Lord Pembroke was silent. He knew John profoundly, and he had never seen promises steadily kept, which had been so easily obtained.
CHAPTER X.
"Now, good dame, the reckoning," cried Jodelle, as soon as King John was gone.
"Good dame not me!" cried the hostess, forgetting, in her indignation at having been put out of her own kitchen, and kept for half an hour in the street amid soldiers and horseboys, all her habitual and universal civility. It might be shown by a learned dissertation, that there are particular points of pride in every human heart, of so inflammable a nature, that though we may bear insult and injury, attack and affront, upon every other subject, with the most forbearing consideration of our self-interest, yet but touch one of those points with the very tip of the brand of scorn, and the whole place is in a blaze in a moment, at the risk of burning the house down. But time is wanting; therefore, suffice it to say, that the landlady, who could bear, and had in her day borne all that woman can bear, was so indignant at being put from her own door--that strong hold of an innkeeper's heart, where he sees thousands arrive and depart without stirring a foot himself--that she vituperated the worthy Brabançois thereupon, somewhat more than his patience would endure.
"Come, come, old woman!" cried he, "an' thou will not name thy reckoning, no reckoning shalt thou have. I am not one of those who often pay either for man's food or horse provender, so I shall take my beast from the stall and set out."
"Nay, nay!" she said, more fearful of Jodelle discovering the page's horse still in the stable, than even of losing her reckoning--"nay! it should not be said that any one, however uncivil, was obliged to fetch his own horse. She had a boy for her stable, God wot!--Ho! boy!" she continued, screaming from the door, "bring up the bay horse for the gentleman. Quick!--As to the reckoning, sir, it comes only to a matter of six sous."
The reckoning was paid, and before Jodelle could reach the stable to which he was proceeding, notwithstanding the landlady's remonstrance, his horse was brought up, whereupon he mounted, and set off at full speed.
The moment the clatter of his horse's feet had passed away, the pile of fagots and brushwood rolled into the middle of the floor, and the half-suffocated page sprang out of his place of concealment. His face and hands were scratched and torn, and his dress was soiled to that degree, that the old lady could not refrain from laughing, till she saw the deadly paleness of his countenance.
"Get me a stoup of wine, good dame--get me a stoup of wine--I am faint and sad--get me some wine!" cried the youth. "Alack! that I, and no other, should have heard what I have heard!"
The old lady turned away to obey, and the page, casting himself on a settle before the fire, pressed his clasped hands between his knees, and sat gazing on the embers, with a bewildered and horrified stare, in which both fear and uncertainty had no small part.
"Good God! what shall I do?" cried he at length. "If I go back to Sir Guy, and tell him that, though he ordered me to make all speed to the Count d'Auvergne, I turned out of my way to see Eleanor, because the pedlar told me she was at La Flêche, he will surely cleave my skull with his battle-axe for neglecting the duty on which he sent me." And an aguish trembling seized the poor youth, as he thought of presenting himself to so dreadful a fate.
"And if I go not," added he thoughtfully, "what will be the consequence? The triumph of a traitor--the destruction of my brave and noble master--the ruin of the prince's enterprise. I will go. Let him do his worst--I will go. Little Eleanor can but lose her lover; and doubtless she will soon get another--and she will forget me, and be happy, I dare say;" and the tears filled his eyes, between emotion at the heroism of his own resolution, and the painful images his fancy called up, while thinking of her he loved. "But I will go," he continued--"I will go. He may kill me if he will; but I will save his life, at least.--Come, good dame! give me the wine!"
The poor page set the flagon to his lips, believing, like many another man, that if truth lies in a well, courage and resolution make their abode in a tankard. In the present instance, he found it marvellous true; and within a few minutes his determination was so greatly fortified, that he repeated the experiment, and soon drank himself into a hero.
"Now, good dame!--now, I will go!" cried he. "Bid thy boy bring me my horse. And thank God, all your days, for putting me in that closet; for owing to that, one of the most diabolical schemes shall be thwarted that ever the devil himself helped to fabricate."
"The Lord be praised! and St. Luke and St. Martin the apostates!" cried the hostess; "and their blessing be upon your handsome face!--Your reckoning comes to nine sous, beau sire, which is cheap enough in all conscience, seeing I have nourished you as if you were my own son, and hid you in the cupboard as if you were my own brother."
The page did not examine very strictly the landlady's accounts; though, be it remarked, nine sous was in that day no inconsiderable sum; but, having partaken freely of the thousand marks which De Coucy had received before leaving Paris, he dispensed his money with the boyish liberality that too often leaves us with our very early years.
"Allons!" cried he, springing on his horse, "I will go, let what may come of it. Which way do I turn, dame, to reach Mirebeau?"
"To the left, beau page,--to the left!" replied the old woman. "But, Lord-a-mercy on thy sweet heart! 'tis a far way. Take the second road, that branches to the right, sir page," she screamed after him; "and then, where it separates again, keep to the left." But long ere she had concluded her directions, the youth was far out of hearing.
He rode on, and he rode on; and when the morning dawned, he found himself, with a weary horse and a sad heart, still in the sweet plains of bright Touraine. The world looked all gay and happy in the early light. There was a voice of rejoicing in the air, and a smile in the whole prospect, which went not well in harmony with the feelings of the poor youth's heart. Absorbed in his own griefs, and little knowing the universality of care, as he looked upon the merry sunshine streaming over the slopes and woods which laughed and sparkled in the rays, he fancied himself the only sorrowful thing in nature; and when he heard the clear-voiced lark rise upon her quivering wings, and fill the sky with her carolling, he dropped his bridle upon his horse's neck, and clasped his hand over his eyes. He was going, he thought, to give himself up to death;--to quit the sunshine, and the light, and the hopes of youth, and the enjoyments of fresh existence, for the cold charnel,--the dark, heavy grave,--the still, rigid, feelingless torpor of the dead!
Did his resolution waver? Did he ever dream of letting fate have its course with his lord and his enterprise, and, imitating the lark, to wing his flight afar, and leave care behind him? He did! He did, indeed, more than once; and the temptation was the stronger, as his secret would ever rest with himself--as neither punishment nor dishonour could ever follow, and as the upbraiding voice of conscience was all that he had to fear. The better spirit, however, of the chivalrous age came to his aid--that generous principle of self-devotion--that constantly inculcated contempt of life, where opposed to honour, which raised the ancient knight to a pitch of glory that the most calculating wisdom could never obtain, had its effect even in the bosom of the page; and, though never doubting that death would be the punishment of his want of obedience and discipline, he still went on to save his master and accuse himself.
It was not long, however, before the means presented itself, as he thought, of both sparing the confession, and circumventing the villanous designs of the Brabançois. As he rode slowly into a little village, about eight o'clock in the morning, he saw a horse tied to the lintel of a door, by the way-side, which he instantly recognised as Jodelle's, and he thanked St. Martin of Tours, as if this rencontre was a chance peculiarly of that saint's contriving. The plan of the page smacked strongly of the thirteenth century. "Here is the villain," said he, "refreshing at that house after his night's ride. Now, may the blessed St. Martin never be good to me again, if I do not attack him the moment he comes forth; and though he be a strong man, and twice as old as I am, I have encountered many a Saracen in the Holy Land, and, with God's blessing, I will kill the traitor, and so stop him in his enterprise. Then may I ride on merrily, to seek the count d'Auvergne, and never mention a word of this plot of theirs, or of my own playing truant either."
Ermold de Marcy--for so was the page called--had a stout heart in all matters of simple battle, as ever entered a listed field; and had Jodelle been ten times as renowned a person as he was, Ermold would have attacked him without fear, though his whole heart sunk at the bare idea of offering himself to De Coucy's battle-ax; so different is the prospect of contention, in which death may ensue, from the prospect of death itself.
Quietly moderating his horse's progress to the slowest possible pace, lest the noise of his hoofs should call Jodelle's attention, he advanced to the same cottage; and, not to take his adversary at an unjust disadvantage, he dismounted, and tied his beast to a post hard by. He then brought round his sword ready to his hand, loosened his dagger in the sheath, and went on towards the door; but, at that moment, the loud neighing of the Brabançois' courser, excited by the proximity of his fellow quadruped, called Jodelle himself to the door.
The instant he appeared, Ermold, without more ado, rushed upon him, and, striking him with his clenched fist exclaimed, "You are a villain!" Then springing back into the middle of the road, to give his antagonist free space, he drew his sword with one hand, and his dagger with the other, and waited his approach.
For his part, Jodelle, who at once recognised De Coucy's attendant, had no difficulty in deciding on the course he had to pursue. The page evidently suspected him of something, though of what, Jodelle of course could not be fully aware. De Coucy believed him (as he had taken care to give out) to be lying wounded in one of the houses of Mirebeau. If the page then ever reached Mirebeau, his treachery would be instantly discovered, and his enterprise consequently fail. It therefore followed, that without a moment's hesitation, it became quite as much Jodelle's determination to put the page to death, as it was Ermold's to bestow the same fate on him; and, with this sanguinary resolution on both sides, they instantly closed in mortal conflict.
Although, on the first view, such a struggle between a youth of eighteen and a vigorous man of five-and-thirty would seem most unequal, and completely in favour of the latter; yet such was not entirely the case. Having served as page since a very early age, with so renowned a knight as Guy de Coucy, Ermold de Marcy had acquired not only a complete knowledge of the science of arms, but also that dexterity and agility in their use, which nothing but practice can give.
Practice also certainly Jodelle did not want; but Ermold's had been gained in the Holy Land, where the exquisite address of the Saracens in the use of the scymitar had necessitated additional study and exercise of the sword amongst the crusaders and their followers.
Ermold also was as active as the wind, and this fully compensated the want of Jodelle's masculine strength. But the Brabançois had unfortunately in his favour the advantage of armour, being covered with a light haubert,[22] which yielded to all the motions of his body, and with a steel bonnet, which defended his head; while the poor page had nothing but his green tunic, and his velvet cap and feather. It was in vain, therefore, that he exerted his skill and activity in dealing two blows for every one of his adversary's; the only accessible part of Jodelle's person was his face, and that he took sufficient care to guard against attack.
The noise of clashing weapons brought the villagers to their doors; but such things were too common in those days, and interference therein was too dangerous an essay for any one to meddle; though some of the women cried out upon the strong man in armour, for drawing on the youth in the green cassock.
Ermold was nothing daunted by the disadvantage under which he laboured; and after having struck at Jodelle's face, and parried all his blows, with admirable perseverance, for some minutes, he actually meditated running in upon the Brabançois; confident that if he could but get one fair blow at his throat, the combat would be at an end.
At that moment, however, it was interrupted in a different manner; for a party of horsemen, galloping up into the village, came suddenly upon the combatants, and thrusting a lance between them, separated them for the time.
"How now, masters! how now!" cried the leader of the party, in rank Norman-French. "Which is France, and which is England?--But fight fair! fight fair, i' God's name!--not a man against a boy,--not a steel haubert against a cloth jerkin. Take hold of them, Robin, and bring them in here. I will judge their quarrel."
So saying, the English knight, for such he was who spoke, dismounted from his horse, and entered the very cottage from which Jodelle had issued a few minutes before. It seemed to be known as a place of entertainment, though no sign nor inscription announced the calling of its owner; and the knight, who bore the rough weather-beaten face of an old bluff soldier, sat himself down in a settle, and leaning his elbow on the table, began to interrogate Ermold and the Brabançois, who were brought before him as he had commanded.
"And now, sir, with the haubert," said he, addressing Jodelle, apparently with that sort of instinctive antipathy, that the good sometimes feel, they scarce know why, towards the bad, "how came you, dressed in a coat of iron, to draw your weapon upon a beardless youth, with nothing to guard his limbs from your blows?"
"Though I deny your right to question me," replied Jodelle, "I will tell you, to make the matter short, that I drew upon him because he drew on me in the first place; but still more, because he is an enemy to my lord, the king of England."
"But thou art no Englishman, nor Norman either," replied the knight. "Thy tongue betrays thee. I have borne arms here, these fifty years, from boyhood to old age, and I know every jargon that is spoken in the king's dominions, from Rouen to the mountains; and thou speakest none. Thou art a Frenchman, of Provence, or thine accent lies."
"I may be a Frenchman, and yet serve the king of England," replied Jodelle boldly.
"God send him better servants than thou art, then!" replied the old knight.--"Well, boy, what sayest thou? Nay, look not sad, for that matter. We will not hurt thee, lad."
"You will hurt me, and you do hurt me," answered Ermold, "if you hold me here, and do not let me either cut out that villain's heart, or on to tell my lord that he is betrayed."
"And who is thy lord, boy?" demanded the knight, "English or French?--and what is his name?"
"French!" answered Ermold boldly; and with earnest pride he added, "he is the noble Sir Guy de Coucy."
"A good knight!--a good knight!" said the Englishman. "I have heard the heralds tell of him. A crusader too--young, they say, but very bold, and full of noble prowess: I should like to splinter a lance with him, in faith!"
"You need not baulk your liking, sir knight," answered the page at once: "my master will meet you on horseback, or on foot, with what arms you will, and when:--give me but a glove to bear him as a gage, and you shall not be long without seeing him."
"Thou bearest thee like the page of such a knight," replied the Englishman; "and in good truth, I have a mind to pleasure thee," he added, drawing off one of his gauntlets, as if about to send it to De Coucy; but whether such was his first intention or not, his farther determinations were changed by Jodelle demanding abruptly--"Know you the signature of king John, sir knight?"
"Surely! somewhat better than my own," answered the other,--"somewhat better than my own, which I have not seen for these forty years; and which, please God! I shall never see again; for my last will and testament, which was drawn by the holy clerk of St. Anne's, two years and a half come St. Michael's, was stamped with my sword pommel, seeing that I had forgot how to write one half the letters of my name, and the others were not readable.--But as to the king's, I'd swear to it."
"Well then," said Jodelle, laying a written paper before him, "you must know that; and by that name I require you not only to let me pass free, but to keep yon youth prisoner, as an enemy to the king."
"'Tis sure enough the king's name, in his own writing; and there is the great seal too," said the old knight. "This will serve your turn, sir, as far as going away yourself,--but as to keeping the youth, I know nothing of that. The paper says nothing of that, as far as I can see."
"No; it does not," said Jodelle; "but still----"
"Oh, it does not, does not it?" said the Englishman, giving back the paper. "Thank you at least for that admission; for, as to what the paper says, may I be confounded if I can read a word of it."
"Listen to me, however," said Jodelle; and approaching close to the English knight, he whispered a few words in his ear.
The old man listened for a moment, with a grave and attentive face, bending his head and inclining his ear to the Brabançois' communication. Then suddenly he turned round, and eyed him from head to foot with a glance of severe scorn. "Open the door!" cried he to his men loudly--"open the door! By God, I shall be suffocated!--I never was in a small room with such a damned rascal in my life before. Let him pass! let him pass! and keep out of the way--take care his clothes do not touch you--it may be contagious; and, by the Lord! I would sooner catch the plague than such villany as he is tainted withal."
While surprised, and at first scarce grasping their leader's meaning, the English troopers drew back from the Brabançois' path, as if he had been really a leper, Jodelle strode to the door of the cottage, smothering the wrath he dared not vent. On the threshold, however, he paused; and, turning towards the old soldier as if he would speak, glared on him for a moment with the glance of a wounded tiger; but, whether he could find no words equal to convey the virulence of his passion, or whether prudence triumphed over anger, cannot be told, but he broke suddenly away, and catching his horse's bridle, sprang into the saddle, and rode off at full speed.
"I am afraid I must keep thee, poor youth," said the old knight,--"I am afraid I must keep thee, whether I will or no. I should be blamed if I let thee go; though, on my knightly honour, 'tis cursed hard to be obliged to keep a good honest youth like thee, and let a slave like that go free! Nevertheless, you must stay here; and if you try to make your escape, I do not know what I must do to thee. Robin," he continued, turning to one of his men-at-arms, "put him into the back chamber that looks upon the lane, and keep a good guard over him, while I go on to the other village to see that lord Pembroke's quarters be prepared:--and hark ye," he added, speaking in a lower voice, "leave the window open, and tie his horse under it, and there is a gros Tournois for thee to drink the king's health with the villagers and the other soldiers. Do you understand?"
"Ay, sir! ay!" answered the man-at-arms, "I understand, and will take care that your worship's commands be obeyed."
"'Tis a good youth," said the old knight, "and a bold, and the other was nothing but a pitiful villain, that will be hanged yet, if there be a tree in France to hang him on. Now, though I might be blamed if I let this lad go, and John might call me a hard-headed old fool, as once he did; yet I don't know, Robin,--I don't know whether in knightly honour I should keep the true man prisoner and let the traitor go free--I don't know Robin,--I don't know!"
So saying, the good old soldier strode to the door; and the man he called Robin took poor Ermold into a small room at the back of the house, where he opened the window, saying something about not wishing to stifle him, and then left him, fastening the door on the other side.
The poor page, however, bewildered with disappointment and distress, and stupified with fatigue and want of sleep, had only heard the charge to guard him safely, without the after whisper, which neutralised that command; and, never dreaming that escape was possible, he sat down on the end of a truckle bed that occupied the greater part of the chamber, and gave himself up to his own melancholy thoughts. He once, indeed, thought of looking from the window, with a vague idea of freeing himself; but as he was about to proceed thither, the sound of a soldier whistling, together with a horse's footsteps, convinced him that a guard was stationed there, and he abandoned his purpose. In this state he remained till grief and weariness proved too heavy for his young eyelids, and he fell asleep.
In the meanwhile, the old knight, after being absent for more than three hours, returned to the village, which he had apparently often frequented before, and riding up to his man Robin, who was drinking with some peasants in the market-place, his first question was, "Where is the prisoner, Robin? I hope he has not escaped;" while a shrewd smile very potently contradicted the exact meaning of his words.
"Escaped!" exclaimed Robin: "God bless your worship! he cannot have escaped, without he got out of the window! for I left five men drinking in the front room."
"Let us see, Robin,--let us see!" said the old man. "Nothing like making sure, good Robin;" and he spurred on to the cottage, sprang from his horse like a lad; and, casting the bridle to one of his men, passed through the front room to that where poor Ermold was confined.
Whatever had been his expectations, when he saw him sitting on the bed, just opening his heavy eyes at the sound of his approach, he could not restrain a slight movement of impatience. "The boy's a fool!" muttered he,--"the boy's a fool!" But then, recovering himself, he shut the door, and, advancing to the page, he said,--"I am right glad, thou hast not tried to escape, my boy,--thou art a good lad and a patient; but if ever thou shouldst escape, while under my custody, for 'tis impossible to guard every point, remember to do my greeting to your lord, and tell him that I, Sir Arthur of Oakingham, will be glad to splinter a lance with him, in all love and courtesy."
The page opened his eyes wide, as if he could scarce believe what he heard.
"If he does not understand that," said the old man to himself, "he is a natural fool!" But to make all sure, he went to the narrow window, and leaning out, after whistling for a minute, he asked,--"Is that your horse? 'Tis a bonny beast, and a swift, doubtless.--Well, sir page, fare thee well!" he added: "in an hour's time I will send thee a stoup of wine, to cheer thee!" and, without more ado, he turned, and left the room once more, bolting the door behind him.
Ermold stood for a moment, as if surprise had benumbed his sinews; but 'twas only for a moment! for then, springing towards the casement, he looked out well on each side, thrust himself through, without much care either of his dress or his person; and, springing to the ground, was in an instant on his horse's back, and galloping away over the wide, uninclosed country, like Tam o'Shanter with all the witches behind him.
For long he rode on, without daring to look behind; but when he did so, he found that he was certainly unpursued; and proceeded, with somewhat of a slackened pace, in order to save his horse's strength. At the first cottage he came to, he inquired for Mirebeau; but by the utter ignorance of the serfs that inhabited it, even of the name of such a place, he found that he must be rather going away from the object of his journey than approaching it. At the castles he did not dare to ask; for the barons of that part of the country were so divided between the two parties, that he would have thereby run fully as much chance of being detained as directed. At length, however, as the sun began to decline, he encountered a countrywoman, who gave him some more correct information; but told him at the same time, that it would be midnight before he reached the place he sought.
Ermold went on undauntedly; and only stopped for half an hour, to refresh his horse when the weary beast could hardly move its limbs. Still he was destined to be once more turned from his path; for, at the moment the sun was just going down, he beheld from the top of one of the hills, a large body of cavalry moving on in the valley below; and the banners and ensigns which flaunted in the horizontal rays, left no doubt that they were English.
The page was of course obliged to change his direction; but as a fine starry night came on, he proceeded with greater ease; for the woman's direction had been to keep due south, and in Palestine he had learned to travel by the stars. A thousand difficulties still opposed themselves to his way--a thousand times his horse's weariness obliged him to halt; but he suffered not his courage to be shaken; and, at last, he triumphed over all. As day began to break, he heard the ringing of a large church bell, and in ten minutes he stood upon the heights above Mirebeau. Banners, and pennons, and streamers were dancing in the vale below; and for a moment the page paused, and glanced his eyes over the whole scene. As he did so, he turned as pale as death; and, suddenly drawing his rein, he wheeled to the right, and rode away in another direction, as fast as his weary horse would bear him.
CHAPTER XI.
We seldom, in life, find ourselves more unpleasantly situated, than when, as is often the case, our fate and happiness are staked upon an enterprise in which many other persons are joined, whose errors or negligences counteract all our best endeavours, and whose conduct, however much we disapprove, we cannot command.
Such was precisely the case with De Coucy, after the taking of the town of Mirebeau. The castle still held out, and laughed the efforts of their small force to scorn. Their auxiliaries had not yet come up. No one could gain precise information of the movements of King John's army; and yet, the knights of Poitou and Anjou passed their time in revelling and merriment in the town, pressing the siege of the castle vigorously during the day, but giving up the night to feasting and debauchery, and leading Prince Arthur, in the heedlessness of his youth, into the same improvident neglect as themselves.
When De Coucy urged the hourly danger to which they were exposed during the night, with broken gates and an unrepaired wall, and pressed the necessity of throwing out guards and patrols, the only reply he obtained was, "Let the Brabançois patrol,--they were paid for such tedious service. They were excellent scouts too. None better! Let them play sentinel. The knights and men-at-arms had enough to do during the day. As to King John, who feared him? Let him come. They would fight him." So confident had they become from their first success against Mirebeau. De Coucy, however, shared not this confidence; but every night, as soon as the immediate operations against the castle had ceased, he left the wounded in the town, and retired, with the rest of his followers, to a small post he had established on a mound, at the distance of a double arrow shot from the fortress. His first care after this, was to distribute the least fatigued of the Brabançois, in small parties, round the place, at a short distance from the walls; so that, as far as they could be relied upon, the besiegers were secure against attack.
Still the young knight, practised in the desultory warfare of the crusades, and accustomed to every sort of attack, both by night and day, neglected no precaution; and, by establishing a patrol of his own tried attendants, each making the complete round of the posts once during the night; while De Coucy himself never omitted to make the same tour twice between darkness and light, he seemed to insure also the faith of the Brabançois.
The fourth night had come, after the taking of the town; and, wearied with the fatigues of the day, De Coucy had slept for an hour or two, in one of the little huts of which he had formed his encampment. He was restless, however, even during his sleep, and towards eleven of the clock he rose, and proceeded to the watch-fire, at a short distance from which, the man who was next to make the round was sitting waiting his companion's return. The night was as black as ink; there was a sort of solid darkness in the air; but withal it was very warm; so that, though the light of the fire was very agreeable, its heat was not to be supported.
"Has all gone well?" demanded the knight.
"All, beau sire," answered the man, "except that one of the coterel's horses has got his foot in a hole, and slipped his fetlock."
"Have you heard of his captain, Jodelle?" demanded De Coucy. "Is he better of his hurt? We want all the men we have."
"I have not seen him, beau sire, because I have not been in the town," replied the squire; "but one of his fellows says, that he is very bad indeed;--that the blow you dealt him has knocked one of his eyes quite out."
"I am sorry for that," said De Coucy. "I meant not to strike so heavily, I will see him to-morrow before the attack. Bring me word, in the morning, what house he lies at; and now mount and begin your round, good Raoul. We will keep it up quickly to-night. I know not why, but I am not easy. I have a sort of misgiving that I seldom feel. Hush! What noise is that!"
"Oh, 'tis the folks singing in the town, beau sire," replied the man. "They have been at it this hour. It comes from the prévôt's garden. I heard Sir Savary de Maulèon say, as he rode by us, that he would sing the abbess of the convent a lay to-night, for the love of her sweet eyes."
A gust of wind now brought the sounds nearer; and De Coucy heard, more distinctly, that it was as the man-at-arms had said. The dull tones of a rote, with some voices singing, mingled with the merry clamour of several persons laughing; and the general hum of more quiet conversation told that the gay nobles of Poitou were prolonging the revel late.
De Coucy bade the man go; and in a few minutes after, when the other, who had been engaged in making the rounds, returned, the knight himself mounted a fresh horse, and rode round in various directions, sometimes visiting the posts, sometimes pushing his search into the country; for, with no earthly reason for suspicion, he felt more troubled and anxious than if some inevitable misfortune were about to fall upon him. At about three in the morning he returned, and found Hugo de Barre, by the light of the watch-fire, waiting his turn to ride on the patrol.
"How is thy wound, Hugo?" demanded De Coucy, springing to the ground.
"Oh, 'tis nothing. Sir Guy!--'tis nothing!" replied the stout squire. "God send me never worse than that, and my bargain would be soon made!"
"Has all been still?" demanded the knight.
"All, save a slight rustling I thought I heard on yonder hill," replied Hugo. "It sounded like a far horse's feet."
"Thou hast shrewd ears, good Hugo," answered his lord. "'Twas I rode across it some half an hour ago or less."
"'Tis that the night is woundy still," replied the squire, "one might hear a fly buzz at a mile; 'tis as hot as Palestine too. Think you, beau sire," he added, somewhat abruptly, "that 'twill be long before this castle falls?"
"Nine months and a day! good Hugo," answered the knight,--"nine months and a day! without our reinforcements come up. How would you have us take it? We have no engines. We have neither mangonel, nor catapult, nor pierrier to batter the wall, nor ladders nor moving tower to storm it."
"I would fain be on to La Flêche, beau sire," said Hugo, laughing. "'Tis that makes me impatient."
"And why to La Flêche?" demanded De Coucy. "Why there, more than to any other town of Maine or Normandy?"
"Oh, I forgot, sire. You were not there," said the squire, "when the packman at Tours told Ermold de Marcy and me, that Sir Julian, and the Lady Isadore, and Mistress Alixe, and little Eleanor, and all, are at La Flêche."
"Ha!" said De Coucy, "and this cursed castle is keeping us here for ages, and those wild knights of Poitou lying there in the town, and spending the time in foolish revel that would take twenty castles if well employed."
"That is what Gallon the fool said yesterday," rejoined Hugo. "God forgive me for putting you, sire, and Gallon together: but he said, 'If those Poitevins would but dine as heartily on stone walls as they do on cranes and capons, and toss off as much water as they do wine, they would drink the ditch dry, and swallow the castle, before three days were out.'"
"On my life, he said not amiss," replied De Coucy.--"Where is poor Gallon? I have not seen him these two days."
"He keeps to the town, beau sire," replied Hugo, "to console the good wives, as he says. But here comes Henry Carvel from the rounds, or I am mistaken. Yet the night is so dark, one would not see a camel at a yard's distance. Ho, stand! Give the word!"
"Arthur!" replied the soldier, and dismounted by the watch-fire. Hugo de Barre sprang on his horse, and proceeded on his round; while De Coucy, casting himself down in the blaze, prepared to watch out the night by the sentinel, who was now called to the guard.
It were little amusing to trace De Coucy's thoughts. A knight of that day would have deemed it almost a disgrace to divide the necessary anxieties of the profession of arms, with any other idea than that of his lady love. However the caustic pen of Cervantes, whose chivalrous spirit--of which, I am bold to say, no man ever originally possessed more--had early been crushed by ingratitude and disappointment, however his pen may have given an aspect of ridicule to the deep devotion of the ancient knights towards the object of their love, however true it may be that that devotion was not always of as pure a kind as fancy has pourtrayed it; yet the love of the chivalrous ages was a far superior feeling to the calculating transaction so termed in the present day; and if, perhaps, it was rude in its forms and extravagant in its excess, it had at least the energy of passion, and the sublimity of strength. De Coucy watched and listened; but still, while he did so, he thought of Isadore of the Mount, and he called up her loveliness, her gentleness, her affection. Every glance of her soft dark eyes, every tone of her sweet lip, was food for memory; and the young knight deemed that surely for such glances and such tones a brave man might conquer the world.
The night, as we have seen, had been sultry, and the sky dark; and it was now waxing towards morning; but no cool breeze announced the fresh rising of the day. The air was heavy and close, as if charged with the matter for a thousand storms; and the wind was as still as if no quickening wing had ever stirred the thick and lazy atmosphere. Suddenly a sort of rolling sound seemed to disturb the air, and De Coucy sprang upon his feet to listen. A moment of silence elapsed, and then a bright flash of lightning blazed across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. De Coucy listened still. "It could not be distant thunder," he thought,--"the sound he had first heard. He had seen no previous lightning."
He now distinctly heard a horse's feet coming towards him; and, a moment after, the voice of Hugo de Barre speaking to some one else. "Come along, Sir Gallon, quick!" cried he. "You must tell it to my lord himself. By Heaven! if 'tis a jest, you should not have made it; and if 'tis not a jest, he must hear it."
"Ha, haw!" cried Gallon the fool.--"Ha, haw! If 'tis a jest, 'tis the best I ever made, for it is true,--and truth is the best jest in the calendar.--Why don't they make Truth a saint, Hugo? Haw, haw! Haw, haw! When I'm pope, I'll make St. Truth to match St. Ruth; and when I've done, I shall have made the best saint in the pack.--Haw, haw! Haw, haw! But, by the Lord! some one will soon make St. Lie to spite me; and no one will pray to St. Truth afterwards.--Haw! haw! haw!--But there's De Coucy standing by the watch-fire, like some great devil in armour, broiling the souls of the damned.--Haw! haw! haw!"
"What is the matter, Hugo?" cried the knight, advancing. "Why are you dragging along poor Gallon so?
"Because poor Gallon lets him," cried the juggler, freeing himself from the squire's grasp, by one of his almost supernatural springs. "Haw, haw! Where's poor Gallon now?"--and he bounded up to the place where the knight stood, and cast himself down by the fire, exclaiming,--"Oh rare! 'Tis a sweet fire, in this sultry night.--Haw, haw! Are you cold, De Coucy?"
"I am afraid, my lord, there is treason going forward," said Hugo de Barre, riding up to his master, and speaking in a low voice. "I had scarce left you, when Gallon came bounding up to me, and began running beside my horse, saying, in his wild way, he would tell me a story. I heeded him little at first; but when he began to tell me that this Brabançois--this Jodelle--has not been lying wounded a-bed, but has been away these two days on horseback, and came back into the town towards dusk last night, I thought it right to bring him hither."
"You did well," cried De Coucy,--"you did well! I will speak with him--I observed some movement amongst the Brabançois as we returned. Go quietly, Hugo, and give a glance into their huts, while I speak with the juggler.--Ho, good Gallon, come hither?"
"You won't beat me?" cried Gallon,--"ha?"
"Beat thee! no, on my honour!" replied de Coucy; and the mad juggler crept up to him on all-fours.--"Tell me, Gallon," continued the knight, "is what you said to Hugo true about Jodelle?"
"The good king Christopher had a cat!" replied Gallon. "You said you would not beat me, Coucy; but your eyes look very like as if your fist itched to give the lie to your honour."
"Nay, nay. Gallon," said De Coucy, striving by gentleness to get a moment of serious reason from him. "My own life--the safety of the camp--of prince Arthur--of our whole party, may depend upon your answer. I have heard you say that you are a Christian man, and kept your faith, even while a slave amongst the Saracens; now answer me--Do you know for certain that Jodelle has been absent, as you told your friend Hugo? Speak the truth, upon your soul!"
"Not upon my soul!--not upon my soul!" cried Gallon. "As to my having a soul, that is all a matter of taste and uncertainty; but what I said was true, upon my nose, which no one will deny--Turk or Christian, fool or philosopher. On my nose, it was true, Coucy--on my nose."
"By Heaven! if this prove false, I will cut it off!" cried the knight, frowning on him.
"Do so, do so! beau sire," replied Gallon, grinning; "and when you have got it, God give you grace to wear it!"
"Now, Hugo de Barre!" cried the knight, as his squire returned with a quick pace.
"As I hope for salvation, sir Guy," cried Hugo, "there are not ten of the cotereaux in the huts! Those that are there are sleeping quietly enough, but all the rest are gone!"
"Lord! what a flash!" cried Gallon, as the lightning gleamed round about them, playing on the armour of De Coucy and his squire.
"Ha, Hugo! did you see nothing in that valley?" exclaimed the knight.
"Lances, as I live!" answered the squire. "We are betrayed to the English, sire!"
"We may reach the town yet, and save the prince!" exclaimed the knight. "Wake the vassals, and the Brabançois that are left! The traitor thought them too true to be trusted: we will think them true too.--Be quick, but silent! Bid them not speak a word!"
Each man started up in his armour, as he was awoke; for De Coucy had not permitted them to disarm during the siege; and, being ranged in silence behind the knight, the small party that were left began to descend towards the town on foot, and unknowing what duty they were going upon.
Between the castle and the hill on which De Coucy had established his post was a small ravine, the entrance of which, nearest the town, exactly fronted the breach that he had formerly effected in the wall. In the bottom ran a quick but shallow stream, which, brawling amongst some large stones, went on murmuring towards the castle, the ditch of which it supplied with water. Leading his men down into the hollow, the young knight took advantage of the stream, and by making his soldiers advance through the water, covered the clank of their armour with the noise of the rivulet. The most profound darkness hung upon their way; but, during the four days they had been there, each man had become perfectly acquainted with the ground, so that they were advancing rapidly; when suddenly a slight measured sound, like the march of armed men over soft turf, caused De Coucy to halt. "Stop!" whispered he; "they are between us and the walls. We shall have a flash presently. Down behind the bushes, and we shall see!"
As he expected, it was not long before the lightning again blazed across, and showed them a strong body of infantry marching along in line, between the spot where he stood and the walls.
"Hugo," whispered the knight, "we must risk all. They are surrounding the town; but the southern gate must still be open. We must cut through them, and may still save the prince. Let each man remember his task is, to enter the house of the prévôt, and carry Arthur Plantagenet out, whether he will or not, by the southern gate. A thousand marks of silver to the man who sets him in the streets of Paris;--follow silently till I give the word."
This was said like lightning; and leading onward with a quick but cautious step, De Coucy had advanced so far, that he could hear the footfall of each armed man in the enemy's ranks, and the rustling of their close pressed files against each other, when the blaze of the lightning discovered his party also to those against whom they were advancing. It gleamed as brightly as if the flash had been actually between them, showing to De Coucy the corselets and pikes and grim faces of the English soldiers within twenty yards of where he stood; while they suddenly perceived a body of armed men approaching towards them, whose numbers the duration of the lightning was not sufficient to display.
"A Coucy! a Coucy!" shouted the knight, giving the signal to advance, and rushing forward with that overwhelming impetuosity which always casts so much in favour of the attacking party. Unacquainted with the ground, taken by surprise, uncertain to whom or to what they were opposed, the Norman and English soldiers, for the moment, gave way in confusion. Two went down in a moment before De Coucy's sword; a third attempted to grapple with him, but was dashed to the earth in an instant; a fourth retired fighting towards the wall.
De Coucy pressed upon him as a man whose all--honour, fortune, existence--is staked upon his single arm. Hugo and his followers thronged after, widening the breach he had hewn in the enemy's ranks. The soldier who fronted him, struck wild, reeled, staggered under his blows, and stumbling over the ruins of the fallen tower, was trodden under his feet. On rushed De Coucy towards the breach, seeing nought in the darkness, hearing nought in the tumult, his quick and bloody passage had occasioned.
But suddenly the bright blue lightning flashed once more across his path. What was it he beheld? The lion banner of England planted in the breach, with a crowd of iron forms around it, and a forest of spears shining from beyond.
"Back! back, my lord!" cried Hugo: "the way is clear behind;--back to the hill, while we can pass!"
Back like lightning De Coucy trod his steps, but with a different order of march from what he had pursued in advancing. Every man of his train went now before him; and though his passage had been but for an instant, and the confusion it had occasioned great, yet the English soldiers were now pressing in upon him on all sides, and hard was the task to clear himself of their ranks. The darkness, however, favoured him, and his superior knowledge of the ground; and, hastening onward, contenting himself with striking only where his passage was opposed, he gradually fought his way out--foiled one or two that attempted to pursue him--gained the hill, and, mounting it with the swiftness of an arrow sped from the bow, he at length rallied his men in the midst of the little huts in which he had lodged his soldiers after the taking of the town.
"Haw, haw! beau sire! Haw, haw;" cried Gallon the fool, who had never stirred from the fire, although the heat was intense; "so you have come back again. But I can tell you, that if you like to go down the other way, you may have just as good a dish of fighting, for I saw, but now, the postern of the castle open, and a whole troop of spears wind down behind us. Haw, haw! haw, haw!"
"Now for the last chance, Hugo!" cried the knight.--"To horse, to horse!"
Each man detached his beast from the spot where they stood ready, and sprang into the saddle, doubting not that their daring leader was about to attempt to cut his way through; but De Coucy had very different thoughts.
"There is the day breaking," cried he; "we must be quick. In the confusion that must reign in the town the prince may escape, if we can but draw the Normans' attention hitherward. Gallon, a fitting task for you! Take some of those brands, and set fire to all the huts. Quick! the day is rising!"
"Haw, haw!" cried Gallon, delighted.--"Haw, haw!" and in an astonishingly short space of time he had contrived to communicate the flame to the greater part of the hovels, which, constructed principally of dry branches, were easily ignited.
"Now!" cried De Coucy, "each man his horn to his lips! and let him blow a flourish, as if he were saluting the royal standard."
De Coucy himself set the example, and the long, loud, united notes rang far over the town.
So far as calling the attention of the English army below, the plan perfectly succeeded; and indeed, even made the greater part both of the knights and men-at-arms believe that Arthur was without the town.
All eyes were turned now towards the little hill, where, clearly defined in the red light of the burning huts, stood the small party of horsemen, hanging a dark black spot upon the very verge, backed by the blaze of the conflagration. They might easily be mistaken for a group of knights; and a little wood of birches some way behind, looked not unlike a considerable clump of spears. To such a point, indeed, was Lord Pembroke himself deceived, that he judged it fit to move a strong body of horse round to the right of the hill, thus hemming in the knight between the town and the castle.
De Coucy saw the movement, and rejoiced in it. Nor did he move a step, as long as the fire of the huts continued to blaze; wishing, as far as possible, to embarrass the enemy by the singularity of his behaviour, in the faint hope that every additional cause of confusion, joined to those which must always attend a night-attack, might in some degree facilitate the escape of the prince.
The fire however expired, and the grey light of the morning was beginning to spread more and more over the scene, when De Coucy turned his rein, and, skirting round the little birch wood we have mentioned, at last endeavoured to force his way through the iron toils that were spread around him. To the right, as he wheeled round the wood, the early light showed the strong body of cavalry Lord Pembroke had thrown forward. On his left now lay the castle, and straight before him a body of archers that had issued from thence with the earl of Salisbury and half a dozen knights at their head. De Coucy hesitated not a moment, but laid his lance in the rest, and galloped forward to the attack of the latter at full speed.
One of the knights rode out before the rest to meet him, but went down, horse and man, before his spear, and rolled on the plain, with the iron of the lance broken off deep in his breast. On spurred De Coucy, swinging his battle-axe over the head of a Norman who followed, when his horse, unfortunately, set his foot on the carcase of the fallen man--slipped--fell irrecoverably, and the knight was hurled to the ground.
He sprang on his feet, however, in a moment, and, catching the bridle of Lord Salisbury's horse, dashed the iron chamfron to atoms with his battle-axe, and hurled the animal reeling on his haunches. The earl spurred up his charger. "Yield! yield! De Coucy!" cried he;--"Good treatment! Fair ransom! William's friendship! Yield you, or you die!"
"Never!" exclaimed De Coucy, turning; and at a single blow striking down a man on foot that pressed upon him behind;--"never will I be John of England's prisoner!"
"Be Salisbury's!--be William Longsword's!" shouted the earl loudly, eager to save his noble foe from the lances that were now bearing him down on all sides. But De Coucy still raged like a lion in the toils; and, alone in the midst of his enemies--for the ranks had closed round and cut him off even from the aid of his little band--he continued for many minutes to struggle with a host, displaying that fearful courage which gained him a name throughout all Europe.
At length, however, while pressed upon in front by three lances, a powerful man-at-arms behind him raised above his head a mace that would have felled Goliah. The knight turned his head; but to parry it was impossible, for both his sword and shield arms were busy in defending himself from the spears of the enemy in front; and he must have gone down before the blow like a felled ox, had not Lord Salisbury sprung to the ground, and interposed the shield, which hung round his own neck, in a slanting direction between the tremendous mace and De Coucy's helmet. The blow however fell; and, though turned aside by William Longsword's treble target, its descent drove the earl's arm down upon De Coucy's head, and made them both stagger.
"Salisbury, I yield me!" cried De Coucy, dropping his battle-axe: "rescue or no rescue, generous enemy, I am thy true prisoner; and thereunto I give thee my faith. But, as thou art a knight and a noble, yield me not to thy bad brother John. We know too well how he treats his prisoners."
"Salisbury's honour for your surety, brave De Coucy!" replied the earl, clasping him in his mailed arms, and giving a friendly shake, as if in reproach for the long-protracted struggle he had maintained. "By the Lord! old friend, when you fought by my side in Palestine, you were but a whelp, where you are now a lion! But know ye not yet, the town has been in our hands this hour, and my fair nephew Arthur taken in his bed, with all the wild revellers of Poitou, as full of wine as leathern bottles?"
"Alas! I fear for the prince!" cried De Coucy, "in his bad uncle's hands."
"Hush! hush!" replied Salisbury. "John is my brother, though I be but a bastard. He has pledged his word too, I hear, to treat his nephew nobly. So let us to the town, where we shall hear more. In the mean while, however, let me send to the earl of Pembroke; for, by the manœuvres he is making, he seems as ignorant of what has taken place in the town, as you were. Now let us on."