CHAPTER IV.
It is strange to read what countries once were, and to compare the pictures old chroniclers have handed down, with the scenes as they lie before us at present. In the neighbourhood of great capitals, however, it is, that the hand of man wages the most inveterate war with nature; and were I to describe the country through which Philip Augustus passed, as he rode quickly onward towards Mantes, the modern traveller who had followed that road would search his memory in vain for scenery that no longer exists. Deep marshes, ancient forests, many a steep hill and profound valley, with small scattered villages, "like angel visits, few and far between," surrounded the monarch on his onward way; and, where scarcely a hundred yards can now be traversed without meeting many and various of the biped race, Philip Augustus rode over long miles without catching a glimpse of the human form divine.
The king's heart beat high with the thoughts of seeing her he loved, were it but for one short casual glance at a distance; but, even independent of such feelings, he experienced a delight, a gladness, a freedom in the very knowledge that he was concealed from all the world; and that, while wrapped in the plain arms that covered him, he was liberated from all the slavery of dignity, and the importunity of respect. There was a degree of romance in the sensation of his independence, which we have all felt, more or less, at one time of our lives, even surrounded as we are by all the shackles of a most unromantic society, but which affected Philip to a thousandfold extent, both from his position as a king, and from the wild and chivalrous age in which he lived.
Thus he rode on, amidst the old shadowy oaks that overhung his path, meditating dreams and adventures that might almost have suited the knight of La Mancha, but which, in that age, were much more easily attainable than in the days of Cervantes.
Of course, all such ideas were much modified by Philip's peculiar cast of mind, and by his individual situation; but still the scenery, the sensation of being freed from restraint, and the first bland air, too, of the early spring, all had their effect; and as he had himself abandoned the tedious ceremonies of a court, his mind, in sympathy, as it seemed, quitted all the intricate and painful mazes of policy, to roam in bright freedom amidst the wilds of feeling and imagination.
Such dreams, however, did not produce a retarded pace, for it wanted little more than an hour to mid-day; a long journey of forty miles was before him, and his only chance of accomplishing his purpose was in arriving during those hours that Agnes might be supposed to wander alone in the forest, according to the account of the canon of St. Berthe's. Philip, therefore, spurred on at full speed, and, avoiding as much as possible the towns, arrived near the spot where Rosny now stands, towards three o'clock.
At that spot, the hills which confine the course of the Seine fall back in a semicircle from its banks, and leave it to wander through a wide rich valley for the distance of about half a league, before they again approach close to the river at Rolleboise.
There, however, the chalky banks become high and precipitous, leaving, in many places, but a narrow road between themselves and the water; though, at other spots, the river takes a wide turn away, and interposes a broad meadow between its current and the cliffs.
In those days, the whole of the soil in that part of the country was covered with wood. The hills, and the valleys, and the plains round Rosny and Rolleboise, were all forest ground; and the trees absolutely dipped themselves in the Seine. To the left, a little before reaching the chapel of Notre Dame de Rosny, the road on which Philip had hitherto proceeded turned off into the heart of Normandy; and such was the direct way to the castle in which Agnes de Meranie had fixed her dwelling; but to the right, nearly in the same line as the present road to Rouen, lay another lesser path, which, crossing the woods in the immediate vicinity of the château, was the one that Philip judged fit to follow.
The road here first wound along down to the very banks of the Seine; and then, quitting it at the little hamlet of Rolleboise, mounted the steep hill, and dipping down rapidly again, skirted between the high chalky banks on the left, and a small plain of underwood that lay on the right towards the river.
Dug deep into the heart of the cliff, were then to be seen, as now, a variety of caves said to have been hollowed by the heathen Normans on their first invasion of France, some yawning and bare, but most of them covered over with underwood and climbing plants.
By the side of one of the largest of these had grown a gigantic oak, which, stretching its arms above, formed a sort of shady bower round the entrance. Various signs of its being inhabited struck Philip's eye as he approached, such as a distinct pathway from the road to the mouth, and the marks of recent fire; but, as there was at that time scarcely a forest in France which had not its hermit--and as many of these, from some strange troglodytical propensity, had abjured all habitations made with hands--the sight at first excited no surprise in the bosom of the monarch. It was different, however, when, as he passed by, he beheld hanging on the lowest of the oak's leafless branches, a knight's gauntlet, and he almost fancied that one of the romances of the day were realised, and that the next moment he should behold some grave enchanter, or some learned sage, issue from the bowels of the rock, and call upon him to achieve some high and perilous adventure.
He rode by, notwithstanding, without meeting with any such interruption; and, thoroughly acquainted with every turn in the woods, he proceeded to a spot where he could see the castle, and a portion of several of the roads which led to it: and, pushing in his horse amongst the withered leaves of the underwood, he waited in anxious hopes of catching but a glance of her he loved.
It is in such moments of expectation that imagination is often the most painfully busy, especially when she has some slight foundation of reality whereon to build up fears. Philip pictured to himself Agnes, as he had first seen her in the full glow of youth, and health, and beauty; and he then remembered her as she had left him, when a few short months of sorrow and anxiety had blasted the rose upon her cheek, and extinguished the light of her eye. Yet he felt he loved her more deeply, more painfully, the pale and faded thing she was then, than when she had first blessed his arms in all the pride of loveliness; and many a sad inference did he draw, from the rapidity with which that change had taken place, in regard to what she might have since undergone under the pressure of more stinging and ascertained calamity. Thus, while he watched, he conjured up many a painful fear, till reality could scarcely have matched his anticipations.
No Agnes, however, appeared; and the king began to deem that the report of the confessor had been false, when he suddenly perceived the flutter of white garments on the battlements of the castle. In almost every person, some one of the senses is, as it were, peculiarly connected with memory. In some it is the ear; and sounds that have been heard in former days will waken, the moment they are breathed, bright associations of lands, and scenes, and hours, from which they are separated by many a weary mile, and many a long obliterating year. In others, it is the eye, and forms that have been once seen are never forgot; while those that are well known, scarce need the slightest, most casual glance, to be recognised at once, though the distance may be great, and their appearance but momentary. This was the case with Philip Augustus; and though what he discerned was but as a vacillating white spot on the dark grey walls of the castle, it needed no second glance to tell him that there was Agnes de Meranie. He tied his horse to one of the shrubs, and with a beating heart sprang out into the road, to gain a nearer and more satisfactory view of her he loved best on earth.
Secure in the concealment of his armour, he approached close to the castle, and came under the wall, just as Agnes, followed by one of her women, turned upon the battlements. Her cheek was indeed ashy pale, with the clear line of her brown eyebrow marked more distinctly than ever on the marble whiteness of her forehead. She walked with her hands clasped, in an attitude that spoke that utter hopelessness in all earth's things, which sees no resource on this side of the grave; and her eyes were fixed unmovingly on the ground.
Philip gazed as he advanced, not doubting that the concealment of his armour was sure; but at that moment, the clang of the steel woke Agnes from her reverie. She turned her eyes to where he stood. Heaven knows whether she recognised him or not; but she paused suddenly, and stretching her clasped hands towards him, she gazed as if she had seen a vision, murmured a few inarticulate words, and fell back into the arms of the lady who followed her.
Philip sprang towards the gate of the castle, and already stood under the arch of the barbican, when the vow that the pope had exacted from him, not to pass the threshold of her dwelling till the lawfulness of his divorce was decided, flashed across his mind, and he paused. Upon a promise, that that decision should be within one half year, he had pledged his knightly honour to forbear--that decision had not yet been given; but the half-year was not near expired, and the tie of a knightly vow he dared not violate, however strong might be the temptation.
The grate of the barbican was open, and at the distance of a few yards within its limits stood several of the soldiers of the guard, with the prévôt. Not a little surprise was excited amongst these by the sudden approach of an armed knight, and at his as sudden pause.
"What seek ye, sir knight?" demanded the prévôt,--"what seek ye here?"
"News of the queen's health," replied the monarch. "I am forbidden to pass the gate; but, I pray thee, sir prévôt, send to inquire how fares the queen this morning."
The officer willingly complied, though he somewhat marvelled at the stranger's churlishness in resting without the threshold. The reply brought from within by the messenger was that the queen had been seized but a few minutes before by one of those swoons that so much afflicted her, but that she had already recovered, and was better and more cheerful since. The message, the man added, had been dictated by the lady herself, which showed that she was better indeed, for in general she seldom spoke to any one.
It fell like a sweet drop of balm upon Philip's heart. There was something told him that he had been recognised, and that Agnes had been soothed and pleased, by the romantic mark of his love that he had given; that she had felt for him, and with him; and dictated the reply he had received, in order to give back to his bosom the alleviation that his coming had afforded to her. With these sweet imaginations he fell into a deep reverie, and forgetful of the eyes that were upon him, paused for several minutes before the barbican, and then, slowly returning on his steps, descended the hill to the thicket, where he had left his horse; and throwing the bridle over his arm, led him on the path by which he had come.
"The churl!" said one of the soldiers, looking after him. "He did not vouchsafe one word of thanks for our doing his errand."
"Another madman! I will warrant thee!" said a second archer.
"He is no madman that," replied the prévôt thoughtfully. "Put your fingers on your lips, and hold your tongues, good fellows! I have heard that voice before;" and, with a meaning nod of the head, he quitted the barbican, and left the soldiers to unravel his mystery if they could.
In the meanwhile the king proceeded slowly on his way, chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies, till he came near the same range of caves which he had passed about an hour before. Every thing was still in the same state; and no human being was visible. The gauntlet remained upon the tree, seemingly only to have been touched by the wind of heaven; and, scarcely thinking what he did, Philip approached, and reaching it with his hand, took it down from the bough to which it was suspended.
As he did so, however, a noise in the cave showed him that his action was not without a witness; and, in a moment after, a tall, powerful man issued forth, and advanced towards him. He was clothed in plate armour, somewhat rusted with the damp; but the fine tracery of gold, by which it had been ornamented, was still visible; and the spurs and belt which he wore proclaimed him a knight. He held his casque in his hand, busying himself as he advanced to disentangle the lacings of it, as if in haste to put it on; and his head was bare, exposing a profusion of long tangled dark hair, which was just beginning to be slightly touched with grey. His face was as pale as ashes, and wan beyond all mortal wanness; and in his large dark eyes there shone a brilliant, wavering, uncertain fire, not to be mistaken for aught but insanity.
The king gazed on him, at once recognising his person; but hardly able to believe that, in the wild lunatic before him, he saw the calm, cold, tranquil Thibault of Auvergne.
In the meanwhile the count came forward, impatiently twisting in his haste the already tangled lacings of his helmet into still more intricate knots.
"Now, discourteous knight!--now!" cried he, glaring on the king,--"now will I do battle with thee on the cause; and make you confess that she is queen of France, and true and lawful wife of Philip the king! Wait but till I have laced my casque, and, on horse or on foot, I will give thee the lie! What! has the pope at length sent thee to Mount Libanus to defy me? I tell thee, miscreant, I will prove it against him, and all his host!"
The first thought that passed through the brain of Philip Augustus, was the memory of his ancient hatred to the unfortunate Count d'Auvergne, and the revived desire of vengeance for the injury he believed him to have attempted against him. Those feelings, however, in their full force, soon left him; and pity for the unhappy state in which he saw him, though it could not remove his dislike, put a bar against his anger. "I come not to defy you, sir knight," said the king. "You mistake me. I am a stranger wandering this way----"
"The glove! the glove!" cried the count, interrupting him. "You have taken down my glove--you have accepted the challenge. Have I not written it up all over Mount Libanus, that whoever denies her to be his lawful wife shall die? If you draw not your sword, I will cleave you down as a traitor, and proclaim you a coward too. In Jerusalem and in Ascalon, before the hosts of the crescent and the cross, I will brand you as a felon, a traitor, and a coward.--Draw, draw, if you be knight and noble!"
So saying, he cast his casque away from him on the ground; and, drawing his broadsword, rushed upon Philip with the fury of a lion. Self-defence became now absolutely necessary, for the king well knew that he was opposed to one of the best and most skilful knights of Christendom, whose madness was no hindrance to his powers as a man-at-arms; and consequently, loosing the bridle of his horse, he drew his sword, and prepared to repel the madman's attack.
The conflict was long and desperate, though, had not the natural generosity of his disposition interfered, the king possessed an infinite advantage over the Count d'Auvergne, whose head was, as we have said, totally undefended. He refrained, however, from aiming one blow at that vulnerable part of his antagonist's person, till his scruples had nearly cost him his life, by the rings of his haubert giving way upon his left shoulder. The Count d'Auvergne saw his advantage, and pressed on with all the blind fury of insanity, at the same time leaving his head totally unguarded. The heat of the combat had irritated the monarch, and he now found it necessary to sacrifice all other considerations to the safety of his own life. He opposed his shield, therefore, to the thundering blows of his adversary; and raising his heavy double-edged sword high above the count's naked head, in another moment would have terminated his sorrows for ever, when the blow was suspended by a circumstance which shall be related hereafter.
CHAPTER V.
In the great hall of the ducal palace at Rouen, sat John, King of England, now the undisputed possessor of the British throne; and, though the blood of his nephew was scarce washed from his hands, and the record of his crime scarce dry in the annals of the world, he bore upon his lip that same idle smile, whose hideous lightness was the more dreadful when contrasted with the profound depravity of his heart. He was seated in an ivory chair, beneath a crimson dais, gorgeously arrayed after the fashion of the day, and surrounded with all the pomp of royalty. On his right hand stood the Earl of Pembroke, with bitter grief and indignation written in his curled lip and contracted brow, which found an answering expression in the countenance of Lord Bagot, the Earl of Essex, and almost every English peer in the presence.
John saw their stern and discontented looks, and understood their import well; but, strange to say, the chief cause of his fear being removed by the death of Arthur, he felt a degree of triumphant joy in the angry sorrow of his barons; and calculated upon easily calming their irritation, before any new danger should arise to menace him. Indeed, with his usual false calculation, he already planned a new act of baseness, which, by punishing one who had contributed to the death of Arthur, by betraying him at Mirebeau, he hoped might, in some degree, satisfy those whom that death had rendered discontented; forgetting, in his utter ignorance of such a thing as virtue, that, in the eyes of the honest, one base act can never repair another.
Close before the king, on the tapestry, which spread over the steps on which his throne was raised, and extended some way into the hall, stood no less a person than the Brabançois, Jodelle, now dressed in a fine tunic of purple cloth, with a baldric of cloth of gold supporting by his side a cross-hilted sword.
His air was the invariable air of a parvenu, in which flippant, yet infirm self-conceit, struggles to supply the place of habitual self-possession, and in its eagerness defeats its object. Consummate vanity, when joined with grace, will sometimes supply the place of high breeding; but a man that doubts in the least is lost. Thus stood Jodelle, smiling in the plenitude, as he thought, of royal favour; yet, with irritable knowledge of his want of right to appear in such a presence, glancing his eye from time to time round the proud barons of England, who, occupied with thoughts of more dignified anger, scarcely condescended to despise him.
In the meanwhile, King John, as we have said, with a light and sneering smile upon his lips, amused himself with the conceited affectation of the Brabançois, who, enriched with the spoils of Mirebeau and several other towns in Poitou, now presented himself to claim the higher rewards that had been promised to his treachery. The king smiled; yet, in the dark recesses of his cruel heart, he at the very moment destined the man to death, with whom he jested as a favoured follower.
The simile of a cat and a mouse is almost as musty as the Prince of Denmark's proverb; and yet perhaps there is no other that would so aptly figure the manner in which John of England played with the traitor, of whose services he had availed himself to take his nephew prisoner.
"Well, beau Sire Jodelle," said he, after the Brabançois had made his obeisance, "doubtless you have exercised the royal permission we gave you, to plunder our loving subjects of Poitou to some purpose. Nay, your gay plumage speaks it. You were not feathered so, Sir Jodelle, when last we saw you. But our homely proverb has it, 'Fine feathers make fine birds.' Is it not so, Lord Pembroke?"
"Not always, sir," answered the earl boldly. "I have known a vulture plumed like an eagle, yet not deceive a daw!"
John's brow darkened for an instant, but the next it was all clear again, and he replied, "Your lordship follows a metaphor as closely as a buzzard does a field mouse. Think you not, Sire Jodelle, that our English lords have fine wits? Marry, if you had possessed as fine, you would have kept at a goodly distance from us all; for there are amongst us men that love you not, and you might chance to get one of those sympathetic knots tied round your neck that draw themselves the tighter the more you tug at them."
"I fear not, sire," replied Jodelle, though there was a sneering touch of earnest in the king's jests that made his cheek turn somewhat pale,--"I fear not; trusting that you will grant me your royal protection."
"That I will, man!--that I will!" replied the monarch, "and elevate you;" and he glanced his eyes round his court, to see if his jest was understood and appreciated. Some of the courtiers smiled, but the greater part still maintained their stern gravity; and John proceeded, applying to the Coterel the terms of distinctions used towards knights, not without an idea of mortifying those who heard, as well as of mocking him to whom they were addressed. "Well, beau sire," he said, "and what gives us the pleasure of your worshipful presence at this time? Some business of rare import, doubtless, some noble or knightly deed to be done."
"I am ever ready to do you what poor service I may, sire," replied Jodelle. "I come, therefore, to tell you that I have raised the band of free-companions, for which you gave me your royal permission, and to beg you to take order that they may have the pay[25] and appointments which you promised."
"Thy demand shall be satisfied on that head," replied John, in a serious and condescending tone, calculated to allay all fears in the mind of Jodelle, if he had begun to conceive any. "By my faith! we shall need every man-at-arms we can get, whether vassal or Brabançois, for Philip of France threatens loud.--Now, Sir Jodelle, what more?"
"Simply this order on your royal treasury," replied Jodelle, quite re-assured by the king's last words. "Your treasurer refuses to acquit it, without another direct warrant from you."
"Give it to me," said the king, holding out his hand, into which Jodelle, somewhat unwilling, placed the order for ten thousand crowns, which he had received as the reward of his treachery. "And now," proceeded John, "we will at once arrange these affairs, without the least delay, for diligence in rendering justice to all men is a kingly virtue. In the first place, then, for the appointments of the free-companions raised by this worthy captain. We command you, William Humet,[26] to send them off straight to the bands of our dearly beloved Mercader, there to be drafted in, man by man, so that, being well used and entertained, they may serve us truly and faithfully."
"But, sire!" exclaimed Jodelle, turning as pale as death.
"Tut, man! tut!" cried the king, "we will find means to satisfy every one. Hear us to an end. In regard to this order on our royal treasury--stand forward, John of Wincaunton! You are deputy prévôt, are you not?"
A short, stout, bull-necked sort of person came forth from behind the throne, and placing himself beside Jodelle, bowed in assent to the king's question.
"Well, then," proceeded John, "by my faith! you must serve me for deputy treasurer also, for want of a better."
John of Wincaunton, who had a keen apprehension of the king's jests in this sort, bowed again, and making a sign, by holding up two of his fingers, so as to be seen by a line of men-at-arms behind the circle of nobles who occupied the front of the scene, he laid his other hand upon Jodelle's arm, while two stout soldiers ran round and seized him from behind. Such precautions, however, were utterly unnecessary, for the first touch of the prévôt's hand upon his arm operated like Prospero's wand. All power and strength seemed to go out of the Brabançois' limbs; his arms hung useless by his side, his knees bent, and his nether lip quivered with the very act of fear.
"Take the caitiff," cried John, frowning on him bitterly,--"take him, prévôt; carry him to the very bound of Normandy, and there see you acquit me of all obligation towards him. Hang him up between Normandy and France, that all men of both lands may see his reward; for, though we may sometimes use such slaves for the deep causes of state necessity, we would not encourage their growth. Away with him!"
Jodelle struggled to speak, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth; and before he could force his throat to utterance, a bustle at the other end of the long hall called the attention of every one but himself.
"Sir king! sir king! hear me, for mercy's sake!" cried the Brabançois, as he was dragged away. But John heeded him not, fixing his eyes upon the figure of the Earl of Salisbury, who, armed at all points except the head, and covered with dust, pushed through the crowd of attendants at the extremity of the apartment, followed by two or three other persons, as dusty and travel-stained as himself. His cheek was flushed, his brow was bent and frowning, and, without a show even of reverence or ceremony, he strode up the centre of the hall, mounted the steps of the throne, and standing beside the king's chair, bent down his head, addressing John in a low and seemingly angry whisper.
His coming, and the bold and irreverent manner in which he approached the king, seemed to destroy at once the ceremony of the court. The heart of almost every noble present was swelling with indignation at the assassination of the unhappy Arthur, then already public, and by most persons said to have been committed by the king's own hand; and now, encouraged by the bold anger evident on the brow of John's natural brother, they broke the circle they had formed, and, in a close group, spoke together eagerly; while William Longsword continued to pour upon the bloodthirsty tyrant on the throne a torrent of stern reproaches, the more cutting and bitter from the under-tone in which he was obliged to speak them.
For the reproaches John little cared; but his eye glanced terrified to the disturbed crowd of his nobles. He knew himself detested by every one present: no one, but one or two of his servile sycophants, was attached to him by any one tie on which he could depend. He knew what sudden and powerful resolutions are often taken in such moments of excitement; and, as he marked the quick and eager whisper, the flashing eyes, and frowning brows of his angry barons, he felt the crown tremble on his head. It was in the kindly feeling and generous heart of his bastard brother alone that he had any confidence; and grasping the earl's hand, without replying to his accusation, he pointed to the group beside them, and cutting across the other's whisper, said in a low voice, "See, see, they revolt! William, will you too abandon me?"
The earl glanced his eyes towards them, and instantly comprehended the king's fears. "No," said he, in a louder voice than he had hitherto spoke. "No! I will not abandon you, because you are my father's son, and the last of his direct race; but you are a----." The earl bent his lips to John's ear, and whispered the epithet in a tone that confined it to him to whom it was addressed. That it was not a very gentle one seemed plain from the manner in which it was given and which it was received; but the earl then descended the steps of the throne, and passing into the midst of the peers, grasped Lord Pembroke and several others, one after the other, by the hand.
"Pembroke!" said he, "Arundel! I pray you to be calm. 'Tis a bad business this, and must be inquired into at another time, when our minds are more cool, to take counsel upon it. But be calm now, I pray you all, for my sake."
"For your sake!" said the Earl of Pembroke, with a smile. "By Heavens! Salisbury, we were just saying, that the best king that ever sat on the English throne was a bastard; and we see not why another should not sit there now. Why should not Rosamond of Woodstock produce as good a son as the mother of William the Conqueror?"
"Hush; hush!" cried Salisbury quickly, at the pointed allusion to himself. "Not a word of that, my friends. I would not wrong my father's son for all the crowns of Europe. Nor am I fit for a king; but no more of that! Form round again, I pray you; for I have a duty to perform as a knight, and would fain do it decently, though my blood was up with what I heard on my arrival."
The barons again, with lowering brows and eyes bent sternly on the ground, as if scarce yet resolved in regard to their conduct, formed somewhat of a regular sweep round the throne, while Lord Salisbury advanced, and once more addressed the weak and cruel monarch, who sat upon his throne, the most abject thing that earth can ever produce--a despised and detested king.
"My lord," said William Longsword, almost moved to pity by the sunk and dejected air that now overclouded the changeable brow of the light sovereign, "when we parted in Touraine, I yielded to your importunity my noble prisoner, Sir Guy de Coucy, on the promise that you would cherish and honour him, and on the pretence that you wished to win him and attach him to your own person; reserving to myself, however, the right of putting him at what ransom I pleased, and demanding his liberty when that ransom should be paid. How much truth there was in the pretence by which you won him from me, and how well you have kept the promise you made, you yourself well know; but, on my honour, to do away the stain that you have brought upon me, I would willingly free the good knight without any ransom whatever, only that he himself would consider such a proposal as an insult to a warrior of his high fame and bearing. However that may be, I have fixed his ransom at seven thousand crowns of gold; and here stands his page ready to pay the same, the moment that his lord is free. I therefore claim him at your hands; for, though I hear he is in that fatal tower, whose very name shall live a reproach upon England's honour for ever, I do not think that the man lives who would dare to practise against the life of my prisoner."
"My Lord of Salisbury," replied John, raising his head, and striving to assume the air of dignity which he could sometimes command; but as he did so, his eyes encountered the stern bold look of William Longsword, and the fixed indignant glances of his dissatisfied nobles; and he changed his purpose in the very midst, finding that dissimulation, his usual resource, was now become a necessary one. "My Lord of Salisbury," he repeated, softening his tone, "thou art our brother, and should at least judge less harshly of us than those who know us less. A villain, construing our commands by his own black heart, has committed within the walls of this town a most foul and sacrilegious deed, and many wilful and traitorous persons seek to impute that deed to us. Now, though it becomes us not, as a king, to notice the murmurs of every fool that speaks without judgment; to you, fair brother, and to any of our well-beloved nobles of England, we will condescend willingly to prove that our commands were the most opposite. This we will fully show you, on a more private occasion."
As John spoke, and found himself listened to, he became more bold, and proceeded. "In regard to our own time, during that unhappy day which deprived us of our dear nephew, we could, were we put to such unkingly inquisition, account for every moment of our time. The greater part--nay, I might almost say the whole--was spent in reading despatches from Rome and Germany with my Lords of Arundel and Bagot."
"Except two hours in the morning, my lord, and from six till nine at night, when I returned and found you wonderous pale and agitated," replied Lord Bagot with a meaning look.
"Our excellent friend, and very good knight, William de la Roche Guyon, was with us at both the times you speak of," said the king, turning towards the young Provençal, who stood near him, with a gracious and satisfied air. "Was it not so, fair sir?"
"It was, my lord," faltered William de la Roche Guyon; "but--" All the barons, at the sound of that but, fixed their eyes upon him, as if the secret was about to transpire; but John took up the sentence as he hesitated to conclude it.
"But,--you would say," proceeded the king,--"you went with me to the Tower, where the poor child was confined, in the morning. True you did.--'Tis true, my lords. But did you not hear me severely reproach the captain of the Tower for placing the Sire de Coucy and the Duke of Brittany in one small apartment, to the injury of the health of both?--and did I not dismiss him for not lodging them better? Then again, after vespers, did you ever see me quit the palace? Speak, I charge you!" and he fixed his eye sternly on the effeminate face of the young knight.
Guillaume de la Roche Guyon turned somewhat pale, but confirmed the king's statement; and John went on, gathering confidence and daring as he proceeded. "This is enough for the present moment," said he: "we will more of it hereafter; but when our exculpation shall be complete, woe to him who shall dare to whisper one traitorous word upon this score! In regard to your prisoner, my Lord of Salisbury, before putting him at liberty, we would fain----"
"Nothing before putting him at liberty, my lord," said the earl, in a stern voice, "The prisoner is mine; I have agreed upon his ransom. Here stands his page ready to pay the sum, and, moreover, whatever charges may be incurred in his imprisonment; and I demand that he be delivered to me this instant."
"Well, well, fair brother," answered John, "be it as thou wilt. I will despatch the order after dinner."
"Haw! haw!" cried somebody from the bottom of the hall. "Haw! haw! and perhaps De Coucy may be dispatched before dinner."
"By my knighthood, the fool says true," cried the blunt earl.--"My lord, as we have too fatal a proof that mistakes in commands lead to evil effects within the walls of a prison, by your leave, we will liberate this good knight without farther delay. I will go myself and see it done."
"At least," said the king, "to keep up the seeming of a respect that you appear little inclined to pay in reality. Earl of Salisbury, take a royal order for his release.--Clerk, let one be drawn."
The clerk drew the order, and John read it over with a degree of wilful slowness that excited not a little Lord Salisbury's suspicions. At length, however, the king concluded; and, having signed it, he gave it to the earl, saying, "There, deliver him yourself if you will--and God send he may have eaten his dinner!" muttered the king to himself, as William Longsword took the paper, and turned with hasty steps to give it effect. "William!--William of Salisbury!" cried John, before the other had traversed half the hall. "Which is the page? Shall he count out the ransom while you are gone?"
"That is the page," said the earl, turning unwillingly, and pointing to Ermold de Marcy, who, accompanied by a herald and Gallon the fool, with two men-at-arms, bearing bags of money, stood at the farther end of the hall, in which the strange and painful scene we have endeavoured to describe had taken place. "That is the page. Let him tell down the ransom if you will. I will be back directly; 'tis but ten paces to the Tower.--That is the page," he repeated, as he saw John about to add some new question.
"And the gentleman with the nose?" demanded the light monarch, unable, under any circumstances, to restrain his levity. "And the gentleman with the nose--the snout!--the proboscis!--If you love me, tell me who is he?"
But Salisbury was gone; and Gallon, as usual, took upon him to answer for himself.--"Bless your mightiness," cried he, "I am twin brother of John, King of England. Nature cast our two heads out of the same batch of clay; she made him more knave than fool, and me more fool than knave; and verily, because she gave him a crown to his head, and me none, she furnished me forthwith an ell of nose to make up for it."
"Thou art a smart fool, whatever thou art," replied John, glad to fill up the time, during which he was obliged to endure the presence of his barons, and the uncertainty of what the order he had given for De Coucy's liberation might produce. "Come hither, fool;--and you, sir page, tell down the money, to the secretary. And now, fool, wilt thou take service with me? Wouldst thou rather serve a king, or a simple knight?"
"Haw! haw!" shouted Gallon, reeling with laughter, as if there was something perfectly ridiculous in the proposition.--"Haw! haw! haw! I am fool enough, 'tis true! But I am not fool enough to serve a king."
"And why not?"' demanded John. "Methinks there is no great folly in that. Why not, fellow?"
"Haw, haw!" cried Gallon again. "A king's smiles are too valuable for me. That is the coin they pay in, where other men pay in gold. Besides, since the time of Noe downwards, kings have always been ungrateful to their best subjects."
"How so?" asked the king. "In faith, I knew not that the patriarch had ever such a beast as thee in the ark."
"Was not the dove the first that he turned out?" demanded Gallon, with a look of mock simplicity, that called a smile upon even the stern faces of the English barons.
"Ha!" said John. "Thinkest thou thyself a dove? Thou art like it in the face, truly!"
"Not less than thou art like a lion," answered Gallon boldly. "And yet men say you had once such a relation.--Haw, haw! Haw, haw, haw!" and he sprang back a step, as if he expected John to strike him.
But for a moment, leaving the conversation, which John for many reasons continued to carry on with the juggler, though his replies were of a more stinging quality than the monarch greatly relished, we must follow Lord Salisbury to the prison of De Coucy.
It was a little past that early hour at which men dined in those days; and when the earl entered the gloomy vault that contained the young knight, he found him seated by a table groaning under a repast not very usual on the boards of a prison.
De Coucy, however, was not eating, nor had he eaten, "though the viands before him might well have tempted lips which had tasted little but bread and water for many months before.
"Salisbury!" exclaimed the knight, as the earl strode into the chamber, with haste in his aspect, and symptoms of long travel in every part of his dress. "Salisbury! Have you come at length?"
"Hush! hush! De Coucy!" cried the earl, grasping his hand, "Do not condemn me, without having heard. John persuaded me that he wished to win you to his cause; and promised most solemnly that he would not only treat you as a friend, but as a favourite. I am not the only one he has deceived. However, till a fortnight since, I thought he had carried you to England, as he declared he would. Your page, with wonderful perseverance, traced me out amidst all the troubles in Touraine, and offered your instant ransom. I sent to England to find you--my messenger returned with tidings that you were here; and, doubting false play, I set off without delay to release you. At every town of Normandy I heard worse and worse accounts of my bad brother's conduct.--Thank God, I am a bastard!--and when I come here, I learn that that luckless boy, Arthur, is gone, God knows where, or how!"
"I will tell you where you may find him, Salisbury," said De Coucy, grasping the earl's arm, and fixing his eyes steadily on his face: "at the bottom of the Seine. Do you mark me? At the bottom of the Seine!"
"I guessed it," replied the earl, shutting his teeth, and looking up to heaven, as if for patience.--"I guessed it!--Know you who did it:--they say you were confined together."
"Do I know who did it?" exclaimed De Coucy: "John of Anjou! your brother! his uncle!"
"Not with his own hand surely!" exclaimed Salisbury, drawing back with a movement of horror.
"As I hope for salvation in the blessed cross!" replied De Coucy, "I believe he did it with his own hand. At least, full certainly, 'twas beneath his own eye;" and he proceeded to detail all that he had heard. "Before that day," continued the knight, "I was fed on bread and water, or what was little better. Since--you see how they treat me;" and he pointed to the table. "I have contented myself each morning with half of one of those white loaves," he added: "first, because this is no place for hunger; and next, because I would rather not die like a rat poisoned in a granary."
The earl hung his head for a moment or two in silence; and then again, grasping De Coucy's hand, he said, "Come, good knight, come! Deeds done cannot be amended. They are tumbled, like old furniture, into the great lumber-house of the past, to give place to newer things, some better and some worse. You were a prisoner but now--You are now free; and believe me, on my honour, I would rather have laid my sword-hand upon a block, beneath an axeman's blow, than that my noble friend should have undergone such usage:--but come, your ransom by this time is told down, and your attendants wait you in the palace hall. First, however, you shall go to my lodging in Rouen, and do on my best haubert and arms. There are horses in my stables, which have stood there unridden for months. Take your choice of them; and God speed you! for, though it be no hospitable wish, I long to see your back turned on Normandy."
De Coucy willingly accepted the earl's courtesy, and followed down the stairs of the prison into the open air. He trod with the proud step of a freeman: the sight of living nature was delight; the fresh breath of heaven a blessing indeed; and when he stood once more clothed in shining arms, he felt as if the bold spirit of his youngest days had come back with redoubled force.
As they proceeded to traverse the space which separated the lodging of the Earl of Salisbury from the ducal palace, William Longsword proceeded to give De Coucy a short account of all the steps which his page had taken to effect his liberation, and which, however brief, we shall not repeat here; it being quite sufficient to the purposes of this history, that the knight was liberated.
Salisbury and De Coucy mounted the stairs of the palace with a rapid pace: but, at the hall door, they paused for a single moment: "Salisbury!" said De Coucy with a meaning tone, "I must do my duty as a knight!"
"Do it!" replied the earl with firm sadness, understanding at once the young knight's meaning. "Do it, De Coucy--God forbid that I should stay a true knight from doing his devoir!"
So saying, he led the way into the hall.
John was still jesting with Gallon the fool. The barons were standing around, some silently listening to the colloquy of the king and the juggler, some speaking together in a low voice. At a table, on one side of the hall, where sat the secretary, appeared De Coucy's page, Ermold de Marcy, with a herald; and on the board between him and the clerk, lay a large pile of gold pieces, with the leathern bags which had disgorged them, while one of the men behind held a similar pouch, ready to dispose of its contents as need might be.
De Coucy advanced to the table, and welcomed his page with an approving smile, while the herald cried in a loud voice to call attention: "Oyez, Oyez! Hear, hear!" and then tendering the ransom in set form, demanded the liberation of Sir Guy de Coucy. The ransom was accepted with the usual ceremonies, and a safe conduct granted to the knight through the territories of the king of England; which being done, De Coucy advanced from the table up the centre of the hall.
What had before passed had taken place at such a distance from the throne, that John found it no difficult matter to keep his eyes in another direction, though he was now speaking with William de la Roche Guyon, as Gallon the fool had left him on his lord's entrance, and was standing by the table, his nose at the same time wriggling with most portentous agitation, as he saw the gold delivered by the page, and taken up by the secretary. The monarch had thus affected scarcely to see the young knight; but now De Coucy advanced, with slow, marked steps, directly towards him, accompanied pace by pace by the herald, who, with that sort of instinctive knowledge of every chivalrous feeling which the officers of arms in that day are said to have possessed, made a quick movement forward as they neared the throne, though without any command to that effect; and exclaimed in a loud tone,--"Hear! John, king of England! Hear!"
John looked up, and turned a frowning brow upon De Coucy. But the knight was not to be daunted by fierce looks, even from a king; and he proceeded boldly and in a slow distinct voice. "John of Anjou!" he said, "false traitor, and assassin! I, Guy de Coucy, knight, do accuse you here in your palace, and on your throne, of the murder of your nephew, Arthur Plantagenet, rightful king of England; and to your beard I call you mansworn, traitor, murderer, and felon--false knight, discourteous gentleman, and treacherous king! Moreover, whoever does deny the murder of which I here accuse you, I give him the lie, and will prove it, my hand against his, according to the law of arms."
There was an awful pause. "Have I so many barons and noble knights around me," cried John at length, "and not one of them noble and brave enough to repel the insults offered to their king, in their presence, by this braggart Frenchman?"
Several of the circle stepped forward, and De Coucy cast down his glove, for him to take it that chose; but Lord Pembroke waved his hand, exclaiming, "Hold, lords and knights! hold! We must not make ourselves champions of a bad cause. Such is not the courage of true knights. My lord the king! the nobles of England have ever been found too willing to cast away their lives and fortunes in their monarch's defence; and there is not one man in this presence that, give him a good cause, and he would not meet in arms the best Frenchman that ever was born. When, therefore, my lord, you shall satisfactorily have proved that this charge against you is false, the swords of a thousand British knights will start from their sheaths to avenge your quarrel; and I, as your lord marshal, claim to be the first.
"With all respect, my Lord de Coucy," he added, while John bit his lip with bursting mortification, "I raise your glove, and pledge myself to meet you in arms within three months, if I find cause to judge your words bold and untrue. If not, I will either yield the gage to whatever true knight can, on his conscience, meet you, or will render it back unto you honourably, in default of such. I am right willing ever to do battle with a brave man; but I could never fight, with the ghost of Arthur Plantagenet crying that my cause was evil."
So saying, he raised the glove, and De Coucy, darting a glance of bitter scorn at John, bowed his head to Lord Pembroke, and proceeded down the hall to the place where he had left William Longsword. The earl, however, had not stayed to hear the accusation that he knew was about to be launched at his brother, and which, as he could not refute, he dared not resent.
De Coucy found him on the steps of the palace, at the bottom of which stood a fresh horse, prepared for himself, together with the beasts of Ermold the page, the herald, Gallon the fool, and the two men-at-arms, who had carried the money to pay the knight's ransom. To these were added the escort of a body of horse archers, to guard the young knight safe through the English territory. This, however, he declined; and, grasping the hand of the Earl of Salisbury, between whose bosom and his own existed that mutual esteem which all noble minds feel towards each other, he sprang upon his horse, and galloped with all speed out of Rouen.