Full in the midst a mighty pile arose,
Where iron grated gates their strength oppose
To each invading step--and strong and steep,
The battled walls arose, the fosse sunk deep.
Slow round the fortress roll'd the sluggish stream,
And high in middle air the warder's turrets gleam.
ANONYMOUS
While Durward and his acquaintance thus spoke, they came in sight of
the whole front of the Castle of Plessis les Tours, which, even in
those dangerous times, when the great found themselves obliged to reside
within places of fortified strength, was distinguished for the extreme
and jealous care with which it was watched and defended.
From the verge of the wood where young Durward halted with his
companion, in order to take a view of this royal residence, extended,
or rather arose, though by a very gentle elevation, an open esplanade,
devoid of trees and bushes of every description, excepting one gigantic
and half withered old oak. This space was left open, according to the
rules of fortification in all ages, in order that an enemy might not
approach the walls under cover, or unobserved from the battlements, and
beyond it arose the Castle itself.
There were three external walls, battlemented and turreted from space
to space and at each angle, the second enclosure rising higher than the
first, and being built so as to command the exterior defence in case
it was won by the enemy; and being again, in the same manner, itself
commanded by the third and innermost barrier.
Around the external wall, as the Frenchman informed his young companion
(for as they stood lower than the foundation of the wall, he could not
see it), was sunk a ditch of about twenty feet in depth, supplied with
water by a dam head on the river Cher; or rather on one of its tributary
branches. In front of the second enclosure, he said, there ran another
fosse, and a third, both of the same unusual dimensions, was led between
the second and the innermost inclosure. The verge, both of the outer and
inner circuit of this triple moat was strongly fenced with palisades of
iron, serving the purpose of what are called chevaux de frise in modern
fortification, the top of each pale being divided into a cluster of
sharp spikes, which seemed to render any attempt to climb over an act of
self destruction.
From within the innermost enclosure arose the Castle itself, containing
buildings of all periods, crowded around, and united with the ancient
and grim looking donjon keep, which was older than any of them, and
which rose, like a black Ethiopian giant, high into the air, while the
absence of any windows larger than shot holes, irregularly disposed
for defence, gave the spectator the same unpleasant feeling which
we experience on looking at a blind man. The other buildings seemed
scarcely better adapted for the purposes of comfort, for the windows
opened to an inner and enclosed courtyard; so that the whole external
front looked much more like that of a prison than a palace. The reigning
King had even increased this effect; for, desirous that the additions
which he himself had made to the fortifications should be of a character
not easily distinguished from the original building (for, like many
jealous persons, he loved not that his suspicions should be observed),
the darkest coloured brick and freestone were employed, and soot mingled
with the lime, so as to give the whole Castle the same uniform tinge of
extreme and rude antiquity.
This formidable place had but one entrance--at least Durward saw none
along the spacious front, except where, in the centre of the first
and outward boundary, arose two strong towers, the usual defences of a
gateway; and he could observe their ordinary accompaniments, portcullis
and drawbridge--of which the first was lowered, and the last raised.
Similar entrance towers were visible on the second and third bounding
wall, but not in the same line with those on the outward circuit;
because the passage did not cut right through the whole three enclosures
at the same point, but, on the contrary, those who entered had to
proceed nearly thirty yards betwixt the first and second wall, exposed,
if their purpose were hostile, to missiles from both; and again, when
the second boundary was passed, they must make a similar digression
from the straight line, in order to attain the portal of the third and
innermost enclosure; so that before gaining the outer court, which ran
along the front of the building, two narrow and dangerous defiles were
to be traversed under a flanking discharge of artillery, and three
gates, defended in the strongest manner known to the age, were to be
successively forced.
Coming from a country alike desolated by foreign war and internal
feuds--a country, too, whose unequal and mountainous surface, abounding
in precipices and torrents, affords so many situations of strength,
young Durward was sufficiently acquainted with all the various
contrivances by which men, in that stern age, endeavoured to secure
their dwellings; but he frankly owned to his companion, that he did not
think it had been in the power of art to do so much for defence, where
nature had done so little; for the situation, as we have hinted, was
merely the summit of a gentle elevation ascending upwards from the place
where they were standing.
To enhance his surprise, his companion told him that the environs of
the Castle, except the single winding path by which the portal might
be safely approached, were, like the thickets through which they had
passed, surrounded with every species of hidden pitfall, snare, and gin,
to entrap the wretch who should venture thither without a guide;
that upon the walls were constructed certain cradles of iron, called
swallows' nests, from which the sentinels, who were regularly posted
there, could without being exposed to any risk, take deliberate aim at
any who should attempt to enter without the proper signal or password of
the day; and that the Archers of the Royal Guard performed that duty
day and night, for which they received high pay, rich clothing, and much
honour and profit at the hands of King Louis. “And now tell me, young
man,” he continued, “did you ever see so strong a fortress, and do you
think there are men bold enough to storm it?”
The young man looked long and fixedly on the place, the sight of which
interested him so much that he had forgotten, in the eagerness of
youthful curiosity, the wetness of his dress. His eye glanced, and his
colour mounted to his cheek like that of a daring man who meditates an
honourable action, as he replied, “It is a strong castle, and strongly
guarded; but there is no impossibility to brave men.”
“Are there any in your country who could do such a feat?” said the
elder, rather scornfully.
“I will not affirm that,” answered the youth; “but there are thousands
that, in a good cause, would attempt as bold a deed.”
“Umph!” said the senior, “perhaps you are yourself such a gallant!”
“I should sin if I were to boast where there is no danger,” answered
young Durward; “but my father has done as bold an act, and I trust I am
no bastard.”
“Well,” said his companion, smiling, “you might meet your match, and
your kindred withal in the attempt; for the Scottish Archers of King
Louis's Life Guards stand sentinels on yonder walls--three hundred
gentlemen of the best blood in your country.”
“And were I King Louis,” said the youth, in reply, “I would trust my
safety to the faith of the three hundred Scottish gentlemen, throw
down my bounding walls to fill up the moat; call in my noble peers and
paladins, and live as became me, amid breaking of lances in gallant
tournaments, and feasting of days with nobles, and dancing of nights
with ladies, and have no more fear of a foe than I have of a fly.”
His companion again smiled, and turning his back on the Castle, which,
he observed, they had approached a little too nearly, he led the way
again into the wood by a more broad and beaten path than they had yet
trodden. “This,” he said, “leads us to the village of Plessis, as it
is called, where you, as a stranger, will find reasonable and honest
accommodation. About two miles onward lies the fine city of Tours,
which gives name to this rich and beautiful earldom. But the village
of Plessis, or Plessis of the Park as it is sometimes called, from
its vicinity to the royal residence, and the chase with which it is
encircled, will yield you nearer and as convenient hospitality.”
“I thank you, kind master, for your information,” said the Scot; “but my
stay will be so short here, that, if I fail not in a morsel of meat, and
a drink of something better than water, my necessities in Plessis, be it
of the park or the pool, will be amply satisfied.”
“Nay,” answered his companion, “I thought you had some friend to see in
this quarter.”
“And so I have--my mother's own brother,” answered Durward; “and as
pretty a man, before he left the braes of Angus [hills and moors of
Angus in Forfarshire, Scotland.], as ever planted brogue on heather.”
“What is his name?” said the senior. “We will inquire him out for you;
for it is not safe for you to go up to the Castle, where you might be
taken for a spy.”
“Now, by my father's hand!” said the youth, “I taken for a spy!--By
Heaven, he shall brook cold iron that brands me with such a charge!--But
for my uncle's name, I care not who knows it--it is Lesly. Lesly--an
honest and noble name.”
“And so it is, I doubt not,” said the old man; “but there are three of
the name in the Scottish Guard.”
“My uncle's name is Ludovic Lesly,” said the young man.
“Of the three Leslys,” answered the merchant, “two are called Ludovic.”
“They call my kinsman Ludovic with the Scar,” said Quentin. “Our family
names are so common in a Scottish house, that, where there is no land in
the case, we always give a to-name [surname].”
“A nom de guerre [the war name; formerly taken by French soldiers
on entering the service. Hence a fictitious name assumed for other
purposes.], I suppose you to mean,” answered his companion; “and the
man you speak of, we, I think, call Le Balafre, from that scar on his
face--a proper man, and a good soldier. I wish I may be able to help
you to an interview with him, for he belongs to a set of gentlemen whose
duty is strict, and who do not often come out of garrison, unless in the
immediate attendance on the King's person.--And now, young man, answer
me one question. I will wager you are desirous to take service with your
uncle in the Scottish Guard. It is a great thing, if you propose
so; especially as you are very young, and some years' experience is
necessary for the high office which you aim at.”
“Perhaps I may have thought on some such thing,” said Durward,
carelessly; “but if I did, the fancy is off.”
“How so, young man?” said the Frenchman, something sternly, “Do you
speak thus of a charge which the most noble of your countrymen feel
themselves emulous to be admitted to?”
“I wish them joy of it,” said Quentin, composedly. “To speak plain, I
should have liked the service of the French King full well; only, dress
me as fine and feed me as high as you will, I love the open air better
than being shut up in a cage or a swallow's nest yonder, as you call
these same grated pepper boxes. Besides,” he added, in a lower voice,
“to speak truth, I love not the Castle when the covin tree bears such
acorns as I see yonder.”
[The large tree in front of a Scottish castle was sometimes called so.
It is difficult to trace the derivation; but at that distance from the
castle the laird received guests of rank, and thither he conveyed them
on their departure. S.]
“I guess what you mean,” said the Frenchman; “but speak yet more
plainly.”
“To speak more plainly, then,” said the youth, “there grows a fair oak
some flight shot or so from yonder Castle--and on that oak hangs a man
in a gray jerkin, such as this which I wear.”
“Ay and indeed!” said the man of France--“Pasques dieu! see what it is
to have youthful eyes! Why, I did see something, but only took it for a
raven among the branches. But the sight is no ways strange, young man;
when the summer fades into autumn, and moonlight nights are long, and
roads become unsafe, you will see a cluster of ten, ay of twenty such
acorns, hanging on that old doddered oak.--But what then?--they are so
many banners displayed to scare knaves; and for each rogue that hangs
there, an honest man may reckon that there is a thief, a traitor, a
robber on the highway, a pilleur and oppressor of the people the fewer
in France. These, young man, are signs of our Sovereign's justice.”
“I would have hung them farther from my palace, though, were I King
Louis,” said the youth. “In my country, we hang up dead corbies where
living corbies haunt, but not in our gardens or pigeon houses. The very
scent of the carrion--faugh--reached my nostrils at the distance where
we stood.”
“If you live to be an honest and loyal servant of your Prince, my good
youth,” answered the Frenchman, “you will know there is no perfume to
match the scent of a dead traitor.”
“I shall never wish to live till I lose the scent of my nostrils or the
sight of my eyes,” said the Scot. “Show me a living traitor, and here
are my hand and my weapon; but when life is out, hatred should not live
longer.--But here, I fancy, we come upon the village, where I hope to
show you that neither ducking nor disgust have spoiled mine appetite for
my breakfast. So my good friend, to the hostelrie, with all the speed
you may.--Yet, ere I accept of your hospitality, let me know by what
name to call you.”
“Men call me Maitre Pierre,” answered his companion. “I deal in
no titles. A plain man, that can live on mine own good--that is my
designation.”
“So be it, Maitre Pierre,” said Quentin, “and I am happy my good chance
has thrown us together; for I want a word of seasonable advice, and can
be thankful for it.”
While they spoke thus, the tower of the church and a tall wooden
crucifix, rising above the trees, showed that they were at the entrance
of the village.
But Maitre Pierre, deflecting a little from the road, which had now
joined an open and public causeway, said to his companion that the
inn to which he intended to introduce him stood somewhat secluded, and
received only the better sort of travellers.
“If you mean those who travel with the better filled purses,” answered
the Scot, “I am none of the number, and will rather stand my chance of
your flayers on the highway, than of your flayers in the hostelrie.”
“Pasques dieu!” said his guide, “how cautious your countrymen of
Scotland are! An Englishman, now, throws himself headlong into a tavern,
eats and drinks of the best, and never thinks of the reckoning till his
belly is full. But you forget, Master Quentin, since Quentin is your
name, you forget I owe you a breakfast for the wetting which my mistake
procured you.--It is the penance of my offence towards you.”
“In truth,” said the light hearted young man, “I had forgot wetting,
offence, and penance, and all. I have walked my clothes dry, or
nearly so, but I will not refuse your offer in kindness; for my dinner
yesterday was a light one, and supper I had none. You seem an old and
respectable burgess, and I see no reason why I should not accept your
courtesy.”
The Frenchman smiled aside, for he saw plainly that the youth, while he
was probably half famished, had yet some difficulty to reconcile himself
to the thoughts of feeding at a stranger's cost, and was endeavouring
to subdue his inward pride by the reflection, that, in such slight
obligations, the acceptor performed as complaisant a part as he by whom
the courtesy was offered.
In the meanwhile, they descended a narrow lane, overshadowed by tall
elms, at the bottom of which a gateway admitted them into the courtyard
of an inn of unusual magnitude, calculated for the accommodation of the
nobles and suitors who had business at the neighbouring Castle, where
very seldom, and only when such hospitality was altogether unavoidable,
did Louis XI permit any of his court to have apartments. A scutcheon,
bearing the fleur de lys, hung over the principal door of the large
irregular building; but there was about the yard and the offices
little or none of the bustle which in those days, when attendants were
maintained both in public and in private houses, marked that business
was alive, and custom plenty. It seemed as if the stern and unsocial
character of the royal mansion in the neighbourhood had communicated
a portion of its solemn and terrific gloom even to a place designed
according to universal custom elsewhere, for the temple of social
indulgence, merry society, and good cheer.
Maitre Pierre, without calling any one, and even without approaching
the principal entrance, lifted the latch of a side door, and led the
way into a large room, where a faggot was blazing on the hearth, and
arrangements made for a substantial breakfast.
“My gossip has been careful,” said the Frenchman to the Scot. “You must
be cold, and I have commanded a fire; you must be hungry, and you shall
have breakfast presently.”
He whistled and the landlord entered--answered Maitre Pierre's bon
jour with a reverence--but in no respect showed any part of the prating
humour properly belonging to a French publican of all ages.
“I expected a gentleman,” said Maitre Pierre, “to order breakfast--hath
he done so?”
In answer the landlord only bowed; and while he continued to bring,
and arrange upon the table, the various articles of a comfortable meal,
omitted to extol their merits by a single word. And yet the breakfast
merited such eulogiums as French hosts are wont to confer upon their
regales, as the reader will be informed in the next chapter.