happened that, the day before, Geoffrey had been sent to the Château
Beauvais, which was not far distant from Dives, to carry some rabbits
which Monsieur Jean had promised to Isabeau, the little daughter of
the count. When Geoffrey reached the château and inquired for the
little Lady Isabeau, he had been sent into the garden, and there he
found her crying as if her heart would break! Now this grieved Geoffrey
very much indeed; as he quite worshiped the gracious little girl who
used often to visit their cottage when he lived at home, and who had
sometimes gaily carried him back with her for a day’s happy romp in the
beautiful château grounds.
When he asked her the reason of her tears, she had told him between her
sobs:
“O, Geoffrey! my dear father, the count, is to fight a dreadful duel
with the wicked Count Hugo, who will surely kill him with his evil
sword! I heard nurse Marie talking with the gardener, and they say he
will surely kill him! Oh! Oh! Oh!” and here poor little Isabeau fairly
shook with the violence of her sobbing.
Geoffrey tried as best he could to comfort her, but to no avail; she
could not be induced even to look at the rabbits she had so much
wanted; so at last he was obliged to set them down quietly, and
sorrowfully take his leave, though not until he had questioned some
of the château pages for more particulars of that which the little
girl had told him. He thus learned that Count Boni had indeed been
challenged to a duel by the old Count Hugo, who lived in a castle
beyond the city of Meaux.
Now in those days, when people got into disputes about things, even
a bit of property, instead of settling the matter in courts of law
as we do, it was quite customary to fight a “judicial duel,” as it
was called; that is, the two men disputing appointed a meeting-place
where they tried to wound each other, generally with swords, and the
one who succeeded in disabling, or as sometimes happened, killing his
adversary, was adjudged the better man and the winner of his case.
This was certainly a strange and cruel way of doing, but six hundred
years ago people did many strange and cruel things. Had young Count
Boni merely engaged to fight an ordinary duel, that would have been bad
enough, though it would not perhaps have been a matter of such concern;
for the count was brave and a good swordsman,—and, ah, well! one must
expect a duel now and then.
But that which caused Isabeau, and Geoffrey, too, when he learned of
it, such grief, was that her father was to fight the Count Hugo; for
this nobleman was known to be most wicked and unscrupulous. It was his
custom to pick an unjust quarrel with some noble whose lands he coveted
and falsely claimed; then he would challenge his victim to a “judicial
duel,” which always resulted in the noble being slain, and his estates
being seized by Hugo. For no one had ever been able to stand against
the wicked count, who fought not merely to wound, but to kill, and who
had the reputation of being the most skilful and merciless swordsman
in all France. Indeed, his cruel sword had slain so many noble lords
that people declared it was bewitched; that Count Hugo, who had been
a crusader, had obtained it from the heathen Saracens, who had forged
it under some evil spell. They insisted the more on the unholy power
of this sword, as Count Hugo himself seemed to regard it with great
superstition and always preferred it to any other weapon; though,
indeed, many people even went further in their talk, and asserted also
that the count had got his unhallowed skill from some heathen wizard,
and that any sword would, in his hands, be certain to deal a fatal
thrust.
And so it was that when he chose a victim for one of his duels, it was
considered equal to a death warrant; though he always took care to make
the nobles he challenged so angry that they would not listen to reason,
and would fight him regardless of the fate of all who had crossed
swords with him before. This, too, it was whispered, was a part of his
sorcery—though perhaps really it was because the high-spirited Norman
noblemen were no cowards, and would let no one assail their honor or
seize their property if they could possibly help it.
The more Geoffrey thought of these things, and of the many kindnesses
of Count Boni, and then as he saw in memory the sweet, tear-stained
face of little Isabeau, his singing became more and more melancholy,
till at last he stopped altogether, and gave himself up to thinking. He
knew from the inn servants that the Count Hugo was expected there the
next day, and that the duel was fixed for the following morning just
outside the walls of Dives.
“Oh,” he thought, “if it only, only could in some way be prevented!”
Now Count Boni himself would have been very indignant had he known that
anybody was thinking it should be prevented; for, just as Count Hugo
had desired, he was very angry with his adversary, and had no wish to
avoid the encounter. But that could not prevent Geoffrey from wishing
it might be avoided for him.
Indeed, Geoffrey had learned many things. He had a quick intelligence,
and was very observant, and many travelers came to the inn; so he was
by no means so ignorant of affairs as many little boys of his age. He
had heard it said that the Norman nobles had long sought in vain for
some pretext to rid themselves of the wicked Hugo, who was a rich and
powerful lord and seemed to lead a life charmed against all attack, for
he had been many times openly assailed. As to his shameless dueling,
since that was then within bounds of the law, they could do nothing. So
how, thought Geoffrey sadly, how could he, a poor little peasant boy,
hope to do anything where the great nobles seemed powerless!
But, by and by, he was aroused from his reverie by Monsieur Jean, who
wished his help in the many preparations demanded of the inn folk by
the important guest of the morrow, this hateful Hugo who was coming
to kill his dear Count Boni! Ugh! had it not been bad enough to have
to catch the chicken for his soup? How he wished it might strangle
him! And how poor Geoffrey hated himself now because he was compelled
to assist in this and that arrangement for the entertainment of the
murderous nobleman and his many followers. How he wished they were all
at the bottom of the Red Sea!
But at last, after much labor, that disagreeable day wore to an end
for the little boy, though when he went to bed and tried to forget
his troubles, he dreamed all night of poor little Isabeau, and seemed
to hear her piteous sobs and to see the hot tears streaming down her
pretty pink cheeks.
Early the next morning the inn was astir, and busy with more
preparations for the expected guests. And, sure enough, just before
midday, in through the rose-covered gateway galloped four outriders,
wearing the crimson livery of Count Hugo, and insolently jingling their
bridle reins and clanking their great gilded spurs.
Shortly after their arrival the coach itself dashed into the middle of
the courtyard with a great clatter of hoofs and wheels, followed by a
long train of mounted and liveried servants, and lackeys, and pages,
and men-at-arms; for traveling in those days was none too safe without
a guard of spearmen and lancers. The coach was painted a bright yellow
and richly gilded; on the panels of its doors the count’s crest and
coat of arms were blazoned in blue and crimson; and no sooner had its
wheels stopped than the lackeys jumped from their horses and, running
to its side, flung open the doors, which they respectfully held back as
still others assisted the nobleman to alight.
Count Hugo was a heavily-built man of middle age, with cold, cruel
eyes, and mustachios of grisly gray; he was richly dressed in a green
velvet suit with crimson satin facings and ruffles of the finest lace;
his shoe buckles sparkled with diamonds. Geoffrey, who from a quiet
corner was watching everything, involuntarily clenched his fists as he
saw the evil-omened sword, encased in an elaborately-wrought scabbard,
poking hatefully out from under the tail of the count’s beautiful
velvet coat.
As Hugo, followed by his retinue, crossed the courtyard, there was a
great bowing and scraping from Monsieur Jean and all the inn servants;
the peacocks spread their gorgeous tails and screamed at the tops of
their voices; the pigeons puffed and pouted and strutted about; the
cockatoo shrieked loudly and flourished his silver spoon; and the
rabbits ran away with their ears flat to their heads with fright, and
hid under the cabbage leaves in the garden until the commotion of the
count’s arrival had somewhat subsided.
But at last the great man had been ushered into his rooms, where he had
breakfasted on the most elaborate products of the cooks’ skill; while
on the spits in the great inn kitchen huge haunches of venison and
beef were turning and browning in front of the blazing fire, and the
white-capped and aproned scullions were running about with big ladles
and spoons in their hands making ready the dinner for the large company
of guests.
Geoffrey had, at their bidding, done many errands, and last of all had
brought up from the garden a great basket of vegetables. He had wished,
as he tragically jerked them out of the ground and brandished them in
the air, that each separate carrot, leek and radish might stick in
Count Hugo’s wicked throat, and stay there forever! Now at length tired
out, he sat down to rest on his bench under the plane-tree.
As he sat there, presently through the arched gateway there entered
a man dressed in a frayed waistcoat of ragged satin, knee breeches
of blue plush much the worse for wear, and leather leggings from
which half the buckles were gone. Slung around his neck by a gay
green ribbon hung a viol, and in one hand he grasped a slender little
chain that held in leash a small monkey wearing a tiny red cap. This
motley figure was one of the strolling jongleurs, half juggler,
half troubadour, who flourished at that time in all parts of France,
and managed to eke out a living from the pranks of their monkeys and
the practice of the “gay science,” as it was called; that is, by the
singing of songs which they themselves usually made up and set to music.
As this particular jongleur entered the courtyard, he spied Geoffrey,
and strolling over to the bench amiably seated himself beside the boy
with a friendly “Good morrow, my lad!”
“Good morrow, sir,” answered Geoffrey, rather absently.
The jongleur then caught sight of the coach drawn up by the inn wall.
“Ah,” he said, “small wonder none came forth to welcome us. Other
guests are ahead of me, I perceive.” And, as the monkey climbed upon
his knee, he added: “Had thou and I fared hither in yonder yellow cart,
Pippo, we should have had the whole inn at our feet. And monsieur, the
landlord, would have been down on his knees humbly beseeching to know
when my Lord Pippo would be pleased to dine! Hey! Pippo! is’t not true?”
But Pippo, paying no attention to him, began mischievously to finger
the strings of the viol with his little brown claws, and the jongleur,
with a gay laugh, turning to Geoffrey, inquired:
“To whom does yonder gaud belong?”
“It is the coach of Count Hugo,” said Geoffrey; “he came to-day, and
is to fight a duel with Count Boni, of Château Beauvias, to-morrow
morning.”
“So!” said the jongleur with a short whistle; “well, then, their
countships had better let no grass grow under their noble feet, for the
king hath but just issued an edict forbidding all such dueling from now
on, henceforth and forever.”
“What, sir?” said Geoffrey, suddenly rousing up excitedly; “what is
that thou sayest?”
“Well, well, little man! thou seemest to take this matter somewhat to
heart! I was merely mentioning the new edict of our blessed King Louis
Ninth, God save his soul, which forbids dueling! It seems our sovereign
lord hath grown weary of the foolish practice whereby he hath lost so
many noble subjects, and moreover, being a wise monarch, hath become
convinced that all disputes should be settled in the courts of law,
which he hath been studying much since his return from Constantinople,
where the law is held in high esteem—in short, he will have no more
‘judicial duels’; and yesterday when I and Pippo were in Rouen, we
heard the king’s heralds as they solemnly proclaimed the new edict to
the people.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Geoffrey delightedly, “thank the blessed saints, then,
the duel can not be fought to-morrow!”
“Hold, hold,” said the jongleur, “not so fast, my lad—”
“Nay,” cried Geoffrey, “but how dare they when the king forbids?” and,
dragging the jongleur up by the hand, he added: “Come with me now and
we will seek the wicked Count Hugo, and tell him the news! Come!”
“Nay, nay,” the jongleur replied, “not I!”
“Why, is it not true?” demanded Geoffrey.
“True as gospel,” said the jongleur, “but thou art but a child; dost
thou fancy two noble lords, bent on the sword play, would for one
moment be stayed by the word of a poor strolling jongleur? Nay, I
should but receive a drubbing for my pains if I sought to inform that
cruel Hugo. I prefer, thank you, to keep my bones whole; especially
as I could do no good. Moreover, let them spit each other, if they so
desire! I do not care, youngster, how many duels they fight!”
But when he looked down and saw the grief in Geoffrey’s eyes, he
softened, and added: “But since thou seemest to care so much, little
one, I would risk the drubbing, by my faith, I would! if ’twere to any
purpose. But I am older than thou, and somewhat a man of the world,”
here the jongleur straightened himself up; “and I swear to thee,
’twould work naught but mischief were I to seek out yonder count and
strive to prevent his encounter to-morrow. He would simply be angered,
and would not believe me, or would pretend not to, because he does not
wish to be stopped till he hath killed this Count Boni you tell me
of, and got his lands. Naught but the king’s heralds themselves could
hinder that affair.” And then, as he meditated, he added: “’Tis a
monstrous pity, though! When didst thou say they fight, little one? In
the morning? A monstrous pity! For the heralds will no doubt arrive in
Dives to-morrow afternoon; they were to come hither on leaving Rouen.
Thou knowest they must proclaim the edict through all the cities of the
realm!”
Six hundred years ago printing and newspapers and the telegraph were
unknown; and so when a war was to be undertaken, or peace settled
upon, or a new law made, the king sent his heralds about through all
his dominions, and they made proclamation to the people, with a great
flourish of trumpets and much quaint ceremony.
But here Pippo became engaged in a squabble with a fat peacock, and the
jongleur rising, separated them, and then strolled off toward the inn
kitchen; for he had journeyed far, and the savory smells wafted out
into the courtyard suddenly reminded him that he was very hungry.
Geoffrey, thus left alone, fell to thinking, and he thought and thought
as never before in all his life. So the heralds were on their way to
Dives, if what the jongleur told was true, and he believed it was; and
the jongleur had said, moreover, that these heralds could stop even the
wicked Hugo from carrying out his designs. Geoffrey felt that this was
true also, for he knew that not even noblemen dared openly defy the
king. And then he reasoned, perhaps more wisely than he knew, that
Hugo stirred up and fought these “judicial duels” merely to increase
his property and not to satisfy his personal honor; and that if nothing
were to be gained, Hugo would surely not fight. The king had forbidden
his subjects to acquire property that way; the great thing, therefore,
was to prevent the encounter in the morning, so that the heralds might
have time to come to Dives and make their proclamation, which would
certainly put an end to the whole affair. But how, how could he,
Geoffrey, do this?
At last, however, an idea occurred to him that made his eyes brighten
and his cheeks flush. If he could only get hold of that bewitched
Saracen sword of Count Hugo’s, and hide it, why, probably, as the count
was known superstitiously to prefer it to any other weapon, he might be
delayed hunting for it till the heralds came.
As Geoffrey thought over this plan, he reflected that if he got
possession of the sword it must be that night, as the count wore it
constantly all day long; and though he felt like a highwayman and a
robber even to plan it, for he was an honest little lad, yet he said to
himself there was no other way to save Isabeau’s father.
And so, full of his project, as a preliminary, he got up and sauntered
past that part of the inn where he knew was the count’s sleeping
chamber, and noticed that it had one window opening upon one of the
little wooden galleries which was approached from the outside by a
winding stair. The window was barred with heavy wooden rounds; but as
Geoffrey measured with his eye the distance between these bars, he felt
sure that if he made himself as flat as possible, he could squeeze in
through them. It would not be so easy to get the sword out, but perhaps
he could manage it somehow; he _must_ manage it!
Having thus made up his mind as to what he would do, Geoffrey passed
the rest of the afternoon and evening in a fever of impatience. After
supper was over he hid himself in the garden behind a rose bush, and as
he watched the inn it seemed as if the last of the clatter would never
die away, and people would never settle down and go to sleep! But at
length—after weeks, it seemed to Geoffrey—the last candle flickered
out and the inn became quiet.
He waited, however, an hour or two longer, knowing the habit of the
maids to lie awake and gossip in the dark. But when he heard the Dives
watchman passing the inn gateway and calling out, “Midnight! and all’s
well!” he crept out, and keeping close in the shadow of the wall,
reached the stairway to the gallery by the count’s sleeping room.
The moon had risen and might have betrayed him as he mounted it, but
fortunately the stair was overhung by vines. He made his way along the
gallery to the count’s window. There was no glass in it, and, as it was
summer time, the heavy wooden shutter that guarded it was wide open,
the bars seeming quite enough protection from ordinary intruders. But
they could not keep out this little boy, who drew in his breath and
made his little stomach as flat as possible as he cautiously wriggled
in between them. At last he stood on tiptoe in the count’s chamber.
As he gazed about, here and there the moonlight touched some object of
its quaint furnishings, and although Geoffrey, on the inn errands, had
been in the room before, everything now looked strange and unfamiliar
to his wide-open, excited eyes. To his dismay he had not considered
how he should find the sword; but as he stood wondering and groping
about in the dim light, a beam of moonlight fell at the foot of the
high-posted, carved and canopied bed where the count lay asleep, and
showed the scabbard with the sword in it, hanging by its chased metal
hook to a projecting ornament in the heavy carving of the bed. Geoffrey
tiptoed over toward it, all the while listening, with his heart in his
mouth, to the count’s breathing. He seemed to be sound asleep, for
now and then he gave a little snore; but, as with trembling fingers
Geoffrey took down the sword, its tip end struck lightly against a tall
chest of drawers near by, and the count started slightly. Geoffrey
crouched down hopelessly in the shadow of a chair, expecting the count
to pounce upon him at any moment.
But in a few minutes Hugo’s regular breathing told that he was again
deep asleep.
Geoffrey then hastened to make his way back to the window, though he
found the sword in its heavy scabbard rather an awkward burden for a
little boy, and it became still more awkward as he prepared to climb
between the bars. He first thought he would take the sword out of its
sheath; but then how could he drop it to the gallery below without
making a noise? He could not climb out with it in his arms. So, on
second thought, he decided to leave it in the scabbard, whose metal
hook he saw might be useful; then lifting this, which took all his
strength, he carefully thrust it outside between the bars, on one of
which he hung the hook, thus keeping both sword and sheath from falling.
He next turned his attention to getting himself out, and climbing up,
and squeezing and squirming, legs first, at last managed once more to
stand outside on the gallery floor. But it had happened that just as he
was making the last twist through the bars, his foot had accidentally
touched the scabbard, hanging from the window, and it clanked against
the wall. This time the sound seemed to penetrate the ears of the
sleeping Count Hugo, for he started up in earnest, though not entirely
awake; he drowsily arose, however, and crossed over to the window.
Geoffrey, meantime, hearing him coming, drew back into the shadow,
tightly clutching the sword, and was hidden by the curtain of vines.
As the count peered through the bars, he caught sight of the cockatoo,
whose perch was in one of the gable windows near by. Now, as good luck
had it, the cockatoo also had been half aroused from his sleep, and
giving a faint screech, began to shift uneasily in his dreams, from one
leg to the other, his chain clanking against his perch as he did so.
Count Hugo hearing him, at once supposed the cockatoo responsible for
that other clanking sound which had aroused him; he swore a round oath,
and turned from the window, muttering to himself, “A plague on that
jabbering popinjay! What with their everlasting peacocks and monkeys,
and heaven only knows what, a man can not get a wink of sleep in this
accursed tavern!” He then went back to bed and, angrily flinging
himself down, was soon snoring soundly.
After a while, Geoffrey, outside on the gallery, began creeping
cautiously along, and at last managing to get down the stairway, stood
hesitating a moment at its foot; for he had not fully decided what to
do with the sword, now that he had it. He wished as soon as possible to
be rid of the wicked thing; for everybody was superstitious in those
days, and he felt that some fearful evil threatened him so long as he
had hold of the fatal weapon. He would really have very much liked to
take it out and throw it in the river Dives, so it could never kill
any one else; but as he remembered that to do this he would have to
climb over the high wall of the courtyard, for the gate was locked and
the portcullis down, and that then he would have to run the risk of
meeting the town watchman, he concluded the chances for being caught
were too many, and that he must hide the sword elsewhere. Moreover, he
thought that to drop it in the river would be too much like stealing,
anyway, which he did not wish to be guilty of; he merely wished to keep
the count from finding the sword until the heralds came, when he was
willing to restore it.
So quickly making up his mind, he sped down into the garden, where he
carefully hid it, scabbard and all, under a thick tangle of vines and
shrubbery which grew in a secluded corner where the inn people seldom
went. This done, he made his way back to his own little chamber under
one of the gables, and crept into bed, although he was so excited with
his night’s doings that he could not go to sleep.
The next day, as was his custom, Count Hugo lay abed till the sun was
well up, for the duel was not to take place until beyond the middle of
the morning. When at last he arose, and his serving men came in to wait
on him as he made his toilet, they adjusted all his ruffles and laces
with the greatest nicety, freshly curled his wig, tied up his queue
with a crimson ribbon, and smoothed out his velvets and satins; then
everything being ready, they looked about for the sword, without which
Hugo never budged an inch. But when they turned to where he told them
he had left it the night before, to their great consternation, it was
not there! When they timidly ventured to tell the count that he must
have put it somewhere else, Hugo, who was busy arranging a heavy gold
chain about his lace collar, curtly replied, without turning his head:
“Ye blind moles of the earth! I tell you it _is_ there!”