Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your captive:
Deal with me what your nobleness suggests--
Thinking the chance of war may one day place you
Where I must now be reckon'd--I' the roll
Of melancholy prisoners.
ANONYMOUS
The skirmish betwixt the Schwarzreiters and the Burgundian men at arms
lasted scarcely five minutes, so soon were the former put to the rout by
the superiority of the latter in armour, weight of horse, and military
spirit. In less than the space we have mentioned, the Count of
Crevecoeur, wiping his bloody sword upon his horse's mane ere he
sheathed it, came back to the verge of the forest, where Isabelle had
remained a spectator of the combat. One part of his people followed him,
while the other continued to pursue the flying enemy for a little space
along the causeway.
“It is shame,” said the Count, “that the weapons of knights and
gentlemen should be soiled by the blood of those brutal swine.”
So saying, he returned his weapon to the sheath and added, “This is a
rough welcome to your home, my pretty cousin, but wandering princesses
must expect such adventures. And well I came up in time, for, let me
assure you, the Black Troopers respect a countess's coronet as little
as a country wench's coif, and I think your retinue is not qualified for
much resistance.”
“My Lord Count,” said the Lady Isabelle, “without farther preface, let
me know if I am a prisoner, and where you are to conduct me.”
“You know, you silly child,” answered the Count, “how I would answer
that question, did it rest on my own will. But you, and your foolish
match making, marriage hunting aunt, have made such wild use of your
wings of late, that I fear you must be contented to fold them up in a
cage for a little while. For my part, my duty, and it is a sad one, will
be ended when I have conducted you to the Court of the Duke, at Peronne
for which purpose I hold it necessary to deliver the command of this
reconnoitring party to my nephew, Count Stephen, while I return with you
thither, as I think you may need an intercessor.--And I hope the young
giddy pate will discharge his duty wisely.”
“So please you, fair uncle,” said Count Stephen, “if you doubt my
capacity to conduct the men at arms, even remain with them yourself, and
I will be the servant and guard of the Countess Isabelle of Croye.”
“No doubt, fair nephew,” answered his uncle, “this were a goodly
improvement on my scheme, but methinks I like it as well in the way I
planned it. Please you, therefore, to take notice, that your business
here is not to hunt after and stick these black hogs, for which you
seemed but now to have felt an especial vocation, but to collect and
bring to me true tidings of what is going forward in the country of
Liege, concerning which we hear such wild rumours. Let some half score
of lances follow me and the rest remain with my banner under your
guidance.”
“Yet one moment, cousin of Crevecoeur,” said the Countess Isabelle, “and
let me, in yielding myself prisoner, stipulate at least for the safety
of those who have befriended me in my misfortunes. Permit this good
fellow, my trusty guide, to go back unharmed to his native town of
Liege.”
“My nephew,” said Crevecoeur, after looking sharply at Glover's honest
breadth of countenance, “shall guard this good fellow, who seems,
indeed, to have little harm in him, as far into the territory as he
himself advances, and then leave him at liberty.”
“Fail not to remember me to the kind Gertrude,” said the Countess to her
guide, and added, taking a string of pearls from under her veil, “Pray
her to wear this in remembrance of her unhappy friend.”
Honest Glover took the string of pearls, and kissed with clownish
gesture, but with sincere kindness, the fair hand which had found such a
delicate mode of remunerating his own labours and peril.
“Umph! signs and tokens,” said the Count, “any farther bequests to make,
my fair cousin?--It is time we were on our way.”
“Only,” said the Countess, making an effort to speak, “that you will be
pleased to be favourable to this--this young gentleman.”
“Umph!” said Crevecoeur, casting the same penetrating glance on Quentin
which he had bestowed on Glover, but apparently with a much less
satisfactory result, and mimicking, though not offensively, the
embarrassment of the Countess.
“Umph!--Ay--this is a blade of another temper.--And pray, my cousin,
what has this--this very young gentleman done, to deserve such
intercession at your hands?”
“He has saved my life and honour,” said the Countess, reddening with
shame and resentment.
Quentin also blushed with indignation, but wisely concluded that to give
vent to it might only make matters worse.
“Life and honour?--Umph!” said again the Count Crevecoeur, “methinks it
would have been as well, my cousin, if you had not put yourself in the
way of lying under such obligations to this very young gentleman.--But
let it pass. The young gentleman may wait on us, if his quality permit,
and I will see he has no injury--only I will myself take in future the
office of protecting your life and honour, and may perhaps find for him
some fitter duty than that of being a squire of the body to damosels
errant.”
“My Lord Count,” said Durward, unable to keep silence any longer,
“lest you should talk of a stranger in slighter terms than you might
afterwards think becoming, I take leave to tell you, that I am Quentin
Durward, an Archer of the Scottish Bodyguard, in which, as you well
know, none but gentlemen and men of honour are enrolled.”
“I thank you for your information, and I kiss your hands, Seignior
Archer,” said Crevecoeur, in the same tone of raillery. “Have the
goodness to ride with me to the front of the party.”
As Quentin moved onward at the command of the Count, who had now the
power, if not the right, to dictate his motions, he observed that the
Lady Isabelle followed his motions with a look of anxious and timid
interest, which amounted almost to tenderness, and the sight of which
brought water into his eyes. But he remembered that he had a man's part
to sustain before Crevecoeur, who, perhaps of all the chivalry in France
or Burgundy, was the least likely to be moved to anything but laughter
by a tale of true love sorrow. He determined, therefore, not to wait
his addressing him, but to open the conversation in a tone which should
assert his claim to fair treatment, and to more respect than the Count,
offended perhaps at finding a person of such inferior note placed so
near the confidence of his high born and wealthy cousin, seemed disposed
to entertain for him.
“My Lord Count of Crevecoeur,” he said, in a temperate but firm tone of
voice, “may I request of you, before our interview goes farther, to tell
me if I am at liberty, or am to account myself your prisoner?”
“A shrewd question,” replied the Count, “which at present I can only
answer by another.--Are France and Burgundy, think you, at peace or war
with each other?”
“That,” replied the Scot, “you, my lord, should certainly know better
than I. I have been absent from the Court of France, and have heard no
news for some time.”
“Look you there,” said the Count, “you see how easy it is to ask
questions, but how difficult to answer them. Why, I myself, who have
been at Peronne with the Duke for this week and better, cannot resolve
this riddle any more than you, and yet, Sir Squire, upon the solution of
that question depends the said point, whether you are prisoner or free
man, and, for the present, I must hold you as the former.--Only, if you
have really and honestly been of service to my kinswoman, and for you
are candid in your answers to the questions I shall ask, affairs shall
stand the better with you.”
“The Countess of Croye,” said Quentin, “is best judge if I have rendered
any service, and to her I refer you on that matter. My answers you will
yourself judge of when you ask me your questions.”
“Umph!--haughty enough,” muttered the Count of Crevecoeur, “and very
like one that wears a lady's favour in his hat, and thinks he must carry
things with a high tone, to honour the precious remnant of silk and
tinsel. Well, sir, I trust it will be no abatement of your dignity,
if you answer me, how long you have been about the person of the Lady
Isabelle of Croye?”
“Count of Crevecoeur,” said Quentin Durward, “if I answer questions
which are asked in a tone approaching towards insult, it is only lest
injurious inferences should be drawn from my silence respecting one to
whom we are both obliged to render justice. I have acted as escort to
the Lady Isabelle since she left France to retire into Flanders.”
“Ho! ho!” said the Count, “and that is to say, since she fled from
Plessis les Tours?--You, an Archer of the Scottish Guard, accompanied
her, of course, by the express orders of King Louis?”
However little Quentin thought himself indebted to the King of France,
who, in contriving the surprisal of the Countess Isabelle by William de
la Marck, had probably calculated on the young Scotchman's being slain
in her defence, he did not yet conceive himself at liberty to betray
any trust which Louis had reposed, or had seemed to repose, in him, and
therefore replied to Count Crevecoeur's inference that it was sufficient
for him to have the authority of his superior officer for what he had
done, and he inquired no farther.
“It is quite sufficient,” said the Count. “We know the King does not
permit his officers to send the Archers of his Guard to prance like
paladins by the bridle rein of wandering ladies, unless he hath some
politic purpose to serve. It will be difficult for King Louis to
continue to aver so boldly that he knew' not of the Ladies of Croye's
having escaped from France, since they were escorted by one of his own
Life guard.--And whither, Sir Archer, was your retreat directed?”
“To Liege, my lord,” answered the Scot, “where the ladies desired to be
placed under the protection of the late Bishop.”
“The late Bishop!” exclaimed the Count of Crevecoeur, “is Louis of
Bourbon dead?--Not a word of his illness had reached the Duke.--Of what
did he die?”
“He sleeps in a bloody grave, my lord--that is, if his murderers have
conferred one on his remains.”
“Murdered!” exclaimed Crevecoeur again.--“Holy Mother of Heaven!--young
man, it is impossible!”
“I saw the deed done with my own eyes, and many an act of horror
besides.”
“Saw it! and made not in to help the good Prelate!” exclaimed the Count,
“or to raise the castle against his murderers?--Know'st thou not
that even to look on such a deed, without resisting it, is profane
sacrilege?”
“To be brief, my lord,” said Durward, “ere this act was done, the castle
was stormed by the bloodthirsty William de la Marck, with help of the
insurgent Liegeois.”
“I am struck with thunder,” said Crevecoeur. “Liege in
insurrection!--Schonwaldt taken!--the Bishop murdered--Messenger of
sorrow, never did one man unfold such a packet of woes!--Speak--knew you
of this assault--of this insurrection--of this murder?--Speak--thou art
one of Louis's trusted Archers, and it is he that has aimed this painful
arrow.--Speak, or I will have thee torn with wild horses!”
“And if I am so torn, my lord, there can be nothing rent out of me,
that may not become a true Scottish gentleman: I know no more of these
villainies than you--was so far from being partaker in them, that I
would have withstood them to the uttermost, had my means in a twentieth
degree equalled my inclination. But what could I do?--they were
hundreds, and I but one. My only care was to rescue the Countess
Isabelle, and in that I was happily successful. Yet, had I been near
enough when the ruffian deed was so cruelly done on the old man, I
had saved his gray hairs, or I had avenged them, and as it was, my
abhorrence was spoken loud enough to prevent other horrors.”
“I believe thee, youth,” said the Count, “thou art neither of an age nor
nature to be trusted with such bloody work, however well fitted to be
the squire of dames. But alas! for the kind and generous Prelate, to be
murdered on the hearth where he so often entertained the stranger with
Christian charity and princely bounty--and that by a wretch, a monster!
a portentous growth of blood and cruelty!--bred up in the very hall
where he has imbrued his hands in his benefactor's blood! But I know not
Charles of Burgundy--nay, I should doubt of the justice of Heaven, if
vengeance be not as sharp, and sudden, and severe, as this villainy
has been unexampled in atrocity. And, if no other shall pursue the
murderer”--here he paused, grasped his sword, then quitting his bridle,
struck both gauntleted hands upon his breast, until his corselet
clattered, and finally held them up to heaven, as he solemnly
continued,--“I--I, Philip Crevecoeur of Cordes, make a vow to God, Saint
Lambert, and the Three Kings of Cologne, that small shall be my thought
of other earthly concerns, till I take full revenge on the murderers of
the good Louis of Bourbon, whether I find them in forest or field, in
city or in country, in hill or in plain, in King's Court or in God's
Church! and thereto I pledge hands and living, friends and followers,
life and honour. So help me God, and Saint Lambert of Liege, and the
Three Kings of Cologne!”
When the Count of Crevecoeur had made his vow, his mind seemed in some
sort relieved from the overwhelming grief and astonishment with which
he had heard the fatal tragedy that had been acted at Schonwaldt, and he
proceeded to question Durward more minutely concerning the particulars
of that disastrous affair, which the Scot, nowise desirous to abate
the spirit of revenge which the Count entertained against William de la
Marck, gave him at full length.
“But those blind, unsteady, faithless, fickle beasts, the Liegeois,”
said the Count, “that they should have combined themselves with this
inexorable robber and murderer, to put to death their lawful Prince!”
Durward here informed the enraged Burgundian that the Liegeois, or at
least the better class of them, however rashly they had run into the
rebellion against their Bishop, had no design, so far as appeared to
him, to aid in the execrable deed of De la Marck but, on the contrary,
would have prevented it if they had had the means, and were struck with
horror when they beheld it.
“Speak not of the faithless, inconstant plebeian rabble!” said
Crevecoeur. “When they took arms against a Prince who had no fault, save
that he was too kind and too good a master for such a set of ungrateful
slaves--when they armed against him, and broke into his peaceful house,
what could there be in their intention but murder?--when they banded
themselves with the Wild Boar of Ardennes, the greatest homicide in
the marches of Flanders, what else could there be in their purpose but
murder, which is the very trade he lives by? And again, was it not one
of their own vile rabble who did the very deed, by thine own account?
I hope to see their canals running blood by the flight of their
burning houses. Oh, the kind, noble, generous lord, whom they have
slaughtered!--Other vassals have rebelled under the pressure of imposts
and penury but the men of Liege in the fullness of insolence and
plenty.”
He again abandoned the reins of his war horse, and wrung bitterly the
hands, which his mail gloves rendered untractable. Quentin easily
saw that the grief which he manifested was augmented by the bitter
recollection of past intercourse and friendship with the sufferer, and
was silent accordingly, respecting feelings which he was unwilling to
aggravate, and at the same time felt it impossible to soothe. But the
Count of Crevecoeur returned again and again to the subject--questioned
him on every particular of the surprise of Schonwaldt, and the death of
the Bishop, and then suddenly, as if he had recollected something which
had escaped his memory, demanded what had become of the Lady Hameline,
and why she was not with her kinswoman?
“Not,” he added contemptuously, “that I consider her absence as at all a
loss to the Countess Isabelle, for, although she was her kinswoman,
and upon the whole a well meaning woman, yet the Court of Cocagne never
produced such a fantastic fool, and I hold it for certain that her
niece, whom I have always observed to be a modest and orderly young
lady, was led into the absurd frolic of flying from Burgundy to France,
by that blundering, romantic old match making and match seeking idiot!”
[Court of Cocagne: a fabled land intended to ridicule the stories of
Avalon, the apple green island, the home of King Arthur. “Its houses
were built of good things to eat: roast geese went slowly down the
street, turning themselves, and inviting the passersby to eat them;
buttered larks fell in profusion; the shingles of the houses were of
cake.” Cent. Dict. Cocagne has also been called Lubberland.]
What a speech for a romantic lover to hear! and to hear, too, when it
would have been ridiculous in him to attempt what it was impossible for
him to achieve--namely, to convince the Count, by force of arms, that he
did foul wrong to the Countess--the peerless in sense as in beauty--in
terming her a modest and orderly young woman, qualities which might have
been predicated with propriety of the daughter of a sunburnt peasant,
who lived by goading the oxen, while her father held the plough. And
then, to suppose her under the domination and supreme guidance of a
silly and romantic aunt!--The slander should have been repelled down
the slanderer's throat. But the open, though severe, physiognomy of the
Count of Crevecoeur, the total contempt which he seemed to entertain for
those feelings which were uppermost in Quentin's bosom, overawed him,
not for fear of the Count's fame in arms, that was a risk which would
have increased his desire of making out a challenge--but in dread of
ridicule, the weapon of all others most feared by enthusiasts of every
description, and which, from its predominance over such minds, often
checks what is absurd, and fully as often smothers that which is noble.
Under the influence of this fear of becoming an object of scorn rather
than resentment, Durward, though with some pain, confined his reply to
a confused account of the Lady Hameline's having made her escape from
Schonwaldt before the attack took place. He could not, indeed, have made
his story very distinct, without throwing ridicule on the near relation
of Isabelle and perhaps incurring some himself, as having been the
object of her preposterous expectations. He added to his embarrassed
detail, that he had heard a report, though a vague one, of the Lady
Hameline's having again fallen into the hands of William de la Marck.
“I trust in Saint Lambert that he will marry her,” said Crevecoeur, “as
indeed, he is likely enough to do, for the sake of her moneybags, and
equally likely to knock her on the head, so soon as these are either
secured in his own grasp, or, at farthest, emptied.”
The Count then proceeded to ask so many questions concerning the mode in
which both ladies had conducted themselves on the journey, the degree
of intimacy to which they admitted Quentin himself, and other trying
particulars, that, vexed, and ashamed, and angry, the youth was scarce
able to conceal his embarrassment from the keen sighted soldier and
courtier, who seemed suddenly disposed to take leave of him, saying,
at the same time, “Umph--I see it is as I conjectured, on one side at
least, I trust the other party has kept her senses better.--Come, Sir
Squire, spur on, and keep the van, while I fall back to discourse with
the Lady Isabelle. I think I have learned now so much from you, that I
can talk to her of these sad passages without hurting her nicety, though
I have fretted yours a little.--Yet stay, young gallant--one word ere
you go. You have had, I imagine, a happy journey through Fairyland--all
full of heroic adventure, and high hope, and wild minstrel-like
delusion, like the gardens of Morgaine la Fee [half-sister of Arthur.
Her gardens abounded in all good things; music filled the air, and the
inhabitants enjoyed perpetual youth]. Forget it all, young soldier,” he
added, tapping him on the shoulder, “remember yonder lady only as the
honoured Countess of Croye--forget her as a wandering and adventurous
damsel. And her friends--one of them I can answer for--will remember,
on their part, only the services you have done her, and forget the
unreasonable reward which you have had the boldness to propose to
yourself.”
Enraged that he had been unable to conceal from the sharp sighted
Crevecoeur feelings which the Count seemed to consider as the object of
ridicule, Quentin replied indignantly, “My Lord Count, when I require
advice of you, I will ask it, when I demand assistance of you, it will
be time enough to grant or refuse it, when I set peculiar value on your
opinion of me, it will not be too late to express it.”
“Heyday!” said the Count, “I have come between Amadis and Oriana, and
must expect a challenge to the lists!”
[Amadis is the hero of a famous mediaeval romance originally written in
Portuguese, but translated into French and much enlarged by subsequent
romancers. Amadis is represented as a model of chivalry. His lady was
Oriana.]
“You speak as if that were an impossibility,” said Quentin. “When I
broke a lance with the Duke of Orleans, it was against a head in which
flowed better blood than that of Crevecoeur.--When I measured swords
with Dunois, I engaged a better warrior.”
“Now Heaven nourish thy judgment, gentle youth,” said Crevecoeur, still
laughing at the chivalrous inamorato. “If thou speak'st truth, thou hast
had singular luck in this world, and, truly, if it be the pleasure of
Providence exposes thee to such trials, without a beard on thy lip, thou
wilt be mad with vanity ere thou writest thyself man. Thou canst not
move me to anger, though thou mayst to mirth. Believe me, though thou
mayst have fought with Princes, and played the champion for Countesses,
by some of those freaks which Fortune will sometimes exhibit, thou art
by no means the equal of those of whom thou hast been either the casual
opponent, or more casual companion. I can allow thee like a youth, who
hath listened to romances till he fancied himself a Paladin, to form
pretty dreams for some time, but thou must not be angry at a well
meaning friend, though he shake thee something roughly by the shoulders
to awake thee.”
“My Lord of Crevecoeur,” said Quentin, “my family--”
“Nay, it was not utterly of family that I spoke,” said the Count, “but
of rank, fortune, high station, and so forth, which place a distance
between various degrees and classes of persons. As for birth, all men
are descended from Adam and Eve.”
“My Lord Count,” repeated Quentin, “my ancestors, the Durwards of Glen
Houlakin--”
“Nay,” said the Count, “if you claim a farther descent for them than
from Adam, I have done! Good even to you.”
He reined back his horse, and paused to join the Countess, to whom, if
possible, his insinuations and advices, however well meant, were still
more disagreeable than to Quentin, who, as he rode on, muttered to
himself, “Cold blooded, insolent, overweening coxcomb!--Would that the
next Scottish Archer who has his harquebuss pointed at thee, may not let
thee off so easily as I did!”
In the evening they reached the town of Charleroi, on the Sambre, where
the Count of Crevecoeur had determined to leave the Countess Isabelle,
whom the terror and fatigue of yesterday, joined to a flight of fifty
miles since morning, and the various distressing sensations by which it
was accompanied, had made incapable of travelling farther with safety to
her health. The Count consigned her, in a state of great exhaustion, to
the care of the Abbess of the Cistercian convent in Charleroi, a noble
lady, to whom both the families of Crevecoeur and Croye were related,
and in whose prudence and kindness he could repose confidence.
Crevecoeur himself only stopped to recommend the utmost caution to the
governor of a small Burgundian garrison who occupied the place, and
required him also to mount a guard of honour upon the convent during the
residence of the Countess Isabelle of Croye--ostensibly to secure her
safety, but perhaps secretly to prevent her attempting to escape. The
Count only assigned as a cause for the garrison's being vigilant, some
vague rumours which he had heard of disturbances in the Bishopric of
Liege. But he was determined himself to be the first who should carry
the formidable news of the insurrection and the murder of the Bishop,
in all their horrible reality, to Duke Charles, and for that purpose,
having procured fresh horses for himself and suite, he mounted with the
resolution of continuing his journey to Peronne without stopping for
repose, and, informing Quentin Durward that he must attend him, he made,
at the same time, a mock apology for parting fair company, but hoped
that to so devoted a squire of dames a night's journey by moonshine
would be more agreeable than supinely to yield himself to slumber like
an ordinary mortal.
Quentin, already sufficiently afflicted by finding that he was to be
parted from Isabelle, longed to answer this taunt with an indignant
defiance, but aware that the Count would only laugh at his anger, and
despise his challenge, he resolved to wait some future time, when he
might have an opportunity of obtaining some amends from this proud lord,
who, though for very different reasons, had become nearly as odious
to him as the Wild Boar of Ardennes himself. He therefore assented to
Crevecoeur's proposal, as to what he had no choice of declining, and
they pursued in company, and with all the despatch they could exert, the
road between Charleroi and Peronne.