"To horse! My daughter Thetralde has lost her way in the forest! She has
not returned to the palace--and she is not here in the pavilion. Take
the torches--and to horse! To horse!"
"Amael, in the name of your grandson's welfare," whispered Octave
precipitately in the Breton's ear, "follow me at a distance. There is
just one chance left to us of saving Vortigern from the Emperor's rage."
Saying this, the young Roman disappeared among the seigneurs of the
court who were hastening towards their horses, while Charles, whose
rage, restrained for a moment, now exploded with renewed fierceness,
screeched at them:
"Look at them, gaping open-mouthed, like a herd of startled sheep! Let
each one take a torch and follow one of the avenues of the forest, all
the while calling out to my daughter as loud as he can. Halloa
there--let someone take up a torch and ride ahead of me!"
At these words, Octave seized a torch and approached the Emperor, while
other seigneurs rode rapidly off in several directions in search of the
lost Thetralde. The meaning of the hurried recommendation that Octave
had addressed to him a minute before flashed at this moment clear
through Amael's mind. Mounting his horse at the same time that Charles
and the young Roman who bore the torch did theirs, he allowed the two to
take somewhat the lead of him, and then followed them at a distance,
guided by the torch that Octave held aloft.
As Octave later narrated to him, the Emperor alternated between fits of
rage, provoked by the freshest proof of the libertinage to which his
daughters were addicted, and uneasiness at the disappearance of
Thetralde. These several sentiments were given vent to by broken words
that from time to time reached the ears of the young Roman who preceded
Charles by only a few paces.
"My poor child!--where can she be?--Perhaps dying of cold and fear--at
the bottom of some thicket, perhaps!" murmured the Emperor. Presently he
would call out at the top of his voice: "Thetralde! Thetralde! Oh, she
does not hear me! King of the Heavens, have pity upon me. So young--so
delicate--a chilly night like this is enough to kill her. Oh, my unhappy
old age, that this child might have served to console--she would not
have resembled her sisters! Her fifteen year forehead was never
crimsoned with an evil thought. Oh, dead! Dead, perhaps! No, no--youth
is full of pranks! Besides, these daughters, all of whom I have brought
up like boys, are all accustomed to fatigue. They accompany me during my
long journeys. But yet, the night is so dark--and it is so chilly!"
Whereupon the Emperor would again call out: "Thetralde!" and suddenly
reining in his horse and listening, the Emperor of the Franks broke the
silence with the sudden question: "Did you not hear a sound like the
neighing of a horse?"
"I did, august Prince," answered the young Roman.
"Listen! Listen again!"
Octave kept silent. Soon again the sound of distant neighing broke upon
the stillness of the forest.
"No doubt any longer. Despairing of finding her way, my daughter must
have tied her palfrey to a tree!" exclaimed the Emperor, his heart
bounding with hope. Calling out to Octave, he ordered: "Gallop! Gallop
faster!" and himself increasing his own speed to the utmost cried out
uninterruptedly: "Thetralde! Thetralde! Thetralde, my daughter!"
Amael, who followed Charles at a goodly distance, keeping himself well
in the shadow, also fell into a gallop the moment he noticed the
torchlight that guided him suddenly move with increased swiftness into
the darkness. The Emperor and Octave were close upon the spot where,
before entering the woodcutter's hut, Vortigern and Thetralde had tied
their mounts. The glimmer of the torch fell upon and lighted the white
body of Thetralde's palfrey, throwing into the shade Vortigern's horse
that was tied a few steps further away. The Emperor recognized his
daughter's favorite mount, and cried out:
"Thetralde's palfrey!" and immediately thereupon perceiving the hut
itself by the light of the torch borne by Octave, he added: "Oh, King of
the Heavens! Thanks be to you!" The Emperor quickly dismounted and
walking precipitately towards the hut which lay about twenty paces from
the path, he called back to Octave: "Walk faster! My daughter is there.
Precede me!"
Gifted with an eye even more piercing than Charles', Octave had
recognized with a shudder the horse of Vortigern close to Thetralde's
palfrey. Foreseeing the outburst of fury that the Emperor was about to
fall into at the spectacle that Octave surmised awaited his aged eyes,
the Roman resorted to an extreme measure. Affecting to stumble, he
dropped the torch in the hope of extinguishing it at his feet, as if by
accident. But Charles quickly stooped down, as quickly raised it and
rushed forward towards the entrance of the hut. Trembling with fear, the
young Roman followed closely behind the Emperor. Charles suddenly stood
still as if petrified at the threshold of the hut, whose interior was
now brilliantly lighted by the torch in the Emperor's hand. Having also
dismounted, Amael was enabled, without his steps being heard by
Charles, to draw nearer, and stood close to him at the very moment that,
struck with stupor, the Emperor of the Franks stopped, motionless.
Profoundly asleep, and stretched out upon the floor with his unsheathed
sword beside him, Vortigern barred the entrance to the hut. In order to
enter it, an intruder would have been compelled to walk over his body
that lay across the threshold. In the depth of the retreat, stretched on
a bed of moss and carefully wrapped in the lad's tunic, Thetralde
enjoyed a slumber as profound as her guardian at the entrance. The
girl's head and face, charming in their candor, rested on one of her
arms that lay folded beneath. So deep was the sleep of the two, that
neither the young girl nor Vortigern was at first awakened by the glare
of the torch.
Thick drops of perspiration rolled down from the forehead of the Emperor
of the Franks. The stupor that first seized him at finding his daughter
in a solitary hut in the company of the young Breton, was soon followed
by an expression of undefinable agony. Presently the cruel doubts
concerning the chastity of his youngest daughter made room for hope when
he noticed the serenity of the slumber of the two children. The Emperor
gathered additional comfort from the precaution that Vortigern had taken
in laying himself athwart the entrance, obedient, no doubt, to a thought
of respectful and chivalrous solicitude.
Thetralde was the first to open her eyes. The glare of the torch fell
upon her face. She half raised her head; still half asleep, carried her
hand to her eyes, and sat up. In a second, seeing her father before her,
she uttered a cry of such sincere joy, her charming features expressed a
happiness so utterly free from all embarrassment, that, bounding to her
father's neck, she was pressed by Charles to his heart with delirious
rapture:
"Oh!" the Emperor exclaimed, "I fear naught, her forehead is free from
shame."
The words of the enraptured father reached the ears of Amael, who had
remained motionless behind the Emperor, whose life was soon in no slight
danger, seeing that, in her first and spontaneous outburst of joy to
fall on her father's neck, Thetralde had struck Vortigern with her feet
as she bounded forward. The young Breton, thus awakened with a start,
his eyes dazzled by the glare of the torch, and his mind still clouded
with sleep, grasped his sword and jumped up. At the sight of the two men
at the entrance of the hut, one of them tightly holding Thetralde in his
arms, the lad imagined that violence was being attempted upon her. He
seized Charles by the throat with one hand and, raising his sword in the
other, cried: "I will kill you!" Immediately, however, recognizing the
father of Thetralde, Vortigern dropped his weapon, rubbed his eyes, and
exclaimed:
"The Emperor of the Franks!"
"Himself, my lad!" replied the Emperor in a cheerful voice, while he
again kissed the forehead and head of his daughter with almost frantic
delight. "The vigor of your clutch proves to me that ill would he have
fared who should have entertained any evil designs against my little
girl!"
"We are your enemies, and still you received my grandfather and myself
with kindness," answered the young Breton ingenuously and without
lowering his eyes before the penetrating looks that Charles shot at him.
"I have watched over your daughter--as I should have watched over my own
sister."
Vortigern emphasized the words 'my own sister' in such a manner that
Amael, fully sharing the confidence of Charles, whispered at the
latter's ear:
"I have no doubt of the purity of these children."
"And you here?" exclaimed the Emperor astonished. "Be welcome, my
esteemed guest!"
"You looked for your daughter--I also set out in search of my grandson."
"And I have found her, the dear child!" exclaimed Charles with ineffable
tenderness, again and again kissing the forehead of Thetralde. "Oh, how
I do love her--more than ever before!" And holding the girl close to his
breast the Emperor moved toward the interior of the hut, and threw
himself down upon the moss-bench, broken with fatigue. There he seated
Thetralde upon his knees, and contemplating her with looks of
unspeakable happiness, said: "Come now, my little one, tell me all about
your adventure. How did you lose track of the hunt? How did you resign
yourself to spend the night in this hut?"
"Father," answered the girl, lowering her eyes and hiding her face on
Charles' breast, "let me collect my thoughts--I want to tell you all
that happened, absolutely everything, without concealing aught."
After a short interval that followed Thetralde's answer, Vortigern drew
near Amael, who tenderly pressed him to his heart, while, standing at a
little distance, the torch in his hand lighting the scene, the young
Roman, it must be admitted, looked more astonished than enthusiastic at
the continence of Vortigern.
"Father," Thetralde resumed, raising her head and attaching her candid
looks upon the Emperor of the Franks, "I must tell you everything. Not
so? Everything--absolutely everything?"
"Yes, my little darling, without omitting anything." But after a
second's reflection, Charles said to Octave: "Plant that torch in the
ground, and watch our horses with this young lad."
The Roman bowed and obeyed; accompanied by Amael's grandson he stepped
out of the hut.
"What, father, you send Vortigern out?" remarked Thetralde in an accent
of sweet reproach. "I would on the contrary, have wished him to remain
near us, in order to confirm or complete my story, my dear father."
"All you tell me, my dear daughter, I shall believe. Speak, speak
without fear before me and the grandfather of the worthy lad."
"Yesterday," Thetralde began, "I was on the balcony of the palace when
Vortigern rode into the courtyard. Learning that he came hither as a
prisoner, so young, and wounded, besides, I immediately took an interest
in him. When shortly after, he came near being thrown from his horse,
perhaps even killed, I was so frightened that I uttered a cry of dread.
But when Hildrude and myself saw that he proved himself an intrepid
horseman, we threw our nose-gays to him."
"You both told me how you admired the skilfulness of the lad's
horsemanship, but you said nothing about the throwing of your bouquets.
Well, let us proceed--continue."
"I certainly was very happy at your return home, good father. Yet, I
must confess to you, it seems to me that my thoughts turned as much on
Vortigern as on yourself. All night my sister and I talked about the
young Breton, about his gracefulness, about his comely face that was at
once sweet and bold--"
"That is all very well--that is all very well. Let us skip all that, my
daughter. Let us drop the details concerning the lad's looks."
"Then you object, father, to my telling you all? He made a deep
impression upon us."
"Let us come to the episode of the chase."
"It was dawn before I fell asleep, but only to dream about Vortigern. We
saw him again at church. When I was not contemplating his bold and sweet
face, I was praying for the safety of his soul. After mass, when I
learned that there was to be a hunting party, my only fear was that he
might not be one of the party. Judge, then, of my joy, father, when I
saw him in your retinue. Suddenly his horse took fright and carried him
off! Before I could reflect I plied the whip upon my palfrey to join
him. Hildrude followed and tried to pass me. That irritated me. I struck
her horse on the head. The animal bolted and carried her off in another
direction. I was alone when I overtook Vortigern. The mist, then the
rain and thereupon the night fell upon us. We noticed this woodcutter's
hut and a brasier that was almost extinct. We then said to each other:
'It is impossible to find our way back, let us spend the night here.'
Happily we noticed some chestnuts that had dropped on the ground from
the trees. We gathered them, roasted them under the cinders--but we
forgot to eat them--"
"Because, I suppose, you were both tired, no doubt--and, in order to
take rest, you lay down on this moss-bench, and the lad across the
threshold?"
"Oh, no, no, my father! Before falling asleep we chatted a good deal,
we disputed a good deal. It was due to our discussion that Vortigern and
myself forgot all about the chestnuts. Thereupon sleep overtook us and
we stretched ourselves to rest."
"But what was the subject, my child, of the discussion between you and
the lad?"
"Alack! I had wicked thoughts--those thoughts were combatted by
Vortigern with all his might. It was upon that that our dispute ran. But
I must admit that, after all, he was right. You will never believe me. I
wanted to flee from Aix-la-Chapelle and go to Brittany with
Vortigern--to marry him."
"To leave me--my daughter--abandon your father--me, who love you so
much?"
"Those were the very arguments of Vortigern. 'Thetralde, dost thou think
well,' he said to me, 'to leave thy father who loves thee? Wouldst thou
have the regrettable courage to cause him so deep a grief? And as to
myself, whom, as well as my grandfather, he has treated with kindness,
should I be thy accomplice? No! No! Moreover, I am here a prisoner on
parole. To flee would be to disgrace myself. My mother would refuse to
see me.' 'Thy mother loves thee too much not to pardon thee,' I said to
Vortigern; 'my father also will pardon me; he is so good! Did he not
show himself indulgent towards my sisters, who have their lovers as he
has his mistresses? To love can neither hurt nor injure others. Once
married, we shall return to my father. Happy at seeing us again, he will
forget everything else, and we shall live near him as do Eginhard and my
sister Imma.' But Vortigern, ever inflexible, returned incessantly upon
his word as a prisoner and the grief that his flight would cause his
mother and grandfather. His warm tears mingled with mine as he consoled
and chide me for the child that I was. Finally, after our dispute had
lasted a long while, and we had wept a good deal, he said to me:
'Thetralde, it is now late; thou surely must feel fatigued; thou
shouldst lie down on this bed of moss; I shall lay myself across the
entrance with my bare sword at my side, to defend thee, if need be.' I
did begin to feel sleepy; Vortigern covered me with his tunic; I fell
asleep and was dreaming about him when I was awakened by you, my
father."
The Emperor of the Franks listened to the naive recital with a mixture
of tenderness, apprehension and grief. At its close he heaved a sigh of
profound relief that seemed to issue from the silent reflection: "What a
danger did not my daughter escape!" This thought soon dominated all the
others that crowded to his mind. Charles again embraced Thetralde
effusively, and said:
"Dear child, your candor charms me. It makes me forget that even for a
moment you could entertain the thought of running away from your father,
which would have been a mean thing to do."
"Oh! Vortigern made me renounce the wicked project. And, now, as a
reward to him, you will be good, you will marry us, will you not,
father?"
"We shall talk later about that. For the present we must think of
regaining the pavilion, where you will rest awhile. We shall depart to
Aix-la-Chapelle. Stay here a moment I have a few words to exchange with
this good old man."
Charles stepped out of the hut with Amael, and as soon as they were a
few paces away, he turned towards the aged Breton with a radiant face
on which, however, deep concern was depicted:
"Your grandson is a loyal lad; yours is a family of worthy and brave
people. You saved my grandfather's life; your grandson has respected the
honor of my daughter. I know but too well the dangers that lie, at the
age of these children, in the wake of the first impulse of love. Had
Vortigern yielded, he would have had to pay for it with his life. I am
happy and by far prefer to praise than to punish."
"Charles, when a few hours ago I expressed to you my uneasiness
concerning Vortigern's absence, you answered me: 'Good! He will have run
across some pretty woodcutter's daughter. Love is meet for his years.
You do not mean to make a monk of the lad?' What, now, if he had treated
your daughter like a woodcutter's child?"
"By the King of the Heavens! Vortigern would not have left the hut
alive!"
"Accordingly, it is permissible to dishonor the daughter of a slave, and
yet shall the dishonor of the daughter of an emperor be punished with
death? Both are the children of God, alike in His eyes. Why the
difference in your mind?"
"Old man, these words are senseless!"
"You pretend to be a Christian, and you treat us as pagans! My grandson
has conducted himself like an honest man; that is all. Honor is dear to
us Gauls of old Armorica, whose device is: _Never did Breton commit
treason._ Will you render me a favor? I shall be eternally grateful to
you."
"Speak! What do you wish of Charles?"
"A short while ago you seemed struck with the beauty of a poor slave
girl. You mean to make her one of your concubines. Be magnanimous
towards the unhappy creature; do not corrupt her; render their freedom
to her and her family; give those people the means to live industriously
and honorably."
"It shall be so, by the faith of Charles; I promise you. Besides, I
consent to withdraw my troops from your country, provided you pledge to
me your faith as a Breton that, during my life, you will not make any
incursions beyond your own frontiers. Give me your hand, Amael--your
loyal hand in sign of acceptance."
"Here it is, Charles," promptly answered Amael, grasping the hand
proffered by the Emperor. "Let it be the hand of a traitor, and that it
fall under the axe if our people break the promise! We shall live at
peace with you. If your descendants respect our liberties, we shall live
at peace with them."
"Amael, it is sworn!"
"Charles, it is accepted and sworn!"
"Instead of returning to Aix-la-Chapelle, you and your grandson shall
spend the night in the pavilion of the forest. To-morrow, at early
daybreak, I shall have your baggage forwarded to you, together with an
escort, charged to accompany you as far as the frontiers of Armorica.
You shall depart without delay."
"Your directions will be followed to the letter."
"I shall now return to the pavilion alone with my daughter. I shall tell
my courtiers that I found her in the hut. Alack! the calumnies of the
court are cruel. People will not believe in the innocence of Thetralde,
and if, besides, they should learn that she spent a part of the night
with your grandson in that obscure retreat, they will take for granted
all that they now impute to her sisters. Oh! My father's heart bleeds
strangely. I have loved my daughters too much. I have been too indulgent
towards them! And then also, my continuous wars beyond my own kingdom,
together with the affairs of state, have prevented me from watching over
my children. And yet, during my absence, I always left them in the
charge of priests. Neither were they left idle; they embroidered
chasubles for the bishops! But, it seems that our Lord God, who has ever
and otherwise stood at my side, has willed it so, that I be struck in my
family. His will be done! I am an unhappy father!" Charles thereupon
called to the Roman:
"Octave, nobody--do you understand me, nobody--must know that my
daughter spent a part of the night in this hut with that young man. Evil
tongues do not spare even the chastest and most admirable souls. The
secret of this night is known only by me, my daughter, and these two
Bretons. I am as certain of their discretion as of my own and
Thetralde's. You are lost if but a word of this adventure circulates at
court. It is from you alone that it can have proceeded. If, on the
contrary, you help me to keep the secret, you may rely upon increasing
favors from me."
"August Emperor, I shall carry that secret with me into my grave."
"I rely upon it. Fetch me my horse and my daughter's. You are to
accompany us to the hunting pavilion, and thence to Aix-la-Chapelle. I
will place you in command of the escort that I give these two hostages
to return to their own country. I shall furnish you with an order to the
commander of my army in Brittany. You will start to-morrow, early, with
the escort to the pavilion of the forest, and you will thence depart for
Armorica."
Octave bowed, and the Emperor proceeded, addressing Amael:
"The moon has risen. It sheds sufficient light upon the route. Jump upon
your horse, with your grandson. Follow this avenue of trees until you
reach a clearing. Wait there. You will shortly be sent for. I shall
despatch my messengers to take you to the pavilion, where you are to
stay until your departure early to-morrow morning. And now, Adieu!"
Amael returned to his grandson, whom he found in a deep study, seated on
the stump of a tree that bordered the route. The lad was silently
weeping with his face hidden in his hands, and heard not the steps of
his grandfather approaching him.
"Come, my boy," said Amael to him in a mild and grave voice. "Let us to
horse, and depart."
"Depart!" exclaimed Vortigern, with a tremor, rising impetuously to his
feet and wiping with his hand the tears that moistened his face.
"Yes, my boy! To-morrow we start for Brittany, where you will see again
your mother and sister. The nobility of your conduct has borne its
fruit. We are free. Charles recalls his troops from Brittany."
* * * * *
Shortly after our return home from Aix-la-Chapelle, my grandfather,
Amael, wrote the above narrative, which I have faithfully joined to the
preceding ones of our family. Myself, Vortigern, buried my grandfather
not long after at the ripe age of one hundred and five years, shortly
after my own marriage with the loving Josseline. Charles the Great died
at Aix-la-Chapelle in the year 814.
PART II.
THE CONQUEST OF BRITTANY
CHAPTER I.
IN THE BLACK MOUNTAINS.
In the year 818, seven years after Amael and his grandson Vortigern left
the court of Charles, the Emperor of the Franks, to return to their home
in Brittany, three riders, accompanied by a footman, were one evening
painfully climbing one of the steep hills of the ridge of the Black
Mountains, that raise their rugged ribs to the southwest of Armorica.
When, having reached the top of the rocky pile over which the path wound
its way, the travelers looked below, they saw at their feet a long chain
of plains and hillocks, some covered with rye and wheat ready for the
harvesters, others running northward like vast carpets of heather. Here
and yonder, vast moors also were perceived stretching out as far as the
eye could follow. A few straggling villages, reached by an avenue of
trees, raised the roofs of their houses in the midst of impassible bogs
that served for natural defences. The panorama was enlivened by herds of
black sheep that browsed over the ruddy heath or the green valleys,
watered by innumerable running streams. Among the green were also seen
steers and cows, and especially a large number of horses of the Breton
stock, strong for the plow, fiery in war.
The three riders, preceded by the footman, now proceeded to descend the
further slope of the rugged hill. One of the three, clad in
ecclesiastical robes, was Witchaire, considered one of the richest
abbots of Gaul. The vast lands of his almost royal abbey bordered on the
frontiers of Armorica. His two companions, on horseback like himself,
were monks belonging to his dependency, and both wore the garb of the
religious Order of St. Benoit. The two monks rode behind the abbot at a
little distance, leading between them a packsaddle mule loaded with the
baggage of their superior, a man of short stature, sharp eye, and a
smile that was at times pious, at other times cunning. The mountain
guide, a robust, thick-set man in the vigor of life, wore the antique
costume of the Breton Gauls--wide breeches of cloth held at the waist by
a leather belt, a jacket of wool, and, hanging from his shoulders on the
same side with his wallet, a cloak of goat-skin, although the season was
summer. His hair, only partly covered with a woolen cap, fell over his
shoulders. From time to time he leaned upon his _pen-bas_, a long staff
made of holly and terminating in a crook.
The burning August sun, now at its hottest, darted its rays upon the
guide, the two monks and Abbot Witchaire. Reining in his horse, the
latter said to the guide:
"The heat is suffocating; these granite rocks radiate it upon us as hot
as if they issued from a furnace; our mounts are exhausted. I decry
yonder, at our feet, a thick forest; could you not lead us to it? We
could then take rest in the shade."
Karouer, the guide, shook his head, and answered, pointing with his
_pen-bas_ in the direction of the dense woods: "To reach them we would
have to make a leap of two hundred feet, or a circuit of nearly three
leagues over the mountains. Which shall it be?"
"Let us, then, pursue our route, my trusty guide. But tell us how long
will it take us to arrive in the valley of Lokfern?"
"Look yonder, below, away below, close to the horizon. Do you see the
last of those bluish crests? That is the Menez-c'Hom, the highest peak
of the Black Mountains. The other peak towards the west, and lying
somewhat nearer, is Lach-Renan. It is between those two peaks that lies
the valley of Lokfern, where Morvan, the husbandman and Chief of
Brittany lives."
"Are you certain that he will be at his farm-house?"
"A husbandman always returns to his farm-house after sunset. We shall
find him there."
"Do you know Morvan personally?"
"I am of his tribe. I fought under him at the time of our last struggles
against the Franks, when Charles, the Emperor, lived."
"Is this Morvan married, do you know?"
"His wife Noblede is the worthy spouse of Morvan. She is of the stock of
Joel. That says everything. We honor and venerate her."
"Who is that Joel, whom you mentioned?"
"One of the worthiest men, whose memory Armorica has preserved green.
His daughter, Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, offered her own life
in sacrifice for the safety of Gaul when the Romans invaded these
parts."
"I have been told that your people apprehend an invasion of the Franks
in Brittany, and that you are making ready for a declaration of war from
Louis the Pious, son of the great Charles."
"Have you seen any preparations for war since you crossed our frontier?"
"I have seen the husbandmen in the fields, the shepherds leading their
flocks, the cities open and tranquil. But it is known that in your
country, woodmen, husbandmen, shepherds and town folks transform
themselves into soldiers at a moment's notice."
"Yes, when our country is threatened with invasion."
"And do you apprehend such an invasion?"
Karouer looked at the abbot fixedly, smiled sarcastically, made no
answer, whistled, and presently broke out into a Breton song,
mechanically whirling his _pen-bas_ as he strode rapidly forward in the
lead of the three monks.
Night drew on. Karouer and the dignitaries whom he guided, having been
all day on the march, were now approaching one of the highest points on
the mountain path that they had been following, when, struck by an
unexpected spectacle, Witchaire suddenly reined in his horse.
The sight that took the abbot by surprise was, indeed, startling. A
flame, hardly distinguishable by reason of its great distance, and yet
perceptible on the horizon, whose outlines the dusk had not yet wholly
blotted out, had barely arrested his attention, when, almost
instantaneously, similar tongues of fire gradually shot up from the
distant tops of the long chain of the Black Mountains. The fires gained
in brilliancy and size in the measure that they broke out nearer and
nearer to the spot where the abbot stood. Suddenly, only twenty paces
away from him, the startled prelate perceived a bluish gleam through a
dense smoke. The gleam speedily changed into a brilliant flame, that,
shooting upwards toward the starry sky, spread a light so bright that
the abbot, his monks, his guide, the rocks round about and a good
portion of the crag of the mountain stood illumined as if at noon. A few
minutes later similar bonfires continued to be kindled from hill to
hill, tracing back, as it seemed, the route that the travelers had left
behind, and losing themselves in the distance in the evening haze. The
abbot remained mute with stupefaction. Karouer emitted three times a
gutteral and loud cry resembling that of a night bird. A similar cry,
proceeding from behind the plateau of rocks where the nearest bonfire
was burning, responded to the signal from Karouer.
"What fires are these that are springing up from hill-top to hill-top?"
the abbot inquired with intense curiosity the moment he recovered from
his astonishment. "It must be some signal."
"At this moment," answered Karouer, "similar fires are burning from all
the hill-tops of Armorica, from the mountains of Arres to the Black
Mountains and the ocean."
"But to what purpose?"
As was his wont, Karouer made no answer to such pointed interrogatories,
but striking up some Breton song, quickened his steps, while he whirled
his _pen-bas_ in the air.
CHAPTER II.
THE BRETON CHIEF.
The home of Morvan, the husbandman, who was chosen Chief of the Chiefs
of Brittany, was located about the middle of the valley of Lokfern, and
nestled among the last spurs of the Black Mountains. A strong system of
palisades, constructed of tough trunks of oak fastened together by means
of stout cross-beams, and raised on the near side of deep ditches,
defended the approaches of the farm-house. Outside of the fortified
enclosure, a forest of centenarian oaks extended to the north and east;
to the south, green meadows sloped gently towards the windings of a
swift running river that was bordered with beeches and alders.
The house of Morvan, its contiguous barns, kennels and stables, had the
rough exterior of the Gallic structures of olden days. A sort of rustic
porch shaded the main entrance to the house. Under this porch, and
enjoying the close of the delightful summer day, were Noblede, the
spouse of Morvan, and Josseline, the young wife of Vortigern. The
latter, a radiant woman of smiling beauty, was suckling her latest born,
with her other two children, Ewrag and Rosneven, respectively four and
five years of age, at her side. Caswallan, a Christian druid, an aged
man of venerable appearance, whose beard vied in whiteness with his long
robe, smiled tenderly upon little Ewrag, whom he held on his knees.
Noblede, Morvan's wife and sister of Vortigern, now about thirty years
of age, was a woman of rare comeliness, although her features bore the
stamp of a rooted sadness. Ten years a wife, Noblede had not yet tasted
the sweets of motherhood. Her grave aspect and her high stature recalled
those matrons, who, in the days of Gaul's independence, sat loyally by
the side of their husbands at the supreme councils of the nation.[C]
Noblede and Josseline were spinning, while the other women and daughters
of Morvan's household busied themselves with the preparations for the
evening meal, or in the other domestic occupations, such as replenishing
with forage the stalls that the cattle were to find ready upon their
return from the fields. The Christian druid Caswallan, with Ewrag, the
second child of the blonde Josseline, on his knees, had just finished
making the boy recite his lesson in religion under the following
symbolic forms:
"White child of the druid, answer me, what shall I tell you?"
"Tell me the parts of the number three," the child would answer, "make
them known to me, that I may learn them to-day."
"There are three parts of the world--three beginnings and three ends to
man as to the oak--three celestial kingdoms, fruits of gold, brilliant
flowers and little children who laugh. These three kingdoms, where the
fruits of gold, the brilliant flowers and the children who laugh are
found, my little Ewrag, are the worlds in which those, who in this world
have performed pure and celestial acts, will be successively born again
and will continue to live with ever increasing happiness. Now, what must
we be in order to perform such acts?"
"We must be wise, good and just," the child would reply. "Furthermore
death must not be feared, because we are born again and again, from
world to world with an ever renewed body. We must love Brittany like a
tender mother--and bravely defend her against her enemies."
"Yes, my child," broke in Noblede, drawing her brother's child to
herself. "Always remember those sacred words: 'To love and defend
Brittany';" and Morvan's wife tenderly embraced Ewrag.
"Mother! mother!" cried up little Rosneven, joyfully clapping his hands
and rushing out of the porch followed by his brother Ewrag: "Here is
father!"
Caswallan, Noblede and Josseline rose at the gladsome cries of the child
and walked out towards two large wagons heavily laden with golden
sheaves, and drawn by a yoke of oxen.
Morvan and Vortigern were seated in front of one of the wagons
surrounded by a considerable number of men and lads belonging to the
household, or to the tribe of the Chief of the Chiefs, carrying in their
hands the sickles, the forks and the rakes used by the harvesters. At a
little distance behind them came the shepherds with their flocks whose
bells were heard clinking from the distance. Morvan, in the vigor of
life, robust and thick-set, like most of the inhabitants of the Black
Mountains, wore their rustic garb--wide breeches of coarse white
material, and a linen shirt that exposed his sunburnt chest and neck.
His long hair, auburn like his thick beard, framed his manly face. His
forehead was high; his eyes intrepid and piercing. As to Vortigern, the
maturer gravity of manhood, of husband and father, had succeeded the
flower of youth. His looks were expressive of sweet delight at the sight
of the two boys who had ran out to meet him. He jumped down from the
wagon and embraced them affectionately while he looked for his wife and
sister, who, accompanied by Caswallan, were not long in joining him.
"Dear wife, the harvest will be plentiful," said Morvan to Noblede, and
pointing to the overloaded wagons, he added: "Have you ever seen more
beautiful wheat, or more golden sheaves? Look at them and wonder!"
"Morvan," put in Josseline, "you are this year harvesting earlier than
customary. We, of the region of Karnak would leave our wheat to ripen on
the stalk fully two weeks longer. Not so, Vortigern?"
"No, my sweet Josseline," answered her husband, "I shall follow Morvan's
example. We shall return home to-morrow, so as to start taking in the
harvest as soon as possible."
"I am going to furnish you with still more matter for astonishment,"
Morvan proceeded. "Instead of leaving the sheaves in the barn that the
grain may ripen, this wheat that you see there, and that was cropped
only to-day, will be threshed this very night. Vortigern and myself will
not be the only ones to ply the flails on the threshing-floor of the
barn. So, then, Noblede, let us have supper early, and then to work!"
"What, Morvan!" exclaimed Josseline, "after this tiring day's work,
spent in gathering in the crop, do you and Vortigern mean to spend the
night at work, and threshing, at that?"
"It will be a cheerful night, my Josseline," put in Vortigern. "While
we shall be threshing the wheat, you will sing us some songs, Caswallan
will recite to us some old legend, and we shall stave in a barrel of
hydromel to cheer the laborers who have come to join us. Work goes hand
in hand with pleasure."
"Vortigern," the Christian druid said, smiling, "do you, perchance,
think that my arms are so much enfeebled by old age that I could no
longer wield a flail? I mean to help you at work."
"And we?" put in Josseline, laughing merrily, "we, the daughters and
wives of the field-laborers, did we, perchance, lose the skill of
carrying the wheat to the threshing-floor, or of bagging the grain?"
"And we?" Ewrag and his brother Rosneven cried in turn, "could not we
also carry a stalk, six stalks, twenty stalks?"
"Oh! you are brave boys, my little ones," exclaimed Vortigern, embracing
his children, while Morvan said to his wife:
"Noblede, do not forget to have the guest's chamber in order and
supplied with food."
"Do you expect any guests, Morvan?" inquired Josseline, with great
curiosity. "They will be welcome; they will assist us at the threshing
to-night."
"My beloved Josseline," answered the Chief of the Chiefs, smiling, "the
guests whom I expect eat the choicest of wheat, but never take the
trouble of either sowing or harvesting. They belong to a class of people
who live on the fat of the land."
"The guest's chamber is always ready," replied Noblede; "the floor is
strewn with fresh leaves. Alack! No one occupied it since it was last
occupied by Amael."
"Worthy grandfather!" exclaimed Vortigern with a sigh.
"He came to us only to languish a few weeks and pass away."
"May his memory be blessed, as was his life," said Josseline. "I knew
him only a very short while, but I loved and venerated him like my
father."
The family of Morvan, together with the rest of his tribe who cultivated
his lands in common with himself, men, women and children, about thirty
in all, presently sat down to a long table, placed in a large hall that
served at once for kitchen, refectory and a place of assembly during the
long nights of the winter. From the walls hung weapons of war and of the
hunt, fishing nets, bridles and horse saddles. Although it was
midsummer, such was the coolness of that region of woods and mountains,
that the heat of the hearth, before which the meats for the supper were
broiled, felt decidedly comfortable to the harvesters. Its flamboyant
light mingled with that cast by the torches of resinous wood, that were
fastened in iron clamps along the four walls. After the industrious
group had finished their repast, Morvan was the first to rise.
"And now, my boys, to work! The night is clear, we shall thresh the
wheat on the outside floor. Two or three torches planted between the
stones on the edge of the well will give us light until the moon rises.
We shall be through with our task by one o'clock in the morning, we
shall sleep until daybreak, and we shall then return to the fields and
finish taking in the crop."
The torches, placed at Morvan's orders around the edge of the well, cast
their bright light upon a portion of the yard and buildings that were
within the fortified enclosure. Several men, the women and the children,
took a hand in unloading the wagons, while those who were to do the
threshing, Morvan, Vortigern and the old Caswallan among them, stood
waiting for the grain to be brought to them, their flails in their
hands, having for the sake of comfort, stripped themselves of all their
superfluous clothing and keeping only their breeches and shirts on. The
first bundles of grain were placed in the center of the floor, whereupon
the rapid rhythm of the flails, vigorously wielded by robust and
experienced arms, resounded through the air. Apprehending a speedy war,
the Bretons were hastening to take in their crops and place them under
cover in order to save them from the ravages of the enemy, as well as to
deprive these of food. The grains were to be concealed in underground
caves covered with earth. Morvan, whose forehead began to be moistened
with perspiration, said, while rapidly handling the flail:
"Caswallan, you promised us a song. Take a little rest and sing. It will
inspire us in our work."
The Christian druid sang "Lez-Breiz," an old national song that ever
sounded sweet on the ears of the Bretons. It began thus:
"Between a Frankish warrior and Lez-Breiz
A combat was arranged;
It was arranged with due formalities.--
May God give the victory to the Breton,
And gladsome tidings to his county.--
That day Lez-Breiz said to his young attendant:
Rise, furbish up my handsome casque; my lance and my sword;
I mean to redden them in the blood of the Franks.--
I shall make them jump this day!"
"Old Caswallan," said one of the laborers when the druid had finished
the long and inspiring strain that warmed the blood of his hearers with
martial ardor, "let the accursed Franks come again, and we shall say,
like Lez-Breiz: 'With the aid of our two arms, let us make them jump
again to-day'--"
A furious barking of the shepherd dogs, that for some little time had
been emitting low and intermittent growls, interrupted at this moment
the remarks of the laborers, and all turned their eyes towards the gate
of the enclosure, whither the dogs had precipitated themselves
furiously.
CHAPTER III.
ABBOT AND BRETON.
The strangers whose approach the dogs announced were Abbot Witchaire,
his two monks and his guide Karouer. Preceded by the guide, who pacified
the alarm of the watchful animals, the clerical cavalcade rode into the
enclosure, while Karouer informed the abbot:
"This is the house of Morvan. We have arrived at our destination. You
may now dismount."
"What are those torches yonder for?" asked the prelate descending from
his horse, the reins of which he threw over to one of his monks. "What
is that muffled sound I hear?"
"It is the sound of the flails. Doubtlessly Morvan is threshing the
grain that he has harvested. Come, I shall lead you to him."
Abbot Witchaire and his guide approached the group of laborers, upon
whom the torches cast a clear light. Morvan, intently at work, and the
noise of the flails deafening the sound of the steps and voices of the
new arrivals, failed to hear them. Not until Karouer had tapped the
Chief of the Chiefs upon the shoulder in order to draw the latter's
attention to him, did Morvan turn to look. Recognizing Karouer, the
Chief of the Chiefs stopped a moment and said:
"Oh! Is that you, Karouer? What tidings do you bring from our man?"
"I bring him to you in person," answered Karouer, pointing to his
traveling companion. "He stands before you in flesh and bone."
"Are you the Abbot Witchaire?" asked Morvan, slightly out of breath with
the heavy work that he had been performing; and crossing his robust arms
over the handle of his flail, he added: "As I expected your visit, I
have had supper prepared for you. Come to table."
"I prefer first to speak to you."
"Noblede," said Morvan, wiping the perspiration that inundated his
forehead with the back of his hand, "a torch, my dear wife!" And turning
to the abbot: "Follow me."
Taking up one of the torches that were stuck at the edge of the well,
Noblede preceded her husband and Abbot Witchaire to the chamber that was
reserved for guests. Two large beds stood ready, as also a big table
furnished with cold meats, milk, bread and fruit. After placing the
torch into one of the iron clamps fastened in the wall, Noblede was
about to withdraw when Morvan said to her in a significant tone:
"Dear wife, come and kiss me good night when the threshing is done."
A look from Noblede informed her husband that he was understood, and she
stepped out of the guest's chamber where Morvan remained alone with
Abbot Witchaire. The abbot immediately addressed the Chief of the
Chiefs:
"Morvan, I greet you. I am the bearer to you of a message from the King
of the Franks, Louis the Pious, son of Charles the Great."
"And what is that message?"
"It is couched in but few words:--The Bretons occupy a province of the
Empire of the King of the Franks, and refuse to pay him tribute in
homage to his sovereignty. Besides, the Breton clergy, generally
infected with a leaven of old druidic idolatry, denies the supremacy of
the Archbishop of Tours. Such are the consequences of that regrettable
heresy, of which Lambert, Count of Nantes, wrote to King Louis the Pious
as follows: 'The Breton nation is proud and indomitable; all that there
is Christian about them is the name; as to the Christian faith, its cult
and works, they would be searched for in vain in Brittany.' Wishing to
put an end to a rebellion so outrageous both to the Catholic Church and
the royal authority, King Louis the Pious orders the Breton people to
pay the tribute that they owe to the sovereignty of the Frankish Empire,
and to submit themselves to the apostolic decisions of the Archbishop of
Tours. In case of failure to comply, King Louis the Pious will, by means
of his invincible arms, ruin the country and compel the obedience of the
Breton people."
"Abbot Witchaire," Morvan answered after a few moments' reflection,
"Amael, the grandfather of Vortigern, my wife's brother, entered into an
agreement with the Emperor Charles to the effect that, provided we held
ourselves within our own borders, there never would be any war between
us and the Franks. We kept our promise, so did Charles. His son, whom
you call 'The Pious,' has not troubled us until now. If to-day he
demands tribute from us, he violates the provisions of the compact."
"Louis the Pious is King by divine right, sovereign master of Gaul.
Brittany is part of Gaul, consequently Brittany belongs to him and must
pay him tribute."
"We will pay tribute to no king. As to what regards the clergy, I have
this to say to you: Before their arrival in Brittany the country never
was invaded. Since a century ago, all that has changed. It was to be
expected. Whoever sees the black robe of a priest, soon sees the glint
of a Frank's sword."
"You speak truly. The Catholic priest is everywhere the precursor of
royalty."
"We now have but too many of these precursors. Despite their continuous
quarrels with the Archbishop of Tours, the good priests are rare, the
bad ones numerous. At the time of the last war, several of your
churchmen acted as guides to the Franks, while others seduced some of
our tribes into treason by making them believe that to resist your kings
was to incur the anger of heaven. Despite such acts of treason, we
defended our liberty then; we will defend it again both against the
machinations of the clergy and the swords of the Franks."
"Morvan, you look like a sensible man. Is it proposed to enslave you?
No! To dispossess you of your lands? No! What is it that Louis the Pious
demands? Merely that you pay him tribute in homage to his sovereignty.
Nothing more!"
"That is too much--and it is iniquitous!"
"Consider the frightful misfortunes to which Brittany will expose
herself if she refuses to acknowledge the sovereignty of Louis the
Pious. Can you prefer to see your fields laid waste, your crops
destroyed, your cattle led away, your own house torn down, your fellows
reduced to slavery--can you prefer that to the voluntary payment of a
few gold sous contributed by you into the treasury of the King of the
Franks?"
"I certainly would prefer to pay even twenty gold sous, rather than be
ruined."
"It is not merely your own earthly possessions that are at stake. You
have a wife, a family, friends. Would you, out of vain pride, expose so
many beings, dear to your heart, to the horrible dangers of war, of a
war of extermination, of a war without mercy, all the more when, as you
must admit, you can no longer find in the Breton people the indomitable
spirit that once was its distinctive feature?"
"No," answered Morvan with a somber and pensive mien, his elbows resting
on his knees and his forehead hidden in his hands; "no, the Breton
people are no longer what they once were."
"To my mind, the change is one of the triumphs of the Catholic Church.
In your eyes it is an evil. But, if evil it be, it is a fact, and you
are bound to recognize it. Brittany, once invincible, has been several
times invaded by the Franks during the last century. What has happened
before will happen again. And yet, notwithstanding the mistrust that you
entertain of your own powers of resistance, notwithstanding the
certainty of succumbing, could you still wish to engage in the struggle
in lieu of paying a tribute that curtails in nothing, either your own
liberty or that of your people?"
Shaken by the insidious arguments of the priest, Morvan remained silent
for a moment; after a short struggle with himself, he asked: "How high
will be the tribute that your King demands?"
Witchaire thrilled with joy at Morvan's question. He concluded the
Breton had decided in favor of base submission. At that juncture Noblede
entered the apartment to give her husband the good-night kiss. At sight
of her the Breton blushed. He allowed his wife to approach him without
affectionately advancing to meet her, as was his wont. The Breton woman
almost guessed the cause of the embarrassed manner of Morvan, and of the
triumphant looks of the Frankish abbot. Concealing her grief, the woman
walked to her husband, who remained seated, and kissed his hand. A
tremor shook the Breton chief's frame; his will, shaken for a moment,
regained its own command; he leaped up and passionately clasped his wife
to his breast. Happy and proud at feeling the throbbing of her own heart
answered by her husband's, the Gallic woman cried, casting a look of
contempt at the priest:
"Whence comes this stranger? What does he want? Is he a messenger of
peace or of war? Race of priests, race of vipers."
"This monk is sent by the King of the Franks," answered the Breton
chief; "I do not yet know whether he brings peace or war."
Noblede looked at her husband with increasing astonishment, when the
abbot, considering the moment favorable to obtain the desired answer
from Morvan, said:
"I am to return immediately. What answer shall I carry to Louis the
Pious?"
"You cannot resume your journey without taking some rest," Noblede
hastened to observe, while, with her eyes, she interrogated her husband,
who seemed to have relapsed into incertitude. "It will be time enough to
depart early in the morning. Remain here over night to recover your
strength."
"No, no!" exclaimed the abbot with impatience, fearing the influence of
the Gallic woman upon her husband. "I return immediately. Shall I take
to Louis the Pious words of peace or of war? I must have a categoric
answer."
The Breton chief, however, rose from his seat, and walking towards the
door of the apartment answered Witchaire:
"I shall use the few remaining hours of the night to think the matter
over; to-morrow you will have my answer." Saying this, and despite the
insistence of the abbot upon an immediate answer, Morvan left the
guest's room, accompanied by Noblede.
A few minutes later, Morvan, his wife, Vortigern and Caswallan,
assembled at a secluded spot, under the spreading branches of a tall oak
tree not far from the house, to consider the subject of Abbot
Witchaire's errand to Brittany.
"What does this messenger of the King of the Franks want?" asked
Vortigern of Morvan.
"If we consent to pay tribute to Louis the Pious and to recognize him as
our sovereign, we shall escape an implacable war. I know not what answer
to make. I hesitate before the prospect of the disasters that will
attend a new struggle--the massacres, the fires."
"Hesitate! Yield to threats!"
"Brother," answered Morvan with deep sadness, "the Breton people are no
longer what they once were."
"You are right!" put in Caswallan. "The breath of the Catholic Church,
so deadly to the freedom of the people, has passed over this unhappy
country also. The patriotism of a large number of our tribes has cooled.
But, on the other hand, should you consent to submit to a shameful
peace, then Brittany will be peopled with slaves before a century shall
have rolled away."
"Brother," added Vortigern, "would you yield to threats, instead of
reviving the spirit of Brittany in a sacred war against the foreigner?
That would be to debase ourselves forever! To-day we would pay tribute
to the king of the Franks, in order to avoid a war; to-morrow we would
have to yield to him one-half of our patrimony, in order that he may
allow us to retain the rest; after that we would have to submit to
slavery with all its degradation and wretchedness, in order to be
allowed to preserve our lives. The chain will have been riveted to our
limbs, and our children will have to drag it during all the centuries to
come!"
"Unhappy Brittany!" exclaimed Noblede. "Have we fallen so low as to
begin to measure the length of our chains? Look at these three brave,
wise and tried men, wasting their time in discussing the insolence of a
Frankish king! There is but one word you can answer with--WAR! Oh,
degenerate Gauls! Eight centuries ago, Caesar, the greatest captain of
the world, and at the head of a formidable army, also sent messengers to
summon Brittany to pay him tribute. The Roman messengers were answered
with a beating, and chased with contempt out of the city of Vannes. That
same evening, Hena, our ancestress, offered her blood to Hesus for the
deliverance of Gaul, and the cry of war resounded from one end of the
country to the other! Albinik the sailor, together with his wife Meroe,
performed a journey of more than twenty leagues across the most fertile
regions of Gaul, but then burnt down by a conflagration that the people
themselves had kindled. Caesar saw before him only a waste of
smouldering ruins, and on the day of the battle of Vannes our whole
family--women and young girls, children and old men--fought or died like
heroes! Oh! These ancestors of ours worried their heads little about the
'dangers of battle'! To live free or die--such was their simple faith,
and they sealed it with their blood, and winged their flight to those
unknown worlds where they continue to live!"
Noblede was addressing Morvan, Vortigern and Caswallan in these terms,
when the abbot, who had left his apartment and inquired after Morvan
from the people about the house, approached the oak under which the
Breton family was in council. Although the moon was shining in all her
splendor, the first glimmerings of the dawn, always early in the end of
August, already began to crimson the horizon.
"Morvan," said Abbot Witchaire, "day is about to dawn. I can wait no
longer. What is your answer to the messenger of Louis the Pious?"
"Priest, my answer will not burden your memory: RETURN AND TELL THE KING
THAT WE WILL PAY HIM TRIBUTE--IN IRON."
"You want war! Very well, you shall have it without mercy or pity!"
cried the abbot furiously, and leaping on his horse which the monks held
ready for him he added, turning again to the Chief of the Chiefs:
"Brittany will be laid waste with fire and sword! Not a house will be
left standing! The last day of this people has arrived!"
As the priest uttered these words, his gestures seemed to call down
curses and anathemas upon the Breton chief. Angrily putting the spurs to
his horse and followed by the two monks, the prelate rode rapidly away.
The abbot had hardly been a quarter of an hour on the road, when he
heard the gallop of an approaching horse behind him. Turning, he saw a
rider coming towards him at full speed. It was Vortigern. The abbot drew
in his reins, yielding to a last ray of hope. "May your coming be
propitious. Morvan regrets, I hope, the insensate resolution that he
took?"
"Morvan regrets that in your hurry you and your two monks should have
departed without a guide. You might easily lose your way in our
mountains. I am to accompany you as far as the city of Guenhek. There I
shall furnish you with a safe guide for the rest of the journey; he will
take you to our frontiers."
"Young man, you are, I am told, the brother of Morvan's wife. I conjure
you, in the name of the safety of Brittany, to endeavor to change the
insensate and fatal resolution of this man who happens to be the chief
of your nation."
"Monk, the fires lighted last night on our mountains, and which, no
doubt, you must have seen, were the signals of alarm, given to our
tribes to prepare for war. Your King wants war--let his will be done.
But, now, answer me a question. You come from the court at
Aix-la-Chapelle. Could you tell me what has become of the daughters of
the Emperor Charles?"
The abbot cast a look of surprise at Vortigern: "What is it to you what
may have become of the Emperor's daughters?"
"It is now about eight years ago that I accompanied my grandfather to
Aix-la-Chapelle. I there saw the daughters of Charles. That is the
reason for my curiosity concerning them."
"The daughters of Charles have been consigned to nunneries by order of
their brother, Louis the Pious,"[D] was the sententious answer of
Witchaire. "May they, by dint of repentance, merit the pardon of heaven
for their past and abominable libertinage."
"And Thetralde, the youngest of Charles' daughters, did she share the
fate of her sisters?"
"Thetralde died long ago."
"She died!" exclaimed Vortigern, unable to conceal his emotion. "Poor
child! So beautiful--and to die so young!"
"She, at least, never gave Charles cause to blush."
"And what was the cause of the death of that child? Could you tell me?"
"It is not known. Up to her fifteenth year she enjoyed a nourishing
health. Suddenly she began to languish, grew ill, and barely in her
sixteenth year, her light went out, in the arms of her father, who never
ceased weeping for her. But this is quite enough about the daughters of
Charles the Great. Once more, will you or will you not, endeavor to
cause Morvan to abandon a resolution that can have for its only effect
the ruin of this country? You are silent--do you refuse?"
Absorbed in the thoughts that the fate of the ill-starred Thetralde had
started in his mind, Vortigern remained mute and melancholy. His
thoughts flew to the young girl who died so young, and the touching
remembrance of whom had long remained alive with him. Impatient at the
prolonged silence of the Breton, the abbot put his hand on Vortigern's
shoulder, and repeated his question:
"I ask you, yes or no, will you endeavor to cause Morvan to renounce his
insensate resolution?"
"Your King wants war; he shall have war."
And Vortigern, relapsing into his own meditations, rode silently beside
Witchaire until the two reached the city of Guenhek. There Vortigern
entrusted the guidance of the abbot to an experienced guide, and while
the messenger of Louis the Pious proceeded towards the frontier of
Brittany, the brother of Noblede hastened back and rejoined his wife
Josseline at the house of Morvan.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DEFILE OF GLEN-CLAN.
The defile of Glen-Clan is the only practicable passage across the last
links of the Black Mountains--a mountain chain that constitutes a
veritable girdle of granite as a natural protection to the heart of
Brittany. The defile of Glen-Clan is so narrow that a wagon can barely
thread it; it is so steep that six yoke of oxen are barely able to drag
a wagon up its craggy incline, from the top of which a stone of
considerable size would roll rapidly down to the bottom of the pass--a
pass cut, like the bed of a mountain torrent, at the feet of immense
rocks that rise on either side perpendicular over a hundred feet in the
air.
A distant rumbling noise, confused at first, and becoming more and more
distinct as it draws nearer and nearer, disturbs one day, shortly after
the angry departure of Abbot Witchaire from Brittany, the otherwise
profound silence of the solitude. By little and little the dull tramp of
cavalry is distinguished; presently also the clanking of iron arms upon
iron armor, and finally the rythmic tread of large troops of foot
soldiers, the lumbering of wagon wheels jolting upon the stony ground,
the neighing of horses and the bellowing of yoke-oxen. All these various
sounds draw nearer, grow louder, and are finally blended into one steady
roar. They announce the approach of an army corps of considerable
proportions. Suddenly the mournful and prolonged cry of a night bird is
heard from the crest of the rocks that overhang the defile. Other
similar, but more distant cries answer the first signal, like an echo
that loses itself in the distance. Silence ensues thereupon--except for
the tumultuous din of the advancing army corps. A small troop appears at
the entrance of the tortuous passage; a monk on horseback guides the
scouting party. At the monk's side rides a warrior of tall stature, clad
in rich armor. His white buckler, on which three eagle's talons are
designed, hangs to one side from the pommel of his saddle, while an iron
mace dangles from the other. Behind the Frankish chief ride several
cavalrymen accompanied by about a score of Saxon archers,
distinguishable by their long quivers.
"Hugh," says the chief of the warriors to one of his men, "take with you
two horsemen, and let five or six archers precede you to make certain
that there is no ambush to fear. At the slightest sign of an attack fall
back upon us and give the alarm. I do not wish to entangle the gross of
my troop in this defile without the necessary precautions."
Hugh obeys his chief. The little vanguard quickens its step and soon
disappears beyond one of the windings of the pass.
"Neroweg, the measure is wise," observes the monk. "One could not
advance with too much precaution into this accursed country of Brittany,
where I have lived long enough to know that it is extremely dangerous."
"At the end of this defile, I am told, we enter upon even ground."
"Yes, but before that we shall have to cross the marsh of Peulven and
the forest of Cardik; we then arrive at the vast moor of Kennor, the
rendezvous of the two other armed bodies of Louis the Pious, who are
marching to that point across the river Vilaine and over the defile of
Mount Orock, as we are to penetrate through this one. Morvan will be
attacked from three sides, and will not be able to resist our forces."
"I marvel that so important a pass as this is not defended."
"I furnished you the reason when I delivered to you Morvan's plan of
campaign, that was forwarded to me by Kervor, a pious Catholic who came
over to the Frankish side and submitted to the authority of our King. He
is the chief of the southern tribes whose territory we have just
crossed."
"I loved to see those people so docile to the priests; they furnished us
with supplies, and at your voice knelt down as we passed."
"At the time of the other wars you would have dropped fully one-half of
your troops in this region so cut up with bogs, hedges and woods. The
change between now and then is great. The Catholic faith penetrates
little by little these people, formerly so intractable. We have preached
to them submission to Louis the Pious, and menaced them with the fires
of hell if they attempted to resist your arms."
"Indeed, more than one of the troopers of the old bands who fought here
at the time of Charles the Great, have told me they could no longer
recognize the Bretons, who, in their days, were almost invincible. But
for all your explanations, monk, I cannot understand how this pass comes
to be abandoned."
"And yet nothing is simpler. According to his plan of campaign, Morvan
counted with the resistance of the tribes that we have just crossed. In
one day, without drawing your sword, you have cleared a track that would
otherwise have cost you three days' hard fighting, and a fourth of your
troops. Morvan, never apprehending your early arrival at the defile of
Glen-Clan, will not think of having it occupied until this evening, or
to-morrow. He has not enough forces at his disposal to place them where
they would lie idle while he himself is being attacked from two other
sides by as many army corps."
"To that argument I have nothing to say, my father in Christ, you know
the country better than I. If this war succeeds, I shall have my share
of the conquered territory; and, according to the promise of Louis the
Pious, I shall become a powerful seigneur in Brittany, as my elder
brother, Gonthran, is in Auvergne."
"And you will not forget to endow the Church."
"I shall not be ungrateful to the priests, good father. I shall employ a
part of the booty in building a chapel to St. Martin, for whom our
family has ever entertained a particular devotion. Could you, who are
well acquainted with the customs of the Bretons, tell me what corners
they hide their money in? It is claimed that they remove all their
treasures when they are forced to flee from their houses, and that they
bury them in inaccessible hiding places. Is that so?"
"When we shall have arrived in the heart of the country, I shall
acquaint you with the means to discover those treasures, which are,
almost always, concealed at the foot of certain druid stones, for which
these pagans preserve an idolatrous reverence."
"But where shall we find those stones? By what signs are they to be
recognized?"
"That is my secret, Neroweg. It will become _ours_ after we shall have
reached the heart of the country."
Thus conversing, the monk and the Frankish chief slowly ascend the
craggy slope of the defile. From time to time, some of the horsemen, or
foot soldiers, detached as scouts, ride back to acquaint Neroweg with
their observations. Finally, Hugh himself returns and informs his master
that there is nothing to cause any apprehension on the score of an
ambuscade. Completely reassured by these reports, and by the
explanations of the monk, Neroweg gives the order for the advance of his
troops, the footmen first, the horsemen next, then the baggage, and last
of all a rear corps of foot soldiers.
The army corps breaks up and enters the pass that is so narrow as to
allow a passage to only four men abreast. The long and winding column of
men covered with iron, crowded together, and moving slowly, presents a
strange spectacle from the top of the rocks that dominate the narrow
route. It might be taken for some gigantic serpent with iron scales,
deploying its sinuous folds in a ravine cut between two walls of
granite. The misgivings of the Franks, somewhat alarmed when they first
began threading their way through a passage so propitious to an ambush,
are presently removed and make place for unquestioning confidence.
Already the vanguard that precedes Neroweg and the monk is drawing near
the issue of the defile, while at the other end the baggage wagons,
drawn by oxen, begin to set themselves in motion followed by the rear
guard that consists of Thuringian horsemen and Saxon archers. The last
wagons and the rear guard have barely entered the defile, when suddenly
the lugubrious cry of the night bird, resembling that which had greeted
the first arrival of the Frankish army, resounds again, and is echoed
from peak to peak, along the whole length of the overtopping rocks.
Immediately thereupon, pushed by invisible arms, several enormous
boulders detach themselves from the surrounding rocks that an instant
before seemed a solid part of themselves, roll and bound with the rattle
of thunder from the top of the crest down to the foot of the mountain,
and fall crashing upon the wagons, crushing a large number of soldiers
to death, mutilating many more and disabling the train. In their
paroxysms of death, or rendered furious by their wounds, the oxen crowd
upon or roll over one another, and throw the rear guard of the Franks
into such frightful disorder that it is wholly unable to make another
step in advance; it is cut off from the gross of the troops by the
lumber in its way; it is reduced to utter impotence. All along the rest
of the length of the defile of Glen-Clan the Franks are in similar
plight. All along the line, fragments of rocks roll down from the
overtopping crests, crushing and decimating the compact mass of soldiers
below. The gigantic serpent of iron is mutilated, cut into bleeding
sections; it writhes convulsively at the bottom of the ravine, while
from the summits on either side, now crowned with a swarm of Bretons,
who kept themselves until then concealed, a hailstorm of arrows,
boar-spears and stones rains down upon the bewildered, panic-stricken
and impotent Frankish cohorts, caught and hemmed in between the two
granite walls, from whose tops our men deal prompt and unavoidable death
to their invaders. Vortigern is in command of these resolute and
watchful Bretons. His bow in one hand, his quiver by his side, not one
of his bolts misses its mark.
The butchery is frightful! The carnage superb! The Gallic war-songs and
cries of triumph from above answer the imprecations of the Franks from
below. A frightful butchery!
A superb carnage! It lasts as long as our men have a stone to throw, a
bolt or a spear to hurl at the foe. His own, and the munitions of his
companions being exhausted, Vortigern cries down from the summit of the
rocks to the frantic Franks below, accompanying the cry with a gesture
of defiance:
"We will thus defend our soil, inch by inch; every step you take will be
marked by your blood or our own; all our tribes are not like those of
Kervor!"
Saying this, Vortigern struck up the martial song of his ancestor
Schanvoch:
"This morning we asked:
'How many are there of these Franks?
How many are there of these barbarians?'
This evening we say:
'How many were there of these Franks?
How many were there of these barbarians?'"[E]
CHAPTER V.
THE MARSH OF PEULVEN.
Vast is the marsh of Peulven. To the east and the south its shape is
like a bay. From that side its edges are bordered by the skirts of the
dense forest of Cardik. To the north and west, it waters the gentle
slopes of the hills that succeed upon the last spurs of the Black
Mountains, whose tops, empurpled by the rays of the westering sun, rise
in the distant horizon. A jetty, or tongue of land that runs into the
edge of the forest, traverses the marsh through its whole length.
Silence is profound in this desert place. The stagnant waters reflect
the inflamed tints of the ruddy twilight. From time to time flocks of
curlews, herons and other aquatic birds, rise from amidst the reeds that
cover the marsh in spots, hover about and fly upward, emitting their
plaintive cries. Several Frankish horsemen appear from the side of the
mountain. They climb the hill, reach its top, and rein in their horses.
They sweep the marsh with their eyes, examine it for a moment, then turn
their horses' heads and ride back to join Neroweg and the monk, whose
forces, decimated shortly before in the defile of Glen-Clan, have been
subsequently harassed without let on their further march by little
Breton bands, who, placed in ambush behind hedges, or in ditches covered
with dry wood, unexpectedly fell upon either the vanguard or the rear
guard of the Franks, and, after bloody encounters, again vanished in
that region so interspersed with obstacles of all sorts, impracticable
for cavalry, and with which the Frankish foot soldiers are so utterly
unfamiliar that they ventured not to separate themselves from the main
column, ever fearing to fall into some fresh ambush. On horseback behind
the monk, Neroweg stands on the summit of a hill not far behind the one
that the scouts have just ascended. He awaits their return in order to
continue his march. The vanguard has halted at a little distance from
the chief. Further away rest the bulk of his troops. A small detachment
of the rear guard was ordered to take its stand about a league further
back in order to guard the baggage, the wagons and the wounded of the
sorely harassed army.
The lines on the face of the Frankish chief denote deep concern. He says
to the monk:
"What a war! What a war! I have fought against the Northmans, when they
attacked our fortified camps at the confluence of the Somme and the
Seine. Those accursed pirates are terrible foes. They are as dashing in
attack as they are cautious in retreat, and they ever find a safe
shelter in the light craft in which they come over the seas of the North
as far south as Gaul. But by St. Martin! these accursed Bretons are
fuller of the devil, and harder to get at than even the pirates! They
were a source of trouble to Charles the great Emperor; they have become
the desolation of his son!" And Neroweg repeats dejectedly: "What a war!
What a war!"
The monk turns upon his saddle, and stretching out his hand in the
direction traversed by the Frankish troop, says to Neroweg:
"Look toward the west!"
Turning his eyes in the direction indicated by the priest, the Frankish
chief notices behind him tall columns of ruddy smoke rising at intervals
from the hills that the army has left behind it. "Look yonder!
Everywhere a conflagration marks our passage. The burgs and villages,
abandoned by the fleeing inhabitants, have, at my orders, been delivered
to the flames. The Bretons have not, like the Northman pirates, the
resource of vessels on which to flee with their booty back to the ocean.
We are driving the fleeing population before us. The two other army
corps of Louis the Pious are, from their side, following similar
tactics. Accordingly, we and they will meet to-morrow morning at the
village of Lokfern. There we will find, driven back and heaped together,
the populations that have been attacked from the south, the east and the
north during these last days. There, surrounded by a circle of iron,
they will be either annihilated or reduced to slavery! Ah! This time
without fail, Brittany, never before overcome, will be subjected to the
Catholic Church and to the power of the Franks. What if your soldiers
have been decimated in the struggle for the triumph of the faith and
royalty! The troops that you still have, will, when joined to the other
army corps, suffice to exterminate the Bretons!"
"Monk," answers Neroweg impatiently, "your words do not console me for
the death of so many brave Frankish warriors whose bones have been left
to bleach in the defile of Glen-Clan and on the hills of this accursed
country!"
"Rather envy their fate. They have died for religion; they are now in
paradise, in the midst of a chorus of seraphim."
Neroweg shrugs his shoulders with an air of incredulity, and after a
moment of silence proceeds: "You promised to point out to me where
these pagans conceal their treasures."
"On the other side of the marsh of Peulven which we are now to traverse,
lies a vast forest in which a large number of druid stones are found.
Have the earth removed at their foot, and you will find large sums of
money in silver and gold, and many precious articles that have been
hidden there since the beginning of the war."
"When will we arrive at that forest?"
"This evening before nightfall."
"I do not wish to risk my troops in that forest, and fall into another
ambush like the one of the defile!" cries Neroweg. "The day is drawing
to its close. We shall encamp to-night in the midst of the bare hills
where we now are, and where no surprise is to be feared."
"Here are your scouts back," observes the monk to the Frankish chief.
"Interrogate them before you make up your mind definitely."
"Neroweg," reports one of the riders who had scouted to the edge of the
marsh, "as far as the eye reaches, nothing is seen on the marsh; there
is no sign of any men; there is not a boat in sight. On the shores there
is not a single hut, and there is no evidence of any entrenchment."
Impatient to judge by himself of the nature of the field, the Frankish
chief, followed by the monk, immediately rides forward and reaches the
top of the hill shortly before occupied by the scouts. From the eminence
Neroweg beholds a vast expanse of marshy ground in whose numerous pools
of stagnant water the last rays of the sinking sun are mirrored. The
jetty, covered with sward and lined with a thick fringe of reeds,
reaches clear to the other side, and is lost on the edge of the forest.
"There is not the slightest fear of an ambush in crossing this
solitude," says Neroweg with visible mental relief. "The march across
can only take up half an hour, at the most."
"We have about an hour more of daylight left us," observes the monk.
"The forest you see yonder is called the forest of Cardik. It stretches
far away to the right and left of the marsh, seeing that, towards the
west, it reaches the borders of the Armorican Sea. But that portion of
the forest that faces the jetty is at the utmost a quarter of a league
long. We could easily put it behind us before night, and we would then
be on the moor of Kennor, an immense plain where you could encamp in
absolute security. To-morrow at daybreak if it should please you, we can
ride back into the forest and rummage at the foot of the druid stones
for the treasures hidden there by the Bretons. Glory to your arms, and
may the booty be large!"
After a few minutes of hesitation, Neroweg, tempted by cupidity, sends a
man of his escort to give to his troops the order to march and traverse
the jetty, a narrow walk of about three feet wide, perfectly even,
covered with thin grass, and lying in plain view from one end to the
other. Neroweg feels easy in mind. Nevertheless, remembering the rocks
of Glen-Clan, he prudently orders several horsemen to precede the troops
by about a hundred paces. Marching behind their chief, Neroweg's troops
begin to defile along the jetty, which soon is covered with soldiers
from end to end. Massed from the foot to the top of the hill, behind the
advancing column, are the last detachments of Neroweg's army. They break
ranks as fast as it is their turn to enter upon the passage.
Suddenly, from the midst of the clumps of reeds that rise at irregular
intervals along the length of the tongue of land, the cry of
night-birds goes up--cries identical with those that had resounded from
the summits of Glen-Clan. Upon the signal, the muffled sounds of rapid
hatchet strokes are heard. They teem to be the answer given to the cries
of the night-birds. Instantly the seemingly solid walk sinks at scores
of places under the feet of the marching soldiers. Woe is those who
happen to find themselves over these hidden traps, that are constructed
of wooden beams and strong chains concealed under a layer of sward! The
scheme, devised by Vortigern, proves successful. The movable bridges
can, at will, either support the weight of the troops that march over
them, or tip over under their tread, by the dexterous knocking from
under the loose boards the wooden pegs that are their only support.
Plunged in the water up to their necks, Vortigern and a large number of
stout-hearted men of his tribe have held themselves motionless, mute and
invisible in the center of the clumps of reeds that border the jetty
near each of the traps. When the jetty is entirely covered with Frankish
soldiers, the hatchets are, at a signal, plied with energy; the pegs
drop out; and the passage is suddenly cut up by scores of gaps twenty
feet wide. Pell-mell foot soldiers, cavalrymen and their horses tumble
to the bottom of these suddenly opened ditches, and are received
thereupon by the sharp points of piles providently sunk at the bottom.
At the sight of these death-dealing traps, suddenly gaping before them
at their feet, and at the sound of the wild cries and imprecations
uttered by the wounded and by those who are being pushed forward into
the abysses by the crowding ranks behind, a tremendous disorder,
followed by a panic, spreads among the Franks. Fearing the path to be
everywhere undermined, the soldiers crowd back and forward upon one
another in a frenzy of despair. The frightened horses rear, tumble down,
or rush furiously into the marsh where they vanish together with their
riders. The confusion and rout being at its height, the Bretons rise
from their places of concealment among the reeds, and hurl promiscuously
a shower of bolts upon the confused heaps of soldiers, now rendered
insane with fear, and in their panic either trampling upon one another,
or themselves being trampled upon by their uncontrollable steeds. Other
war-crys respond from a distance to the war-cries struck up by Vortigern
and his men. A troop of Bretons issues from the forest and ranks itself
in battle array at the border of the marsh ready to dispute the passage
if the Franks dare to attempt it The sight of these fresh foes carries
the panic of Neroweg's troops to its acme. Instead of marching onward
towards the edge of the forest, the front rank faces about, anxious only
to join the body of the army that still finds itself massed at the
entrance of the fatal causeway. The rush is effected with such fury that
the deep trenches are speedily filled with the bodies of a mass of
wounded, dead and dying warriors. The heaped-up corpses soon serve as a
bridge to the fleeing Franks, whose rear the Breton bolts assail
unpityingly. At the spectacle of the routed Franks, Vortigern and his
braves strike up anew the war song with which they had assailed the ears
of the distracted Franks at the defile of Glen-Clan:
"This morning we asked:
'How many are there of these Franks?
How many are there of these barbarians?'
This evening we say:
'How many were there of these Franks?
How many were there of these barbarians?'
Victory and Glory to Hesus!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE FOREST OF CARDIK.
"What a war! What a war!" exclaim the warriors of Louis the Pious,
leaving at every step some of their companions behind among the rocks
and the marshes of Armorica. "Every hedge of the fields, every ditch in
the valleys conceals a Breton of steady eye and hand. The stone of the
sling, the arrow of the bow whiz everywhere through the air, nor miss
their aim. The pits of the precipices, and the bottoms of the stagnant
waters swallow up the bodies of our soldiers. If we penetrate into the
forests, the danger redoubles. Every copse, the branches of every tree,
conceal an enemy!"
Neroweg, having barely escaped with his life from the disaster of the
marsh of Peulven, spends the night upon the hill with the remaining
fragment of his army. At early dawn the next morning he orders the
trumpets and clarions to call his men to their ranks. At the head of his
warriors he again steps upon the narrow jetty of the marsh. He is
determined to force his way into the forest of Cardik. Footmen and
horses again trample over the heaped-up corpses in the wide trenches. No
ambush now retards the passage of the Franks. By sunrise the last
detachments have crossed the marsh, and all the forces still at the
command of Neroweg are deployed along the skirts of the forest that is
now serving as a retreat to the Gauls of Armorica, and where they have
taken their next stand.
The primeval forest extends, towards the west, as far as the steep banks
of a river that runs into the sea, and towards the east, up to a chain
of precipitous hills. Furious at the defeat he suffered on the previous
evening, the Frankish chief is hardly able to restrain his ardor. Always
accompanied by the monk, he advances into the forest. The oaks, the
elms, the ash trees, the birch trees, raise their gigantic trunks and
interlace their spreading branches. Between these trunks, all is
underwood, bramble and briar. Only one narrow and tortuous path presents
itself to Neroweg's sight. He enters it. Daylight barely penetrates the
walk through the dense vault of verdure, shaped overhead by the foliage
of the stately trees. Thickets of holly seven or eight feet high fringe
the way. Their prickly leaves render them impenetrable.
Unable to wander off either to the right or to the left, the soldiers
are compelled to follow the defile of verdure. Laboring under the shock
of their recent disasters, they march with mistrust through the somber
forest of Cardik, speaking only in undertones, and from time to time
interrogating with uneasy looks the leafy branches of the trees, or the
thicket that borders the route. For a while nothing justifies the
apprehensions of the Frankish cohorts. The silence of the forest is
disturbed only by the rhythmic and muffled sound of their steps, and the
clank of their arms. But even the silence itself nourishes the vague
fears of the Franks. The defile of Glen-Clan and the marsh of Peulven
also were silent! More than one-half of the rest of the army now left to
Neroweg has entered the forest, when, reaching one of the turns of the
winding path, the Frankish chief, who marches at the head of his
horsemen accompanied by the monk, suddenly stops short. The path has
vanished. Gigantic oaks and elms, a hundred feet tall and from fifteen
to twenty feet in circumference, and bearing the evidence of having only
freshly fallen under the axe of the woodman, lie heaped upon each other
and so tangled in their fall across the route that their enormous
branches and colossal trunks present an impassible barrier to the
cavalry. Only foot soldiers might possibly scale the obstruction, and
cut their way across with hatchets.
"Oh! What a war!" cries out Neroweg, clenching his fists. "After the
defile, the marsh! After the marsh, the forest! I shall have barely
one-third of my forces left by the time I join the other chiefs!
Accursed Bretons, may the fires of hell consume you!"
"Yes, these heathens will burn! They shall burn until the last day of
judgment!" responds the monk with deep vexation. "Courage, Neroweg!
Courage! This last obstacle being overcome, we shall arrive at the moor
of Kennor. There we shall join the other two army corps of Louis the
Pious, and we shall all jointly penetrate into the valley of Lokfern,
where we will exterminate these accursed Bretons to the last man."
"Have you seen me falter in courage? By the great St. Martin, it looks
as if you were in league with the enemy, judging by the route you have
guided us on! Already have you twice led us into an ambush, you
miserable priest!"
"Have I not braved all the dangers at your side?" observes the priest,
holding up his left arm, that is wound in a bloodstained bandage. "Was I
not myself wounded last evening when we attempted to cross the marsh of
Peulven? Can you question my courage or fidelity?"
"How are we to find another route? The one barred is the only one, you
told me, that crosses this forest, otherwise impracticable to an army."
The monk looks around; he reflects; but no answer proceeds from his
lips. A prey to discouragement and increasing terror, the soldiers begin
to grumble, when suddenly three quickly succeeding cries of the
night-bird pierce the air. Immediately the Breton slingers and archers,
ambushed behind the breast-work of fallen trees, assail the Franks with
a volley of stones and arrows. Enormous oak branches, previously
prepared, detach themselves from the tops of their trunks, and come down
crashing upon the heads of the soldiers, killing or mutilating them.
Anew, panic seizes the Franks; a fresh carnage decimates them.
Cavalrymen thrown from their horses, foot soldiers trampled under the
hoofs of the frightened steeds, all blinded, their flesh torn as in
their fright they precipitate themselves into the thick of the prickly
holly hedges--such is this day's spectacle presented to the delighted
Breton eyes by the invading army of Neroweg. What an inspiring spectacle
to the Armorican Gauls! The air is filled with the moans of the dying,
the imprecations of the wounded, the threats hurled at the monk, now
roundly charged with treason.
The carnage and the panic are at their height when, climbing to the top
of the breast-work of trees whence he can gain a full view of the
distracted foe, Vortigern appears before the Franks and calls out to
them defiantly:
"Now you may try to cross the forest. Our quivers are empty. We shall
retreat to replenish them and shall be ready to meet you in the valley
of Lokfern."
Vortigern has barely uttered these words when his eyes catch sight of
the chief of the Franks, who, having descended from his horse, holds up
against the stones and bolts of his assailants, his white buckler, on
which three eagle's talons are seen painted. At the sight of the device
of his own stock's ancestral foe, Vortigern places his last arrow upon
the string of his bow.
"The descendant of Joel sends this to the descendant of the Nerowegs."
The arrow whizzes. It grazes the lower border of the Frank's buckler,
and penetrates his knee just above the jointure.
Neroweg falls upon the other knee, points out the Gaul to several
archers in his vicinity, and cries:
"Take aim at that bandit! Kill him!"
The Saxon arrows fly through the air; two strike, and quiver where they
strike, in the upturned branches of the tree on which Vortigern has
mounted; the third enters his left arm.
The descendant of Joel quickly draws out the sharp-edged iron, throws it
back at the Franks with a defiant gesture, and disappears behind the
twisted branches of the improvised barricade.
Three times the cry of the night bird is again heard in the forest, and
the Bretons disperse along paths known only to them, again singing as
they go, the ancient war-song, the sound of whose refrain is gradually
lost in the distance:
"This morning we asked:
'How many are there of these Franks?
How many are there of these barbarians?'
This evening we say:
'How many were there of these Franks?
How many were there of these barbarians?'
Victory, Victory for Gaul!"
CHAPTER VII.
THE MOOR OF KENNOR.
About four leagues in width and three in length--such is the expanse of
the moor of Kennor. It constitutes a vast plateau that slopes to the
north toward the valley of Lokfern, and is bounded on the west by a wide
river that pours its waters into the Sea of Armorica only a little
distance away. The forest of Cardik and the last spurs of the mountain
chain of Men-Brez border on the moor. The moor is covered throughout its
extent by heather two or three feet high and almost burned out by the
scorching sun of the dog-days. Level as a lake, the immense barren and
desert plain presents a desolate aspect. A violent east wind causes the
tall heather, now of the color of dead leaves, to undulate like a
peaceful sheet of water. Above, the sky is of a bright blue on this
sultry and windy day. An August sun inundates with its blinding light
the desert expanse of heather, whose silence is disturbed only by the
sharp chirp of the grasshopper, or the low moan of the gale.
Presently a new element enters upon the scene. Skirting the bank of the
river, a black and confused mass heaves into sight, stretches out its
length, and moves toward the centre of the plain. It is the one of the
three army corps led in person by Louis the Pious against the Breton
Gauls. Long before its appearance, other troops, formed in compact
cohorts, have been descending on the east the last slopes of Men-Brez.
They, likewise, are advancing toward the plain--the place agreed upon
for the junction of the three armies that had invaded Armorica, burning
and ravaging the country upon their passage, and driving the population
back towards the valley of Lokfern. The only division absent from the
rendezvous is the contingent captained by Neroweg, which, since morning,
has been struggling in the forest of Cardik. Finally it has issued in
disorder from the woods, and re-formed its ranks. After incalculable
labor, hewing, axe in hand, a passage through the thickets, leaving
their cavalry behind, and forced to retreat upon their steps back to the
marsh of Peulven, the troops of Neroweg at last succeed in crossing the
forest. These troops now number barely one-half their original strength.
They are reduced, not only by the losses sustained in the passage of the
defile of Glen-Clan, of the marsh of Peulven, and the forest of Cardik,
but also by the defection of large numbers of men, who, being more and
more terror stricken by the resistance that they encountered, refused to
listen to the orders of their chief, and followed the cavalry in its
retreat. Neroweg's greatly reduced contingent now also appears in sight
from the opposite side. The three army corps have descried one another.
Their march converges towards the centre of the plain. The distance
between them becomes so small that they are able to see one another's
armor, casques and lances, glistening in the sun. The division of Louis
the Pious, having been the first to descend into the plain over the
hills of Men-Brez, halts, in order to wait for the other divisions. The
troops under Louis the Pious himself are no less demoralized and reduced
in numbers than the division under Neroweg. They have undergone similar
vicissitudes during their long march, having had to cut their way
across a seemingly endless series of ambushes. The sight of their
companions arriving from the opposite side revives their courage.
Henceforth they expect to fight in the open. As far as the eye can
reach, the vast plain that they now have entered upon lies fully exposed
to view. It can conceal no trap. The last struggle is now at hand, and
with it the close of the war. The Bretons, crowded together just beyond
in the valley of Lokfern, are to be crushed by a combined armed force
that is still three times stronger than theirs.
The vanguards of the three converging divisions are about to join when
suddenly, from the east, whence a dry and steady gale is blowing, little
puffs of smoke, at first almost imperceptible, are seen to rise at
irregular distances from one another. The puffs of smoke are going up
from the extreme eastern edge of the moor; they spread; they mingle with
one another over an area more than two leagues in length; by little and
little they present the aspect of one continuous belt of blackish smoke
rising high and spreading into the air, and from time to time breaking
out into lambent flames.
The fire has been kindled at a hundred different spots by the Breton
Gauls with the dry heather of the moor. Driven by the violent gale the
girdle of flame soon embraces the horizon from the east to the south,
from the slopes of Men-Brez to the skirt of the forest. It advances with
rapid strides like the waves of the incoming tide lashed by a furious
wind. Terrified at the sight of the burning waves that are rushing upon
them from the right with the swiftness of a hurricane, the Frankish
ranks waver for a moment. To their left, runs a deep river; behind them,
rises the forest of Cardik; before them the plateau slopes towards the
valley of Lokfern. Himself running for life towards the valley, Louis
the Pious thereby gives to his troops the signal to flee. They follow
their king tumultuously, anxious only to leave the moor behind them
before the flames, that now invade the plateau from end to end, entirely
cut off their retreat. Impatient to escape the danger, the cavalry
breaks ranks, follows the example set by the king, traverses the cohorts
of the infantry, throws them down, and rides rough-shod over them. The
disorder, the tumult, the terror are at their height. The soldiers
struggle with the horsemen and with one another. The fiery wave advances
steadily; it advances faster than it can be run away from. The swiftest
steed cannot cope with it. The all-embracing sheet of fire reaches first
the soldiers whom the cavalry has thrown down and left wounded behind;
it speedily envelopes the bulk of the army. In an instant the distracted
cohorts are seen up to their waists in the midst of the flames.
By the valor of our fathers, it is the hell of the damned in this world!
Frightful! torture! Excruciating pain! A cheering sight for the eyes of
a Breton Gaul, harassed by invaders, to behold his merciless assailers
in. Frankish horsemen cased in iron and fallen from their steeds, roast
within their red-hot armor like tortoises in their shell. The footmen
jump and leap to withdraw their nether extremities from the embrace of
the caressing flames. But the flames never leave them; the flames gain
the lead. Their feet and legs are grilled, refuse their support, and the
men drop into the furnace emitting cries of despair. The horses fare no
better despite their breathless gallop; they feel their flanks and
buttocks devoured by the flames; they become savage. They are seized
with a vertigo; they rear, plunge and fall over upon their riders.
Horses and riders roll down into the brasier at their feet. The horses
neigh piteously, the riders moan or utter curses. An immense concert of
imprecations, of fierce cries of pain and rage rises heavenward with the
flames of the magnificent hecatomb of Frankish warriors!
Oh! Beautiful to the eye is the moor of Kennor, still ruddy and smoking
an hour after it is set on fire and consumed to the very root of its
heather! Splendid brasier three leagues wide, strewn with thousands of
Frankish bodies, shapeless, charred. Warm quarry above which already
flocks of carrion-crows from the forest of Cardik are hovering! Glory to
you, Bretons! More than a third of the Frankish army met death on the
moor of Kennor.
"What a war! What a war!" also exclaims Louis the Pious.
Aye, a merciless war; a holy war; a thrice holy war, waged by a people
in defence of their freedom, their homes, their fields, their hearths;
Oh, ancient land of the Gauls! Oh, old Armorica, sacred mother!
Everything turns into a weapon in the hands of your rugged children
against their barbarous invaders! Rocks, precipices, marshes, woods,
moors on fire! Oh, Brittany, betrayed by those of your own children who
succumbed to the wiles of the Catholic priests, stabbed at your heart by
the sword of the Frankish kings, and pouring out the generous heart
blood of your children, perchance, after all, you will feel the yoke of
the conquerer on your neck! But the bones of your enemies, crushed,
burned and drowned in the struggle, will tell to our descendants the
tale of a resistance that Armorica offered to her casqued and mitred
invaders!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VALLEY OF LOKFERN.
Decimated by the conflagration of the moor of Kennor, the Frankish army
flees in disorder in the direction of the valley of Lokfern, that lies
slightly below the vast plateau on which an hour before the three
Frankish divisions have joined, confident that their trials are ended.
Escaped from the disaster of the conflagration and carried onward by the
impetuosity of their steeds, a portion of the Frankish cavalry that
follows Louis the Pious in his precipitate flight, arrives at the
confines of the plateau. Driven by a terror that left them no thought
but to outstrip one another, the fleeing riders seem to give no heed to
the sight that unfolds before them. At the foot of the slope that they
are about to descend, stands the numerous Breton cavalry, drawn up in
battle array, under the command of Morvan and Vortigern. It is only a
cavalry of rustics, yet intrepid, veterans in warfare, perfectly
mounted. Carried by the headlong course of their horses beyond the edge
of the plateau and down the slope to the valley, the Franks rush in
confused order upon the Breton cavalry that is drawn up as if to bar
their passage; they rush onward, either unable to restrain their still
frightened steeds, or conceiving a vague hope of crushing the opposing
Bretons under the irresistible violence of their impetuous descent. The
Breton cavalry, however, instead of waiting for the Franks, quickly
parts in two corps, one commanded by Morvan, the other by Vortigern.
One corps seems to flee to the right, the other to the left. The space
from the foot of the hill to the river Scoer being thus left free by the
sudden and rapid manoeuvre of the Gauls, most of the Frankish horsemen
find themselves hardly able to rein in their horses in time to escape
falling into the water. A moment of disorder follows. It is turned to
advantage by Morvan and Vortigern. The Frankish riders being dispersed
and engaged with their steeds, Vortigern and Morvan turn about and fall
upon them. They take the foe upon the flanks, right and left; charge
upon them with fury; make havoc among them. Most of them are sabred to
death, or have their heads beaten in with axes, others are driven into
the river. During the fierce melee, the remnant of the infantry of Louis
the Pious, still fleeing from the furnace of the moor of Kennor, arrives
upon the spot in disorder. Trained in the trade of massacre, they
promptly reform their ranks and pour down upon the Breton cavalry. At
first victorious, these are finally crushed, overwhelmed by vastly
superior numbers. On the other side of the river the rustic Gallic
infantry still continue to hold their ground--husbandmen, woo-men and
shepherds armed with pikes, scythes and axes, and many of them supplied
with bows and slings. Behind this mass of warriors, and within an
enclosure defended by barricades of heaped up trunks of trees and
ditches, are assembled the women and children of the combatants. All
their families have fled distracted before the invaders, carrying their
valuables in their flight, and now await with indescribable agony the
issue of this last battle.
Weep! Weep, Brittany! and yet be proud of your glory! Your sons, crushed
down by numbers, resisted to their last breath; all have fallen wounded
or dead in defence of their freedom!
The river is fordable for infantry at only one place. The monk who
accompanies Neroweg points out the passage to the troops of Louis the
Pious. They cross it immediately after the annihilation of the cavalry
of Morvan. The Armoricans who are drawn up on the opposite bank of the
Scoer heroically defend the ground inch by inch, man to man, ever
falling back toward the fortified enclosure that is the last refuge of
our families. Marching over heaps of corpses, the soldiery of Louis the
Pious finally assail the fortified enclosure, all its defenders having
been killed or wounded. The enclosure is taken. According to their
custom, the Franks slaughter the children, put the women and maids to
the torture of infamous treatment, and lead them away captive to the
interior of Gaul. Ermond the Black, a monk and familiar of Louis the
Pious in this impious war, wrote its account in Latin verse. The death
of Morvan is narrated in the poem as follows:
"Then presently the cry runs through the ranks
That Morvan's head, the Breton chieftain's head,
Has been brought in unto the Frankish King:
To see it haste the Franks; they shout with joy
At prospect to behold the grisley sight.
From hand to hand the bloody head is passed,
Marred with the sword that hewed it from its trunk.
Witchaire the Abbot next is called upon
T' identify the member, if it be
The head of Morvan, that redoubted chief.
He pours some water on the matted front,
He laves it, wipes the hair from off its brow,
And cries ''Tis Morvan--'tis his Gallic lour!'"
Thus Brittany, once lost to the Franks, is placed anew under their
sway.
EPILOGUE
Vortigern, the grandson of Amael, wrote this account of the war of the
Franks against Brittany. Left for dead on the banks of the Scoer, he did
not recover his senses until a day and a night had passed after the
defeat of the Bretons. Some Christian druids, led to the spot by
Caswallan, who had escaped the massacre, came to the field of battle to
gather the wounded who might still be alive. Vortigern was of the
number. From them he learned that his sister Noblede, the wife of
Morvan, together with other women and young girls who took refuge in the
fortified enclosure, had stabbed themselves to death in order to escape
being outraged by the Franks and led into slavery. After Abbot Witchaire
left the house of Morvan on his return trip to announce to Louis the
Pious the refusal of the Armorican Gauls to pay the tribute demanded
from them, Vortigern returned with his wife and children to Karnak in
order to gather in the crops from his fields. The harvest being in, he
left his family at the house of his parents, and returned to Morvan in
order to join the latter's forces, and oppose the army of Louis the
Pious. Immediately after his wounds were healed, Vortigern returned to
Karnak, where he rejoined his wife and children. The Franks had not
dared push their invasion beyond the valley of Lokfern. They contented
themselves with leaving Armorica devastated and stripped of her bravest
defenders. Yet is she not subdued. She but waits the moment to revolt
anew.
Vortigern joined this narrative to the other narratives of his family,
and he accompanied his own account with the two Carlovingian coins, the
gift of Thetralde, one of the daughters of Charles the Great. These
relics of the family of Joel now consist of Hena's little gold sickle,
Guilhern's little brass bell, Sylvest's iron collar, Genevieve's silver
cross, Shanvoch's casque's lark, Ronan the Vagre's poniard's hilt and
his branding needle, Bonaik's abbatial crosier and Vortigern's
Carlovingian coins, together with the narratives that accompany them.
Myself, Rosneven, the oldest son of Vortigern, who make this entry at
the foot of my father's narrative, can only record here my father's
death on the fifth day of February of 889. These have been sad years for
Brittany, and also for our own family in particular. Our special sorrows
proceed from the estrangement of my younger brothers, one of whom left
Gaul and sailed to the country of the Northman pirates. I lack both the
spirit and the will to recite these lamentable events. Perhaps my
youngest brother Gomer, gifted with more energy, ability and
perseverance than myself, may some day undertake the task.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] "The daughters of the Emperor Charles always accompanied him on his
trips into the interior of Gaul. They were handsome beauties; he loved
them passionately; he never allowed them to marry, and kept them all
with him till his death. Although happy in everything else, Charles
experienced in them the malignity of adverse fortune; but he buried his
chagrin, and behaved towards them as if they had never given cause for
evil suspicions, and as if rumor had never been busy with their
names."--_Chronicles of Eginhard, p. 145, Collected History of France._
[B] For Amael's story, see "The Abbatial Crosier," the preceding book of
the series.
[C] "The Gallic woman equalled her husband in courage and strength. She
sat in his councils of war with him. Her eyes were more furious when she
was angered, and she swung her arms, as white as snow, and dealt blows
as heavy as if they came from an engine of war."--Ammienus Marcellinus,
_Notes of the Martyrs_, vol. XVIII, book IX.
[D] "The heart of Louis the Pious (Charlemagne's son) was, naturally,
long indignant at the conduct indulged in by his sisters under the
paternal roof, the only blot upon its name. Desiring, then, to amend
these disorders, he sent before him Walla, Warnaire, Lambert and
Ingobert, with the order to watch carefully, as soon as they should
arrive at Aix-la-Chapelle, that no new scandal should occur; and to put
under heavy guard those who had soiled the majesty of the empire with a
criminal commerce (with the daughters of the Emperor). Certain ones,
guilty of these crimes, came before Louis the Pious to obtain pardon,
which they received. Audoin alone resisted. He smote Warnaire that he
died, wounded Lambert in the thigh, and slew himself with one blow of
his sword.... Whereupon Louis the Pious decided to drive out of the
palace all that multitude of women which occupied it in the time of his
father."--L'Astronome, _Life of Louis the Pious_, pp. 345-346,
_Collected History of France_.
[E] See "The Casque's Lark."