CHAPTER IX.
One unchanging cloud of perpetual sorrow lowered over the days of the unhappy Agnes de Meranie. The hope that the council which had been called to decide upon the king's divorce might pronounce a judgment favourable to her wishes, dwindled gradually away, till its flickering, uncertain light was almost more painful than the darkness of despair. The long delays of the church of Rome, the tedious minutiae of all its ceremonious forms, the cavillings upon words, the endless technicalities, however sweet and enduring was her disposition, wore her mind and her frame, and she faded away like a rose at the end of summer, dropping leaf by leaf towards decay.
She delighted no longer in things wherein she had most joyed. The opening flowers of the spring, the chanting of the wild melodious birds, the reviving glow of all nature's face after the passing of the long, chill winter, brought her no happiness. Her heart had lost its young expansion. Her eye§ were covered with a dim, shadowy veil, that gave its own dull, sombre hue to all that she beheld. Her ears were closed against every sound that spoke of hope, or pleasure, or enjoyment. Her life was one long, sad dream, overjoys passed away, and happiness never to return.
For many and many an hour, she would wander about through the woods; but when she saw the young green leaves opening out from the careful covering with which nature had defended their infancy, she would recall the time when, with her beloved husband, she had watched the sweet progress of the spring, and would weep to find him no longer by her side, and to see in the long, cold future an unchanging prospect of the same dull vacancy. Often, too, she would stray to the top of one of the high hills near the castle, and, gazing over the wide-extended view--the sea of woods waving their tender green heads below her--the mingling hills, and valleys, and plains beyond--the windings of the broad river, with the rich, rich vale through which it flows--and the distant gleams of towers and spires scattered over the fair face of the bright land of France, she would sigh as she looked upon the proud kingdom of her Philip, and would quickly shrink back from the wide extension of the scene to the small limit of her heart's feelings and her individual regrets.
She shrunk, too, from society. Her women followed, but followed at a distance; for they saw that their presence importuned her; and it was only when any message arrived from the king, or any news was brought concerning the progress of his arms, that they broke in upon her reveries. Then, indeed, Agnes listened as if her whole soul was in the tale; and she made the narrators repeat over and over again every small particular. She heard that one castle had fallen--that another district had submitted--that this baron had come over to the crown of France--or that city had laid its keys at the feet of Philip, dwelling on each minute circumstance, both of warfare and of policy, with as deep and curious an interest as if her life and hope had depended on the issue of each particular movement.
It was remarked, too, that the oftener the name of Philip was repeated in the detail, the more interest she appeared to take therein, and the more minute was her questioning; and if any eminent success had attended his arms, it would communicate a gleam of gladness to her eyes, that hardly left them during the whole day.
At other times she spoke but little, for it seemed to fatigue her; and, though from the blush of her cheek, which every evening seemed to come back brighter and brighter, and from a degree of glistening splendour in her eye, which grew more brilliant than it had ever been even in her happier days, her women augured returning health, yet her strength visibly failed; and that lovely hand, whose small but rounded symmetry had been a theme for half the poets of France, grew pale and thin, so that the one loved ring nearly dropped from the finger round which it hung.
It was not from a love of new things or new faces, for no one was more constant in all her affections than Agnes de Meranie; but though she avoided even the society of her own immediate followers, several of whom had attended upon her in her own land, yet Isadore of the Mount, from the time she had taken refuge in the castle where she was still detained by royal order, was often welcomed by the queen with a smile that the others could not win.
Perhaps the secret was, that Isadore never tried to console her--that she seemed to feel that the name of comfort under such circumstances was but a mockery; and though she strove, gently and sweetly, to divert the mind of the unhappy princess from the immediate subject of her grief, she did it by soft degrees, and never sought for a gaiety that she did not feel herself, and which she saw was sadly discordant with all the feelings of the queen when affected by others in the hope of pleasing her.
One morning, towards the end of March, on entering the apartments of the queen, Isadore found her with her head bent over her hand, and her eyes fixed upon the small circle of gold that had bound her to Philip Augustus, while drop after drop swelled through the long lashes of her eyelids, and fell upon the ring itself. Seeing that she wept, Isadore was about to retire; for there is a sacredness in grief such as hers, that a feeling heart would never violate.
The queen, however, beckoned her forward, and looking up, wiped the tears away. "One must be at a sad pitch of fortune, Isadore," said she, with a painful smile at her own melancholy conceit,--"one must be at a sad pitch of fortune, when even inanimate things play the traitor and leave us in our distress. This little magic symbol," she continued, laying one finger of the other hand upon the ring,--"this fairy token, that in general is destined to render two hearts happy or miserable, according to the virtue of the giver and the receiver--it has fallen from my finger this morning, though it has been my comfort through many a sorrow. Is not that ominous, Isadore?"
"Of nothing evil, I hope, lady," replied Isadore. "Trust me, 'tis but to show that it will be put on again under happier auspices."
"'Twill be in heaven, then," replied Agnes, fixing her eyes on the thin fair hand which lay on the table before her. "'Twill be in heaven, then! Do you too deceive yourself, lady?--Isadore, Isadore! the canker-worm of grief has not only eaten the leaves of the blossom, it has blasted it to the heart. I would not die if I could avoid my fate, for it will give Philip pain; but for me, lady,--for me, the grave is the only place of peace. Care must have made some progress ere that ring, round which the flesh once rose up, as if to secure it for ever as its own, would slip with its own weight to the ground."
Isadore bent her head, and was silent; for she saw, that to speak of hope at that moment would be worse than vain.
"I had been trying," said the queen, clinging to the subject with a sort of painful fondness,--"I had been trying to write something to Constance of Brittany, that might console her for the loss of her poor boy Arthur. But I blotted many a page in vain, and found how hard it is to speak one word of comfort to real grief. I know not whether it was that my mind still selfishly turned to my own sorrows, and took from me the power of consoling those of others, or whether there is really no such thing as consolation upon earth; but, still as I wrote, I found each line more calculated to sadden than to cheer. At last I abandoned the task, and letting my hand which had held the paper drop beside me, this faithless pledge of as true a love as ever bound two hearts, dropped from my finger and rolled away from me. Oh! Isadore, 'twas surely an evil omen! But it was not that which made me weep. As I put it on again, I thought of the day that it had first shone upon my hand, and all the images of lost happiness rose up around me like the spectres of dead friends, calling me too to join the past; and oh! how the bright and golden forms of those sunny days contrasted with the cold, hard sorrow of each hour at present. Oh! Isadore, 'tis not the present, I believe, that ever makes our misery; 'tis its contrast with the past--'tis the loss of some hope, or the crushing of some joy--the disappointment of expectation, or the regrets of memory. The present is nothing--nothing--nothing, but in its relation to the future or the past."
"How painful, then, must be that contrast to the poor duchess of Brittany," said Isadore in reply, taking advantage of the mention that the queen had made of Constance, to lead her mind away from the contemplation of her own griefs. "How bitter must be her tears for that gallant young Prince Arthur, when all France is weeping for him! Not a castle throughout the land but rings, they say, with the tale of his murder. Not a bosom but beats with indignation against his assassin. I have just heard, that Sir Guy de Coucy, who was his fellow-prisoner, defied John Lackland in the midst of his barons, and cast down his gauntlet at the foot of the very throne. The messenger," she added, casting down her eyes as the queen raised hers, for there came a certain tell-tale glow into her cheek as she spoke of De Coucy, that she did not care to be remarked,--"the messenger you sent to the canon of St. Berthe's has but now returned, bringing news from Paris concerning the court of peers held upon the murderer, and affirming that he has refused to appear before the barons of France--at least, so says my girl Eleanor."
The news of Arthur's death, and various particulars concerning it, had spread in vague rumours to every castle in France. Many and various were the shapes which the tale had assumed, but of course it had reached Agnes de Meranie and her suite in somewhat of a more authentic form. All that concerned Philip in any way was of course a matter of deep interest to her, Isadore's plan for withdrawing her mind for the moment from herself had therefore its full effect, and she instantly directed the messenger to be brought to her, for the purpose of learning from him all that had occurred at the court of peers, to which assembly, however, we shall conduct our reader in his own person.
CHAPTER X.
To those who have not studied the spirit of the feudal system, it would seem an extraordinary and almost inconceivable anomaly, that one sovereign prince should have the power of summoning to his court, and trying as a felon, another, of dominions scarcely less extensive than his own. But the positions of vassal and lord were not so incoherent or ill-defined as may be imagined. Each possessor of a feof, at the period of his investiture, took upon himself certain obligations towards the sovereign under whom he held, from which nothing could enfranchise him, as far as that feof was concerned; and upon his refusing, or neglecting to comply with those obligations, the territory enfeofed or granted returned in right to what was called the capital lord, or him, in short, who granted it.
To secure, however, that even justice should be done between the vassal and the lord--each equally an interested party--it became necessary that some third person, or body of persons, should possess the power of deciding on all questions between the other two. Thus it became a fundamental principle of the feudal system, that no vassal could be judged but by his peers,--that is to say, by persons holding in the same relative position as himself, from the same superior. For the purpose of rendering these judgments, each great baron held, from time to time, his court, composed of vassals holding directly from himself; and, in like manner, the king's court of peers was competent to try all causes affecting the feudatories who held immediately from the crown.
John therefore was summoned to appear before the court of Philip Augustus, not as King of England, which was an independent sovereignty, but as Duke of Normandy, and Lord of Anjou, Poitou, and Guyenne, all feofs of the crown of France. No one, therefore, doubted the competence of the court, and John himself dared not deny its authority.
It was a splendid sight, the palace of the Louvre on the morning appointed for the trial. Each of the great barons of France, anxious that none of his peers should outvie him in the splendour of his train, had called together all his most wealthy retainers, and presented himself at the court of the king, followed by a host of knights and nobles, clothed in the graceful flowing robes worn in that day, shining with gold and jewels, and flaunting with all the gay colours that the art of dyeing could then produce. Silks and velvets, and cloths of gold and silver, contended in gorgeous rivalry, in the courts and antechambers of the palace. Flags and pennons, banners and banderols, fluttered on the breeze; while all the most beautiful horses that could be procured, were led in the various trains, by the pages and squire, unmounted; as if their graceful forms were too noble to bear even the burden of a prince.
In the great hall itself the scene was more solemn, but scarcely less magnificent. Around, in the midst of all the gorgeous decorations of a royal court on its day of solemn ceremony, sat all the highest and noblest of France, clothed in those splendid robes of ermine, which, independent of any associations of their value, from the very snowy whiteness, and the massy folds into which that peculiar fur falls, gives an idea of majesty and grandeur that no other dress can convey. Each bore upon his coroneted[27] brow the lines of stern and impressive gravity; for all deeply felt how solemn was the occasion on which they had met, how terrible was the cause of their assembly, and how mighty would be the consequences of their decision. The feeling was near akin to awe; and many of the younger peers scarcely seemed to breathe, lest they should disturb the silence.
In the centre, surrounded by all the insignia of royalty, upon a throne raised several steps above the hall, and covered by a dais of crimson and gold, sat Philip Augustus--a monarch indeed, in mind, in person, and in look. There was a simple bandlet of gold around his brows[28], raised with fleurs de lis, and jewelled with fine uncut stones; but the little distinction which existed between it and the coronets of his peers would have hardly marked the sovereign. Though personal appearance, however, is indeed no sign of dignity, either of mind or station, yet Philip Augustus was not to be mistaken. There was royalty in his eye and his carriage. The custom of command shone out in every line; and though there were many noble and princely persons present, there was none like him.
On the king's left hand stood Mountjoy, king-at-arms, holding a scroll, containing the appeal of Constance, Duchess of Brittany, to the peers of France, for the punishment of John, called unjustly--it went on to state--King of England, for the murder of Arthur Plantagenet, his nephew and born sovereign, her son.
On the right, stood De Coucy, neither armed nor clothed in his robes as peer, though, however small his territories, their being free and held under no one, gave him such a right; but being there as the chief accuser of John, he sat not of course amongst those called to judge him.
Several of the peers' seats were vacant; and, before proceeding to the immediate business on which the court had met, various messengers were admitted, to offer the excuses of the several barons, who, either from want of power or inclination, were not present in person. The apology of most was received as sufficient; but, at the names of several, the king's brow darkened, and he turned a meaning look to his chancellor, Guerin, who stood at a little distance.
When this part of the ceremony was concluded, Philip made a sign to the king of arms, who, having waved his hand to still a slight murmur that had been caused by the admission of the messengers, proceeded to read the petition of Constance of Brittany; and then, followed by a train of heralds and marshals, advanced to the great doors of the hall, which were thrown open at his approach; and, in a loud voice, summoned John, Duke of Normandy, to appear before the peers of France, and answer to the charge of Constance Duchess of Brittany.
Three times he repeated the call, as a matter of ceremony; and, between each reiteration, the trumpets sounded, and then gave a pause for reply.
At length, after a brief conversation with some persons without, the heralds returned, introducing two persons as deputies for John, who, as every one there already knew, was not, and would not be present. The one was a bishop, habited in his pontifical robes, and the other the well-known Hubert de Burgh.
"Sir deputies, you are welcome," said the king, as the two Normans advanced to the end of the table in the centre of the hall. "Give us the cause why John of Anjou does not present himself before his peers, to answer the charges against him? Say, is he sick to the death? Or, does he dare deny the competence of my court?"
"He is neither sick, sire," replied the bishop, "nor does he, as Duke of Normandy, at all impugn the authority of the peers of France to judge upon all questions within the limits of this kingdom." Philip's brow relaxed. "But," continued the bishop, "before trusting himself in a city, and a land, where he has many and bitter enemies, he demands that the King of France shall guarantee his safety."
"Willingly," replied Philip; "let him come! I will warrant him from harm or from injustice."
"But will you equally stake your royal word," demanded the bishop, fixing his eyes keenly on the king, as if he feared some deceit--"will you stake your royal word that he shall return safely to his own land?"
"Safely shall he return," replied the king, with a clear, marked, and distinct voice, "if the judgment of his peers permit him so to do."
"But if the peers condemn him," asked the bishop, "will you give him a safe conduct?"
"No! by the Lord of heaven and earth!" thundered the king. "No! If his peers condemn him, he shall suffer the punishment his peers award, should they doom him to the block, the cord, or the wheel! Their sentence shall be executed to the letter."
"You well know then, sire king," replied the bishop calmly, "that John, King of England, cannot submit himself to your court. The realm of England cannot be put at the disposition of the barons of France, by its king submitting to their judgment; neither would our English barons suffer it."
"What is that to me?" cried Philip. "Because my vassal, the Duke of Normandy, increases his domains, do I, as his sovereign, lose my rights? By heaven's host, no! Go, heralds, to the courts, and the bridges, and the highways, and summon John of Anjou to present himself before his peers! Sir bishop, you have done your embassy; and, if you stay but half an hour, you shall hear the judgment of our court, on the cause of which we have met to take cognizance."
The bishop, however, and his companion, took their leave and departed; the bishop bowing low, in reverence to the court; and the stout Hubert de Burgh turning away after a calm careless glance round the peers of France, as if he had just concluded a piece of needless ceremony, of which he was heartily tired.
For a moment or two after the deputies were gone, the barons continued to converse together in a whisper, while Philip sat without speaking, glancing his quick keen eye from one countenance to another, as if he would gather beforehand the terms of the judgment they were afterwards to pronounce. Gradually, complete silence began again to spread itself over the court; one baron after another dropping the conversation that he held with his neighbour, till all was still. There is always something awful in very profound silence; but when the silence of expectation on any great occasion has been prolonged for any extent of time, it becomes a sort of painful charm, which requires no small resolution to break.
Thus the peers of France, when once the stillness had completely established itself, sat without word or motion, waiting the return of the heralds, awed by the very quiet; though many of the more timid and undecided would fain have asked counsel of those next whom they sat, had they dared to break the spell that seemed to hang over the assembly.
Many a vague doubt and many a fear attached itself to the duty they were called upon to perform; for, even in that day, it was no small responsibility to set a world in arms, and renew that deluge of bloodshed that had so lately ceased. From time to time, under the influence of these feelings, the several peers gazed in the countenances of their fellows, to see if they were shaken by the same hesitations as themselves. But it is ever the bold that lead; and here and there, scattered through the assembly, might be seen a face that turned to no one for advice or support; but, with the eyes fixed on the ground, the brow bent, and the lips closed, seemed to offer a picture of stern determined resolution. It was these men who decided the deliberations of the day. For their opinions all waited, and all voices followed their lead.
At length the doors of the hall were again thrown open; and Mountjoy king-at-arms, presented himself, informing the court that he had summoned John of Anjou, Duke of Normandy, in the courts, on the bridges, and the highways; and that he did not appear.
There was now a deep pause, and Philip turned his eyes to the Duke of Burgundy. He was a man of a dull, saturnine aspect, stout even to corpulency, with shaggy eyebrows overhanging his dark eyes, but with a high, finely formed nose, and small, well-shaped mouth, so that his countenance was stern without being morose, and striking without being handsome.
The great baron rose from his seat, while there was a breathless silence all around; and laying his hand upon his heart, he said in a clear stern tone, "I pronounce John of Anjou guilty of murder and disloyalty; I hold him a cruel and perverse traitor; and I declare that for these crimes, his feofs of Normandy, Anjou, Poitou, Maine, and Guyenne, are justly forfeited to his sovereign lord, and he himself worthy of death, upon my honour!"
A murmur of approbation succeeded, for a great proportion of the barons had already determined upon a similar judgment; and those who had remained undecided, were glad of some one with whose opinion to establish their own. One after another now rose; and, notwithstanding all the hesitation which many had felt the moment before, there was not one dissenting voice from the condemnation pronounced by the Duke of Burgundy. Had there been any strong mind to oppose, half the peers would have followed him like a flock of sheep, but there was none; and they now all eagerly, and almost turbulently, pronounced judgment against John of Anjou, sentencing him unanimously to forfeiture of all his feofs, and every pain inflicted on high felony.
The silence was succeeded by a babble of tongues perfectly extraordinary; but the moment after, the voice of the king was heard above the rest, and all was again hushed.
What would in the present day smack of stage effect, was in perfect harmony with the manners, habits, and feelings of those times, when a spirit unknown to us--a moving principle whose force is now exhausted, or only felt even feebly in the breasts of a few--the spirit of chivalry, impelled men to every thing that was singular and striking.
Philip rose majestically from his throne, drew his sword from the scabbard, and, advancing to the table, laid the weapon upon it naked. Then, gazing round the peers, he exclaimed, "To arms! to arms! nobles of France, your judgment is pronounced! 'tis time to enforce it with the sword!--to arms! to arms I lose no moments in vain words. Call together your vassals. Philip of France marches to execute your sentence against John of Anjou; and he calls on his barons to support their award! The day of meeting is the tenth from this, the place of monstre beneath the walls of château Galliard! let cowards leave me, and brave men follow me! and I will punish the traitor before a year be out."
So saying, he waved his hand to his peers; and, followed by the heralds and men-at-arms, left the hall of assembly.
The younger and less clear-sighted of the peers eagerly applauded Philip's brief appeal! but there was, in fact, a tone of triumph in it, which struck the more deep-thinking barons, and perhaps made them fear that they had that day consecrated a power, which might sooner or later be used against themselves. Doubt kept them silent, however; and they separated at once, to prepare for the campaign before them.
Philip Augustus lost no time. Scarcely had the herald carried to John of England the news of his condemnation by the court of peers, than every part of his dominions in France were invaded at once with an overpowering force.
Disgusted with his baseness, his treachery, and his levity, the barons of England afforded him but little aid, and the nobles of his French dominions, in most instances, yielded willingly to the king of France, who offered them friendship and protection on which they could rely. The greater towns, indeed, of Maine and Normandy still held for John, and made some show of resistance: but what by superior force and skill in war, and what by politic concessions, before two months were over the major part had been led to submit to Philip.
The war was of course begun, as was ever the case in those days, by hordes of plunderers of every description, who, on the very first call to arms, inundated Normandy, pillaging, ravaging, and destroying, sparing neither sex nor age, and, by their excesses, driving the people to submit willingly to the authority of the French monarch, who alone could afford them any sufficient protection. To the towns, Philip held out the promise of being rendered free communes under royal charters; to the barons he offered security in all their rights and privileges; and to the people, peace and safety. With these offers, and the sight of their accomplishment wherever they were accepted, on the one hand, and an immense and conquering army on the other, it is not at all wonderful that triumph should follow every where the royal standard of France.
John fled timidly into Guyenne, while the Earl of Salisbury, with small and inefficient forces, endeavoured in some degree to check the progress of the French monarch. Battles there were none, for the inequality of the two armies totally prevented William Longsword from hazarding any thing like a general engagement; but sieges and skirmishes succeeded each other rapidly; and De Coucy had now the opportunity of drinking deep the cup of glory for which he had so long thirsted.
At the head of the retainers of the Count de Tankerville, which formed as splendid a leading as any in the army, he could display those high military talents, which had always hitherto been confined to a narrower sphere. He did not neglect the occasion of doing so, and in castle and in bower, throughout all the land of France, wherever great deeds were spoken of, there was repeated the name of Sir Guy de Coucy.
In the mean while, still confined to the castle of Rolleboise, Isadore of the Mount heard, from day to day, of her lover's feats of arms; and, though she often trembled for his safety, with those timid fears from which a woman's heart, even in the days of chivalry, was never wholly free; yet, knowing the impulse that carried him forward, and proud of the affection that she had inspired and that she returned, whenever the name of the young knight was mentioned, her eye sparkled and her cheek glowed with love, and hope, and expectation.
Her father, she thought, after the base attempt made to carry her off by William de la Roche Guyon--of the particulars of which she was now fully aware--would never press her to wed so base a traitor; and who stood so fair to win the place that he had lost as Guy de Coucy? Thus whispered hope. Fear, however, had another discourse; and perhaps she listened as often to the tale of the one, as the other.
During this time, the Count d'Auvergne had recovered from the wound he had received; and, under the care of his own attendants, who, by the clue afforded by De Coucy, had regained him, soon acquired new strength--at least, of body. It was remarked, however, that, though while suffering excessive exhaustion from loss of blood, his mind had been far more clear and collected; yet, in proportion as he recovered his corporeal vigour, his intellectual faculties again abandoned him. His followers, who, notwithstanding the cold sternness of his manners, loved him with true feudal attachment, kept a continual watch upon him; but it was in vain they did so. With a degree of cunning, often joined to insanity, he contrived to deceive all eyes; and once more made his escape, leaving not a trace by which he could be followed.
Such was the situation of all the personages concerned in this history, towards the end of the month of June; when suddenly the Earl of Salisbury, with the handful of men who had accompanied him, ceasing to hover round the king's army, harassing it with continued skirmishes, as had been his custom, disappeared entirely, leaving all Normandy open and undefended, A thousand vague reports were instantly circulated through the camp; but the only correct one was, that which was brought to the king's tent, as he sat writing after the march of the morning.
"Well," cried Philip, as one of his most active scouts was ushered into his presence, "what news of the Earl of Salisbury? No more I believes! Give me some certainty."
"My lord," replied the man, "I am now sure; for I saw the rear-guard of his army in full march towards Boulogne. Mocking the jargon of the Normans, I spoke with some of the men, when I found that the whole host is boon for Flanders."
"Ha! so soon!" cried the king. "I knew not that they were so far prepared."
But, to explain the king's words, we must turn to the events which had been going on without the immediate limits of France, and which, while he was striding from victory to victory within his own dominions, threatened to overwhelm him by the combination of his external enemies, with all his discontented vassals.
CHAPTER XI.
During the wars in Normandy and Maine, John had been absent, but not inactive; and, what by his single power he could not bring about, he resolved to accomplish by coalition. Many causes of enmity towards Philip Augustus existed amongst all the monarchs by whose territories his kingdom was surrounded, and not less amongst his own immediate vassals; and John at once saw, that his only hope of ever regaining the feofs that Philip had wrested from him, was in joining his own power with those of every enemy of the French monarch, and hurling him, by their united efforts, from the throne.
The English sovereign found no opposition to these schemes of policy. Otho, emperor of Germany, had met in Philip an unceasing and irreconcileable adversary. Philip it was who had principally opposed his election; Philip it was who had raised candidate after candidate against him. Philip it was who had taken advantage of his late quarrels with the irritable pope; and had, even after his coronation, thrown in a rival, and placed the greater part of Upper Germany in the hands of Frederic of Sicily. Otho, therefore, thirsted for vengeance; and the proposal of a general confederacy against the French monarch but fulfilled his hopes and anticipated his efforts.
Ferrand, count of Flanders, was not less easily won to join the coalition. One of the greatest vassals of the crown of France, with territories more extensive than the royal domain itself, he had ever been jealous of Philip's increasing power, and had, by many a breach of his feudal duties, endeavoured to loosen the tie that bound him to his sovereign. By the example of John, however, he now began to see that such breach of duty would not pass unpunished. Views of ambition, too, joined themselves to hatred and fear. He saw prospects of independence, of sovereignty, and immense territorial aggrandisement, as the infallible consequence of Philip's overthrow; and he therefore was one of the first to put his name to the confederation. So great an alliance once established, thousands of minor princes joined themselves to it, eager to share the spoil. The dukes of Brabant and Lemburgh, the counts of Holland, Namur, and Boulogne, whether vassals of the king of France or not, all found some motive to unite against him, and some excuse to their own conscience, for throwing off the homage they had vowed.
In the mean time, the disaffection of Philip's vassals in the heart of his kingdom was great and increasing. The immense strides which the monarchical power had taken under his guidance; the very vast increase of authority they had themselves cast into his hands by their judgment against John: the extensive increase of absolute domain, which his prompt and successful execution of that judgment had given him, made each baron tremble for his own power; while, at the same time, Philip's protection of the communes, his interference in matters of justice and general right, and the appeal he granted in his court as supreme lord against the decisions of his great vassals, made each also tremble for the stability of the feudal system itself.
John took care to encourage discontent and apprehension. A thousand rumours were spread concerning Philip's views and intentions. Some declared that his ambitious mind would never be at peace till he had re-established the empire of Charlemagne--till he had broken the power of the barons, and wrested from their hands the administration of justice in their territories. Some said that his plans were already formed for throwing down their strongholds, and possessing himself of their lands; and there was not, in fact, a report, however extravagant, that could irritate the fears and jealousies of the nobles of France against their king, that was not cunningly devised, and industriously circulated.
Some believed, and some pretended to believe; and nothing was heard of, from all parts of the kingdom, but preparations for revolt.
In the mean while, Philip was, as we have already shown, steadily pursuing his operations against John, the more anxious for success, because he knew that one defeat would at once call the storm upon his head. He suffered himself not to be turned from the business he had in hand by threatenings of any kind, having secured what he considered sufficient support amongst his barons to repel his external enemies and punish internal rebellion. He saw too, with that keen sagacity which was one of his peculiar qualities, that passions were beginning to mingle themselves in the confederacy of his enemies, which would in time weaken their efforts, if not disunite them entirely. These passions were not those doubts and jealousies of each other, which so often overthrow the noblest alliances; but rather that wild and eager grasping after the vast and important changes which can only be brought about by the operation of many slow and concentring causes.
The designs of the confederates spread as they found their powers increase. Their first object had been but to make war upon Philip Augustus. Perhaps even the original proposal extended but to curb his authority, and reduce him to the same position with his predecessors. Gradually, however, they determined to cast him and his race from the throne; and, calculating upon the certainty of success, they proceeded by treaty to divide his dominions amongst them. Otho was assigned his part, John his, and Ferrand of Flanders claimed Paris and all the adjacent territory for himself. All laws and customs established by Philip were to be done away, and the feudal system restored, as it had been seen a century and a half before. Various other changes were determined upon; but that which was principally calculated to destroy their alliance, was the resolution to attack the power of the church, and to divide its domains amongst the barons and the knights.
John had felt the lash of a papal censure; and, though the ecclesiastical authority had been exercised for the purpose of raising Otho to the imperial throne, he also had since experienced the weight of the church's domination, and had become inimical to the sway by which he had been formerly supported. Nothing then was spoken of less than reducing the power of Rome, and seizing on the luxurious wealth of the clergy.
Innocent the pope heard and trembled; and, though he the very first had laid the basis of the confederacy against the French monarch, he now saw consequences beyond it, that made him use every effort to stop it in its career; but it was in vain. The hatreds he raised up against Philip in his own dominions--the fears he had excited, and the jealousies he had stimulated, were now producing their fruits; and a bitter harvest they promised against himself. At the same time, as he contemplated the approaching struggle, which was hurrying on with inconceivable rapidity to its climax, he beheld nothing but danger from whatever party might prove victorious. Over the King of France, however, he fancied he had some check, so long as the question of his divorce remained undecided, and consequently the usual doubts and hesitations of the church of Rome were prolonged even beyond their ordinary measure of delay.
The confederation had not been so silent in its movements but that the report thereof had reached the ears of Philip Augustus. Care had been taken, however, that the immediate preparations should be made as privately as possible, so that the first intimation that the troops of the coalition were actually in the field against him, was given by the movement of the Earl of Salisbury, upon Flanders.
After that moment, however, "post after post came thick as hail," announcing the various motions of the allies. A hundred and fifty thousand men, of all nations and arms, were already assembled on the banks of the Scheld. John of England was in arms in Poitou; and more than twenty strong places had submitted to him without a stroke. Otho's imperial banner was given to the wind; and fresh thousands were flocking to it every hour, as if his very Gothic name had called together the myriads of the North to a fresh invasion of the more civilised world.
At the same time, revolt and disaffection were manifest through every district of Languedoc; and some of the nearest relations and oldest friends of the French monarch swelled the ranks of his enemies. Such were the tidings that every courier brought; and such were the forces that threatened to overwhelm the kingdom of France and overthrow its throne.
It would be vain to say that Philip Augustus saw such a mighty combination against him without alarm; but it was not the alarm of a weak and feeble mind, which yields to difficulties, or shrinks from danger. No sooner did he hear the extent to which his enemies' preparations had been carried--an extent which he had not fully anticipated--than he issued his charter, convoking the ban and arrière ban of France to meet at Soissons, and calling to his aid all good men and true throughout his dominions.
Though far inferior in number to his enemies, the force he mustered was any thing but insignificant. Then appeared the gratitude of the communes towards the king who had enfrachised them. By their charters they were bound to furnish a certain number of armed men in times of need; but on this occasion there is every reason to believe that they far exceeded their quota.
Nor were the nobles and the knights a few who presented themselves at the monstre at Soissons. Seldom had France shown so brilliant a display of chivalry; and even their inferiority of number was more than compensated by their zeal and their renown in arms.
First passed before the monarch, as he sat on his battle-horse surrounded by the troops of his own domains, his faithful vassal, Eudes, Duke of Burgundy, followed by all his vassals, vavassours, and knights, with a long train of many thousand archers and men-at-arms from all the vast lands of his kingly dukedom.
Next came Thibalt of Champagne, yet in his green youth, but accompanied by his uncle Philip, and a contingent of knights and soldiers that was an army in itself. Then succeeded the Counts of Dreux, Auxerre, Ponthieu, and St. Paul, each with a long train of men-at-arms. De Coucy leading the troops of Tankerville, the Lords of Montmorency, of Malvoisin, St. Valary, Mareiul, and Roye, with the Viscount of Melun, and the famous Guillaume des Barres, followed after; while the troops willingly raised by the clergy, and the long trains of archers and men-at-arms furnished by the free cities, completed the line, and formed an army of more than eighty thousand men, all bedecked with glittering banners and dancing plumes, which gave the whole that air of splendour and pageant that excites enthusiasm and stimulates hope.
The king's eyes lightened with joy as he looked upon them; and conscious of his own great powers of mind to lead to the best effect the noble host before him, he no longer doubted of victory.
"Now," said he in his own breast, as he thought of all that the last few years had brought--the humiliation that the pope had inflicted on him--the agony of his parting from Agnes--the vow that had been extorted from him not to see her till the council had pronounced upon his divorce, if its sentence should be given within six months--the long delays of the church of Rome, which had now nearly protracted its deliberations beyond that period--the treason which the proceedings of Innocent had stirred up amongst his vassals, mingled with the memory of torn affections and many bitter injuries--"now! it shall be my turn to triumph, Agnes! I will soon be thine, or in the grave! and let me see the man, prelate or prince, who, when I have once more clasped thy hand in mine, shall dare to pluck it thence! Now, now!" he murmured,--"now the turn is mine!"
Detaching a part of his new-raised army to keep in check the forces of King John in Poitou, Philip Augustus, without a moment's delay, marched to meet the chief body of the confederates in Flanders.
All the horrors of a great and bloody warfare soon followed the bodies of plunderers and adventurers that went before the army, burning, pillaging, and destroying every thing, as they advanced beyond the immediate territories of the king. Nothing was beheld as the army advanced, but smoking ruins, devastated fields, and the dead bodies of women and children, mingled with the half-consumed carcasses of cattle, and the broken implements of industry and domestic comfort. It was a piteous and sad sight to see all the pleasant dwellings of a land laid waste, the hopes of the year's labour all destroyed; and the busy human emmets, that had there toiled and joyed, swept away as if the wing of a pestilence had brushed the face of the earth, or lying murdered on their desolate hearths.
Philip Augustus, more refined than his age, strove to soften the rigours of warfare by many a proclamation against all useless violence; but in that day such proclamations were in vain; and the very unsheathing of war's flaming sword scorched up the land before it struck.
In the mean while, the Imperial forces, now swelled to more than two hundred thousand men, marched eagerly to meet the king, and about the same time each army arrived within a few miles of Tournay.
Both chieftains longed for a battle, yet the ardour of Philip's forces was somewhat slackened since their departure from Soissons. Ferrand of Flanders and his confederates had contrived, with infinite art, to seduce some of the followers of the French monarch, and to spread doubt and suspicion over many others; so that Philip's reliance was shaken in his troops, and most of the leaders divided amongst themselves.
Such' continued the doubtful state of the royal army when Philip arrived at Tournay, and heard that the emperor, with all his forces, was encamped at the village of Mortain, within ten miles of the city; but still the king resolved to stake all upon a battle; for, though his troops were inferior, he felt that his own superior mind was a host; and he saw that, if the disaffection which was reported really existed amongst his barons, delay would but increase it in a tenfold degree.
The evening had come, all his preparations were over he had summoned his barons to council in an hour; and, sitting in a large chamber of the old castle of Tournay, Philip had given order that he should not be disturbed.
He felt, as it were, a thirst for calm and tranquil thought. The last few months of his existence had been given up to all the energy of action; his reflections had been nothing but eternal calculation--the combination of his own movements--the anticipation of his enemy's-- plans of battle and policy; and all the thousand momentary anxieties that press upon the general of a large and ill-organised army. He had thought deeply and continually, it is true; but he had not time for thoughts of that grand and extensive nature that raise and dignify the mind every time they are indulged. Though Agnes, too, was still the secret object that gave life and movement to all his energies--though he loved her still with that deep, powerful love that is seldom permitted to share the heart with ambition--though she, in fact, was his ambition's object, and though the battle to which he strode would, if won, place in his hands such power, that none should dare to hold her from him--yet he had scarcely hitherto had an instant to bestow on those calmer, sweeter, gentler ideas, where feeling mingles with reflection, and relieves the mind from petty calculation and workday cares. There are surely two distinct parts linked together in the human soul--feeling and thought:--the thought, that receives, that separates, that investigates, that combines;--the feeling, that hopes, that wishes, that enjoys, that creates.
Philip Augustus, however, felt a thirst for that calm reflection, wherein feeling has the greater shared and, covering his eyes with his hands, he now abandoned himself to it altogether. The coming day was to be a day of bloodshed and of strife,--a day that was to hurl him from a throne, or to crown him with immortal renown,--to leave him a corpse on the cold field of battle, or to increase his power and glory, and restore him to Agnes. He thought of it long and deeply. He thought of what would be Agnes' grief if she heard that her husband, that her lover had fallen before his enemies; and he wrung his own heart by picturing the agony of hers. Then again came brighter visions. Hope rose up and grew into expectation; and he fancied what would be her joy, when, crowned with the laurel of victory, and scoffing to shame the impotent thunder of the Roman church, he should clasp her once more in his arms, and bid her tread upon the necks of her enemies. Ambition perhaps had its share in his breast, and his thoughts might run on to conquest yet to come, and to mighty schemes of polity and aggrandisement; but still Agnes had therein a share. In the chariot of victory, or on the imperial throne, imagination always placed her by his side.
His dream was interrupted by a quick step, and the words, "My lord!" and, uncovering his eyes, he beheld Guerin advancing from behind the tapestry that fell over the door.
"What now, Guerin?" cried the king somewhat impatiently. "What now?"
"My lord," replied the minister, "I would not have intruded, but that I have just seen a fellow, who brings tidings from the enemy's camp, of such importance, I judged that you would willingly give ear to it yourself."
"Knowest thou the man?" demanded Philip: "I love not spies."
"I cannot say with any certainty, that I have before seen him, sire," replied Guerin, "though I have some remembrance of his face. He says, however, that he was foot-servant to Prince Arthur, who hired him at Tours; and he gives so clear an account of the taking of Mirebeau, and the subsequent disasters, that there is little doubt of his tale. He says moreover, that, being taken there with the rest, Lord Salisbury has kept him with him since, to dress one of his horses; till, finding himself so near the royal army, he made his escape like a true man."
"Admit him," said the king: "his tale is a likely one."
Guerin retired for a moment; and then returned, with a bony, powerful man, whose short cut hair, long beard, and mustachoes, offered so different an appearance to the face of anything like a Frenchman in those days, that Philip gazed on him with some doubts.
"How, fellow!" cried he; "thou art surely some Polack, no true Frenchman, with thy beard like a hermit's, and thy hair like a hedge-hog!"
The man's tongue, however, at once showed that he claimed France for his country justly; and his singular appearance he accounted for, by saying it was a whim of the Earl of Salisbury.
"Answer me then," said the king, looking upon him somewhat sternly. "Where were your tents pitched in the enemy's camp?--You will find I know their forces as well as you; and if you deceive me, you die."
"The tents of the Earl of Salisbury are pitched between those of the Count of Holland and the troops of the emperor, so please you, sire," replied the man boldly. "I came to tell you the truth, not to deceive you."
"You have spoken truth in one thing, at least," replied the monarch. "One more question," he continued, looking at some notes on the table,--"one more question, and thou shalt tell thy tale thy own way. What troops lie behind those of the Duke of Brabant, and what are their number?"
"The next tents to those of the Duke of Brabant," replied the man, "are those of the Duke of Lorraine, amounting, they say in the camp, to nine hundred knights and seven thousand men-at-arms."
"Thou art right in the position, fellow, and nearly right in the number," replied the king, "therefore will I believe thee. Now repeat the news that you gave to that good knight."
"May it please you, sire," replied the man, with a degree of boldness that amounted almost to affectation, "late last night, a council was held in the tent of the emperor; and the Earl of Salisbury chose me to hold his horse near the entrance of the tent,--for he is as proud an Englishman as ever buckled on spurs;--and, though all the other princes contented themselves with leaving their horses on the outside of the second guard, he must needs ride to the very door of the tent, and have his horse held there till he came out."
"By my faith! 'tis like their island pride!" said the king. "Each Englishman fancies himself equal to a prince. But proceed with thy tale, and be quick, for the hour of the council approaches."
"My story is a very short one, sire," replied the man, "for it was but little I heard. However, after they had spoken within the tent for some time in a low voice, the emperor's tongue sounded very loud, as if some one had opposed him; and I heard him say, 'He will march against us, whatever be the peril--I know him well; and then, at the narrow passage of Damarets we will cut them off to a man, for Sir Guy de Coucy has promised to embarrass their rear with the men of Tankerville;--and he will keep his word too!' cried the emperor loudly, as if some one had seemed to doubt it, 'for we have promised him the hand of his lady love, the daughter of Count Julian of the Mount, if we win the victory.'
"Ha!" cried the king, turning his eyes from the countenance of the informer to that of Guerin,--"ha! this is treason, indeed! Said they aught else, fellow, that you heard?"
"They spoke of there being many traitors in your host, sire," replied the man; "but they named none else but Sir Guy de Coucy; and just then I heard the Earl of Salisbury speak as if he were walking to the mouth of the tent. 'If Philip discovers his treason,' said he, 'he will cut off his head, and then your plan is nought.' Just as he spoke, he came out, and seeing me stand near the tent, he bade me angrily go farther off, so that I heard no more."
"Have Sir Guy de Coucy to prison!" said the king, turning to Guerin. "By the holy rood! we will follow the good Earl of Salisbury's plan, and have one traitor less in the camp!"
As he heard these words, the eyes of the informer sparkled with a degree of joy, that did not escape the keen observing glance of the king; but, wishing to gain more certain knowledge, he thanked him with condescending dignity for the news he had given, and told him to wait amongst the serjeants of arms below, till the council should be over, when the chancellor would give him a purse of gold, as a reward for his services. The man with a low reverence retired. "Follow, Guerin," cried Philip hastily. "Bid some of the serjeants look to him narrowly, but let them treat him well. Lead him to babble, if it be possible. However, on no account let him escape. Have this De Coucy to prison too, though I doubt the tale."
Guerin turned to obey; but, at that moment, the pages from without opened the doors of the chamber, giving entrance to the barons who had been called to the council.
A moment of bustle succeeded; and by the time that Guerin could quit the king, the man who had brought the information we have just heard was gone, and nowhere to be found.
So suspicious a circumstance induced Guerin to refrain from those strong measures against De Coucy which the king had commanded, till he had communicated with the monarch on the subject. He sent down, however to the young knight's quarters, to require his presence at the castle on business of import; when the answer returned by his squires was, that De Coucy himself, his squire Hugo de Barre, who had by this time been ransomed by his lord, his page, and a small party of lances, had been absent ever since the encampment had been completed, and no one knew whither they had gone.
Guerin knit his brows; for he would have staked much upon De Coucy's honour; but yet, his absence at so critical a moment was difficult to be accounted for. He returned to Philip instantly, and found the council still in deliberation; some of its members being of opinion that it would be better to march directly forward upon Mortain and attack the enemy without loss of time; and others, again strongly counselling retreat upon Peronne.
Many weighty arguments had been produced on both sides, and at the moment Guerin entered, a degree of silence had taken place previous to the king's pronouncing his final decision. Guerin, however, approached the monarch, and bending beside him, informed him, in a low voice, of what he had just heard.
The king listened, knitting his brows and fixing his eyes upon the table, till Guerin had concluded; then raising his head, and thinking for a moment, without taking any immediate notice of what the minister had said, he announced his decision on the point before the council.
"Noble lords," said he, "we have heard and weighed your opinions upon the conduct of the war; but various circumstances will induce us, in some degree, to modify both, or, rather, to take a medium between them. If we advance upon the enemy at Mortain, we expose ourself to immense disadvantage in the narrow passage by Damarets. This consideration opposes itself on the one hand; and on the other, it must never be said that Philip of France fled before his enemies, when supported by so many true and faithful peers as we see around us here;" and the monarch glanced his eagle eye rapidly from face to face, with a look which, without evincing doubt, gathered at once the expression of each as he spoke. "Our determination therefore is, early to-morrow morning to march, as if towards Lille; and the next day, wheeling through the open plains of that country, to take the enemy on their flank, before they are aware of our designs. By dawn, therefore, I pray ye, noble peers, have your men all arrayed beneath your banners, and we will march against our enemy; who, be assured, whatever fair promises he holds out, is not alone the enemy of Philip, but of every true Frenchman. You are fighting for your hearths and for your homes; and where is the man, that will not strike boldly in such a quarrel? For to-night, lords, adieu! To-morrow we will meet you with the first ray of the sun."
With these words the council broke up, and the barons took their leave and withdrew; some well contented with the king's plan, some murmuring that their opinion had not been conceded to, and some perhaps disappointed with a scheme that threatened failure to the very confederacy against which they appeared in arms.
"'Tis strange, Guerin! 'tis strange!" cried the king, as soon as his peers were gone, "We have traitors amongst us, I fear!--Yet I will not believe that De Coucy is false. His absence is unaccountable; but, depend on it, there is some good cause;--and yet, that groom's tale against him! 'Tis strange! I doubt some of the faces, too, that I have seen but now. But I will try them, Guerin--I will try them; and if they be traitors, they shall damn themselves to hell!"
As the king had commanded, with the first ray of the sun the host was under arms; and stretching out in a long line under the walls of Tournay, it offered a gay and splendid sight, with the horizontal beams of the early morning shining bright on a thousand banners, and flashing back from ten thousand lances.
The marshals had scarcely arrayed it five minutes, when the king, followed by his glittering train, issued forth from the castle, mounted on a superb black charger, and armed cap-à-pié. He rode slowly from one end of the line to the other, bowing his plumed helmet in answer to the shouts and acclamations of the troops, and then returned to the very centre of the host. Circling round the crest of his casque were seen the golden fleurs de lis of the crown of France; and it was remarked, that behind him two of his attendants carried an immense golden wine-cup called a hanap, and a sharp naked sword.
In the centre of the line the king paused, and raised the volant piece of his helmet, when his face might be seen by every one, calm, proud, and dignified. At a sign from the monarch, two priests approached, carrying a large silver cruise and a small loaf of bread, which Philip received from their hands; and, cutting the bread into pieces with the edge of the sword carried by his attendant, he placed the pieces in the chalice, and then poured it full of wine.
"Barons of France!" cried he, in a loud voice, which made itself heard to an immense distance,--"Barons of France! Some foul liar last night sent me word, that there were traitors in my council and rebels in my host. Here I stand before you all, bearing on my casque the crown of France; and if amongst you there be one man that judges me unworthy to wear that crown, instantly let him separate from my people and depart to my enemies. He shall go free and unscathed, with his arms and followers, on the honour of a king! But those noble barons who are willing to fight and to die with their sovereign, in defence of their wives, their children, their homes, and their country--let them come forward; and in union with their king, eat this consecrated bread, and taste this sacred wine; and cursed be he who shall hereafter forget this sign of unity and fellowship!"
A loud shout from the whole host was the first reply; and then each baron, without an exception, hurried forward before the ranks, and claimed to pledge himself as Philip had proposed.
In the midst of the ceremony, however, a tall strong man in black armour pushed his way through the rest, exclaiming--"Give me the cup! give me the cup!"
When it was placed in his hands, he raised it first to his head, without lifting the visor of his helmet; but, finding his mistake, he unclasped the volant hurriedly, and throwing it back, discovered the wild countenance of Count Thibalt d'Auvergne. He then raised again the cup, and with a quick, but not ungraceful movement, bowed low to Philip, and drank some of the wine.
"Philip, king of France, I am yours till death," he said, when he had drunk; and after gazing for a few moments earnestly in the king's face, he turned his horse and galloped back to a large body of lances, a little in the rear of the line.
"Unhappy man!" said the king; and turning to Guerin, he added--"Let him be looked to, Guerin. See who is with him."
On sending to inquire, however, it was replied, that the Count d'Auvergne was there with his vassals and followers, to serve his sovereign Philip Augustus, in his wars, as a true and faithful liegeman.
Satisfied, therefore, that he was under good and careful guidance, the king turned his thoughts back to other subjects; and, having briefly thanked his barons for their ready zeal, commanded the army to begin its march upon Lille.