CHAPTER XIV.
The hurry and confusion of the battle was over; order was greatly restored; and the victorious army had encamped on the banks of the river, when Philip Augustus retired to his own tent; and, after having been disarmed by his attendants, commanded that they should leave him alone for an hour. No one was permitted to approach; and the monarch sat down to meditate over the vast and mighty deed he had accomplished.
Oh, what a whirlpool of contending feelings must have been within his bosom at that moment! Policy, triumph, ambition, hate, revenge, and love, each claimed their place in his heart.
The recollection of the difficulties he had overcome; the fresh memory of the agitating day in which he had overcome them; the glorious prospects yet to come--the past, the present, and the future, raised their voices together, and, with a sound like thunder, called to him, "Rejoice!"
But Philip Augustus sat with his hands clasped over his eyes, in deep and even melancholy thought. A feeling of his mortality mingled, he knew not why or how, even with the exultation of his victory. To his mind's eye, a shadow, as if from the tomb, was cast over the banner of his triumph. A feeling of man's transitory littleness,--a yearning after some more substantial glory, chastened the pride of the conqueror; and, bending the knee before Heaven's throne, he prayed fervently to the Giver of all victory.
After long, deep thought, he recalled his attendants; received several messengers that had come on from Lille; and, ordering the hangings of his tent to be drawn up, he commanded the various chieftains who had distinguished themselves in that day's conflict to be called around him.
It was a beautiful summer evening; and the rays of the declining sun shone over the field of battle, into the tent of the victor, as he sat surrounded by all the pomp of royalty, receiving the greatest and noblest of his land. For each he had some gratulatory word, some mention of their deeds, some praise of their exertions; and there was a tempered moderation in his smile, a calm, grave dignity of aspect, that relieved his greater barons from the fears which even they, who had aided to win it, could not help feeling, respecting the height to which such a victory might carry his ambition. There was not a touch of pride in his deportment--no, not even of the humility with which pride is sometimes fond to deck itself. It was evident that he knew he had won a great battle, and rejoiced--that he had vanquished his enemies--that he had conquered a confederated world;--but yet he never felt himself more mortal, or less fancied himself kindred to a god. He had triumphed in anticipation--the arrogance of victory had exhausted itself in expectation; and he found it not so great a thing to have overcome an universe as he had expected.
"Thanks, brave Burgundy! thanks!" cried he, grasping the hand of the duke, as he approached him. "We have won a great triumph; and Burgundy has fully done his part. By my faith! Lord Bishop of Beauvais, thy mace is as good a weapon as thy crosier. I trust thou mayest often find texts in Scripture to justify thy so smiting the king's enemies."
"I spill no blood, sire," replied the warlike bishop: "to knock on the head, is not to spill blood, let it be remarked."
"We have, at all events, with thine aid, my Lord of Beauvais," said the king, smiling at the prelate's nice distinction,--"we have, at all events, knocked on the head a great and foul confederation against our peace and liberties.--Ha! my young Lord of Champagne! Valiantly hast thou won thy knighthood.--Guillaume des Barres, thou art a better knight than any of the round table; and to mend thy cellarage, I give thee five hundred acres in my valley of Soissons. And Pierre de Dreux, too, art thou, for once in thy life, satisfied with hard blows? De Coucy, my noble De Coucy! to whom I did some wrong before the battle. As thou hast said thyself, De Coucy, God send me ever such traitors as thou art! However, I have news for thee, will make thee amends for one hard word. Welcome, St. Valery!--as welcome as when you came to my succour this fair morning. Now, lords, we will see the prisoners--not to triumph over them, but that they may know their fate."
According to the king's commands, the several prisoners of high rank, who had been taken that morning, were now brought before him; a part of the ceremony to which even his own barons looked with some doubt and anxiety, as well as the captives themselves; for, amongst those who had fought on the other side, were many who were not only traitors to the king, inasmuch as violating their oath of homage rendered them so--but traitors under circumstances of high aggravation, after repeated pardon and many a personal favour; yet who were also linked, by the nearest ties of kindred, to those in whose presence they now stood as prisoners. The first that appeared was the Earl of Salisbury, who, in the fear caused by the number of prisoners, had been bound with strong cords, and was still in that condition when brought before the king.
"I am sorry to see you here, William of Salisbury," said Philip frankly. "But why those cords upon your hands? Who has dared, so unworthily, to bind a noble knight? Off with them! quick! Will you not yield yourself a true prisoner?
"With all my heart, sir king," replied the earl, "since I may no better. The knaves tied me, I fancy, lest the prisoners should eat up their conquerors. But, by my faith! had the cowardly scum who have run from the field, but fought like even your gownsmen, we should have won few prisoners, but some glory."
"For form's sake, we must have some one to be hostage for your faith," said the king, "and then good knight, you shall have as much liberty as a prisoner may.--Who will be William of Salisbury's surety?"
"That will I," said De Coucy, stepping forward. "In life and lands, though I have but little of the last."
"Thank thee, old friend," said the earl, grasping his hand. "We fought in different parts of the field, or we would have tried some of our old blows; but 'tis well as it is, though 'twas a bishop, they tell me, knocked me on the head. I saw him not, in faith, or I would have split his mitre for his pains."
Prisoner after prisoner was now brought before the king, to most of whom he spoke in a tone to allay their fears. On Ferrand of Flanders, however, he bent his brows, strongly moved with indignation, when he remembered the presumptuous vaunting of that vain light prince, who had boasted that, within a month, he would ride triumphant into Paris.
"Now, rebellious vassal," said the monarch with severe dignity of aspect, "what fate does thy treason deserve? Snake, thou hast stung us for fostering thee in our bosom, and the pleasures of Paris, shown to thee in the hospitality of our court, have made thee covet the heritage of thy lord. As thou hast boasted, so shall it befall thee; and thou shalt ride in triumph into our capital; but, by heaven's queen! it shall not be to sport with jugglers and courtesans!"
Ferrand turned deadly pale, in his already excited fears, misconstruing the king's words. "I hope, my lord," said he, "that you will think well before you strike at my life. Remember, I am but your vassal for these lands of Flanders, in right of my wife--that I am the son of an independent monarch, and my life may not----"
"Thy life!" cried Philip, his lip curling with scorn,--"Fear not for thy pitiful life! Get thee gone! I butcher not my prisoners; but, by the Lord! I will take good care that ye rebel not again! Now, Renault of Boulogne," he continued, turning to the gigantic count of Boulogne, who, of all the confederates, had fought the longest and most desperately, entertaining no hope of life if taken, both from being one of the chief instigators of the confederacy, and from many an old score of rebellion not yet wiped off between himself and the king. He appeared before the monarch, however, with a frank smile upon his jovial countenance, as if prepared to endure with good humour the worst that could befall; and seeing that, as a kind of trophy, one of the pages bore in his enormous casque, on the crest of which he had worn two of the broad blades of whalebone, near six feet high, he turned laughing to those around, while the king spoke to Ferrand of Flanders--"Good faith," said he, "I thought myself a leviathan, but they have managed to catch me notwithstanding."
"Now, Renault of Boulogne," said the king sternly--"how often have I pardoned thee--canst thou tell?"
"Faith, my lord!" replied the count, "I never was good at reckoning; but this I do know, that you have granted me my life oftener than I either deserved or expected, though I cannot calculate justly how often."
"When you do calculate, then," said Philip, "add another time to the list; but, remember, by the bones of all the saints! it is the last!"
"Faith! my lord, you shall not break their bones for me," replied the count. "For I have made a resolution to be your good vassal for the future; and, as my good friend Count Julian of the Mount says, my resolutions are as immoveable as the centre."
"Ha, Count Julian!" said the king. "You are welcome, fair count; and, by Heaven, we have a mind to deal hardly with you. You have been a comer and goer, sir, in all these errands. You have been one of the chief stirrers-up of my vassals against me; and by the Lord! if block and axe were ever well won, you have worked for them. However, here stands sir Guy de Coucy, true knight, and the king's friend; give him the hand of your daughter, his lady-love, and you save your head upon your shoulders."
"My lord, it cannot be," replied old sir Julian stoutly. "I have already given the knight his answer. What I have said, is said--my resolutions are as immoveable as the centre, and I'd sooner encounter the axe than break them."
"Then, by Heaven! the axe shall be your doom!" cried Philip, giving way to one of his quick bursts of passion, at the bold and obstinate tone in which his rebellious vassal dared to address him. "Away with him to the block! and know, old mover of rebellions, that your lands and lordships, and your daughter's hand, I, as your sovereign lord, will give to this brave knight, after you have suffered the punishment of your treason and your obstinacy."
Sir Julian's cheek turned somewhat pale, and his eye twinkled; but he merely bit his lip; and, firm in his impenetrable obstinacy, offered no word to turn aside the monarch's wrath. De Coucy, however, stepped forward, and prayed the king, as sir Julian had been taken by his own men, to give him over to him, when he doubted not he would be able to bring him to reason.
"Take him then, De Coucy," said Philip; "I give you power to make what terms with him you like; but before he quits this presence, he consents to his daughter's marriage with you, or he quits it for the block. Let us hear how you will convert him."
"What I have said, is said!" muttered sir Julian,--"my resolutions are as immoveable as the centre!"
"Sir Julian," said De Coucy, standing forward before the circle, while the prisoner made up his face to a look of sturdy obstinacy, that would have done honour to an old, well-seasoned mule, "you told me once, that I might claim your daughter's hand, if ever--Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, to whom you had promised her, being dead--you should be fairly my prisoner, and I could measure acre for acre with your land. Now, I have to tell you, that William de la Roche fell on yonder plain, pierced from the back to the front by one of the lances of Tankerville, as he was flying from the field. You are, by the king's bounty and my good fortune, my true and lawful prisoner; and surely the power of saving your life, and giving you freedom, may be reckoned against wealth and land."
"No, no!" said sir Julian. "What I have said----"
But he was interrupted by the king, who had recovered from the first heat into which sir Julian's obstinacy had cast him, and was now rather amused than otherwise with the scene before him. "Hold, count Julian!" cried he, "Do not make any objection yet. The only difficulty is about the lands, it seems--that we will soon remove."
"Oh, that alters the case," cried count Julian, not sorry in his heart to be relieved from the painful necessity of maintaining his resolution at the risk of his life. "If you, sire, in your bounty, choose to make him my equal in wealth--William de la Roche Guyon being dead, and I being his prisoner,--all the conditions will be fulfilled, and he shall have my daughter. What I have said is as firm as fate."
"Well then," replied the king, glancing his eye towards the barons, who stood round, smiling at the old knight's mania, "we will not only make De Coucy your equal in wealth, sir Julian, but far your superior. A court of peers, lords!--a court of peers! Let my peers stand around."
Such of the spectators as were by right peers of France, advanced a step from the other persons of the circle, and the king proceeded.
"Count Julian of the Mount!" said he in a stern voice, "We, Philip the Second, king of France, with the aid and counsel of our peers, do pronounce you guilty of leze majesté; and do declare all your feofs, lands, and lordships, wealth, furniture, and jewels, forfeited and confiscate to the Crown of France, to use and dispose thereof, as shall be deemed expedient!"
"A judgment! a judgment!" cried the peers while the countenance of poor Count Julian fell a thousand degrees. "Now, sir," continued the king, "without a foot of land in Europe, and without a besant to bless yourself,--William de la Roche Guyon being dead, and you that good knight's prisoner,--we call upon you to fulfil your word to him, and consent to his marriage with your daughter, Isadore, on pain of being held false and mansworn, as well as stubborn and mulish."
"What I have said is said!" replied count Julian, putting forth his wonted proposition in a very crest-fallen tone. "My resolutions are always as firm as the centre.--De Coucy, I promised her to you, under such circumstances. They are fulfilled, and she is your's--though it is hard that I must marry my daughter to a beggar.
"Beggar, sir!" cried the king, his brow darkening again; "let me tell you, that though rich enough in worth and valour alone to match the daughter of a prince, sir Guy de Coucy, as he stands there, possesses double in lands and lordships what you have ever possessed. De Coucy, it is true: the lands and lordships of Tankerville, and all those fair domains upon the banks of the broad Rhone, possessed by the Count of Tankerville, who wedded your father's sister, are now yours, by a charter in our royal treasury, made under his hand, some ten years ago, and warranted by our consent. We have ourself, pressed by the necessities of the state, taken for the last year the revenue of those lands, purposing to make restitution--to you, if it should appear that the count was really dead--to him, if he returned from Palestine, whither he was said to have gone. But we find ourself justified by an unexpected event. We acted in this by the counsel of the wise and excellent hermit of Vincennes, now a saint in God's paradise: and we have just learned, that the count de Tankerville himself it was who died ten days ago in the person of that same Bernard, the anchorite of Vincennes. He had lived there in that holy disguise for many years; and it was so long since we had seen him, the change in his person, by fasts and macerations, was so great, and his appearance as a hermit altogether so different from what it was as the splendid Count of Tankerville, that, though not liable to forget the faces we have seen, in his case we were totally deceived. On his death-bed he wrote to us this letter, full of pious instruction and good counsel. At the same time, he makes us the unnecessary prayer of loving and protecting you. You, therefore, wed the proud old man's daughter, far his superior in every gift of fortune; and, as some punishment to his vanity and stubbornness, we endow you and your heirs with all those feofs that he has justly forfeited, leaving you to make what provision for his age you yourself may think fit."
Count Julian hung his head; but here let it be said, that he had never any cause to regret that the king had cast his fortunes into such a hand; for De Coucy was one of those whose hearts, nobly formed, expand rather than contract under the sunshine of fortune.
CHAPTER XV.
Six days had elapsed after the scenes we have described in our two last chapters, and Philip Augustus had taken all measures to secure the fruits of his victory, when, at the head of a gay party of knights and attendants, no longer burdened with warlike armour, but garmented in the light and easy robes of peace, the conquering monarch spurred along the banks of the Oise, anxious to make Agnes a sharer of his joy, and to tell her that, though the crafty policy of Rome still prolonged the question of his divorce, he was now armed with power to dictate what terms he pleased, and to bring her enemies to her feet.
The six months had now more than expired, during which he had consented not to see her; and that absence had given to his love all that magic light with which memory invests past happiness. The brightest delight, too, of hope was added to his feelings,--the hope of seeing joy reblossom on the cheek of her he loved, and the inspiration of the noblest purpose that can wing human endeavour carried him on,--the purpose of raising, and comforting, and bestowing happiness.
It may easily be believed, then, that the monarch was in one of his gayest and most gladsome moods; and to De Coucy, who rode by his side, full of as high hopes and glad anticipations as himself, he ever and anon poured forth some of the bright feelings that were swelling in his bosom.
The young knight, too, hurrying on towards the castle of Rolleboise, where Isadore, now his own, won by knightly deeds and honourable effort, still remained, uncertain of her fate--gave way at once more to the natural liveliness of his disposition; and, living in an age when Ceremony had not drawn her rigid barrier between the monarch and his vassal, suffered the high spirits, which for many months had been, as it were, chained down by circumstance, to shine out in many a quick sally and cheerful reply.
The death of his companion in arms, the unhappy Count d'Auvergne, would indeed throw an occasional shade over De Coucy's mind. But the regrets which we in the present age experience for the loss of a friend in such a manner--and which De Coucy was formed to feel as keenly as any one--in that age met with many alleviations. He had died knightly in his harness, defending his monarch; he had fallen upon a whole pile of enemies his hand had slain; he had wrought high deeds, and won immortal renown. In the eyes of De Coucy, such a death was to be envied; and thus, though, when he thought of never beholding his friend again, he felt a touch of natural grief for his own sake; yet, as he remembered the manner of his fate, he felt proud that his friend had so finished his career.
It was a bright July morning, and would have been extremely hot, had not an occasional cloud skimmed over the sky, and cast a cool though fleeting shadow upon the earth. One of these had just passed, and had let fall a few large drops of rain upon them in its course, the glossy stains of which on his black charger's neck Philip was examining with the sweet idleness of happiness, when De Coucy called his attention to a pigeon flying overhead.
"A carrier pigeon, as I live! my lord!" said the knight. "I have seen them often in Palestine. Look! there is its roll of paper!"
"Has any one a falcon?" cried the king, apparently more agitated than De Coucy expected to see, on so simple an event. "I would give a thousand besants for a falcon!"
One of the king's pages, in the train, carried, as was common in those days even during long journies, a falcon on his wrist; and, hearing the monarch's exclamation, he, in a moment, unhooded his bird, and slipped its gesses. Lifting its keen eyes towards the skies, the hawk spread its wings at once, and towered after the pigeon.
"Well flown, good youth!" cried the king. "What is thy name?"
"My name is Hubert," replied the boy, somewhat abashed, "My name is Hubert, beau sire."
"Hubert? What, nothing else? Henceforth, then be Hubert de Fauconpret;" and having sportively given this name to the youth--a name which descended distinguished to after years, he turned his eyes towards the falcon, and watched its progress through the sky. "The bird will miss his stroke, I fear me," said the king, turning towards De Coucy; and then, seeing some surprise at his anxiety painted on the young knight's countenance, he added, "That pigeon is from Rolleboise. I brought the breed from Ascalon. Agnes would not have loosed it without some weighty cause."
As he spoke, the falcon towered above the pigeon, struck it, and at a whistle brought it, trembling and half dead with fear, to the page, who instantly delivered it from the clutches of its winged enemy, and gave it into the hands of the king. Philip took the scrap of paper from the poor bird's neck, caressed it for a moment, and then again threw it up into the air. At first, it seemed as if it would have fallen, from the fear which it had undergone, though the well-trained falcon had not injured it in the least. After a few faint whirls, however, it gained strength again, rose in a perpendicular line into the sky, took two or three circles in the air, and then darted off at once directly towards Paris.
In the meanwhile, Philip Augustus gazed upon the paper he had thus received; and, whatever were the contents, they took the colour from his cheek. Without a word, he struck his horse violently with his spurs, urged him into a gallop, and, followed by his train as best they might, drew not in his rein till he stood before the barbican of the castle of Rolleboise.
Pale cheeks and anxious eyes encountered his glance, as he dashed over the drawbridge the moment it was lowered. "The queen?" cried he, "the queen? How fares the queen?" But, without waiting for a reply, he sprang to the ground in the court, rushed past the crowd of attendants, through the hall, up the staircase, and paused not, till he reached the door of that chamber which he and Agnes had inhabited during the first months of their union; and in which, from its happy memories, he knew she would be fond to dwell. There, however, he stopped, the beating of his heart seeming almost to menace him with destruction if he took a step farther.
There was a murmur of voices within; and, after an instant's pause, he opened the door, and gliding past the tapestry, stood at the end of the room.
The chamber was dim, for the night was near; but at the farther extremity was the faint light of a taper contending with the pale remains of day. He could see, however, that his marriage-bed was arrayed like the couch of the dying, that there were priests standing round in silence, and women in tears; while one lovely girl, whose face he knew not, knelt by the bed-side, and supported on her arm the pale and ashy countenance of another, over which the grey shadow of death seemed advancing fast.
Philip started forward. Could that be Agnes--that pale, blighted thing, over whose dim and glassy eyes a strange unlife-like film was drawn, the precursor of the shroud? Could that be Agnes--the bright--the beautiful--the beloved?
A faint exclamation, which broke from the attendants as they beheld him, reached even the heavy ear of the dying. The film was drawn back from her eyes for a moment; life blazed up once more, and concentrated all its parting light in the full, glad, ecstatic gaze which she fixed upon the countenance of him she loved. A smile of welcome and farewell hung upon her lip; and, with a last effort, she stretched forth her arms towards him. With bitter tears, Philip clasped her to his bosom. Agnes bent down her . . . head upon his neck and died!
Oh, glory! oh, victory! oh, power! Ye shining emptinesses! Ye bubbles on the stream of time!
FOOTNOTES
Footnote 1: Generally and rationally supposed to have been derived from the country which poured forth the first numerous bands of these adventurers; i.e. Brabant. See Ducange, La Chenaye du Bois, &c. Philip Augustus in the end destroyed them for a time.
Footnote 2: The great companies of the fourteenth century had their type in the Brabançois, and various other bodies of freebooters, which appeared previous to that period. The chief characteristic of all of these bands was, the having degenerated from soldiers to plunderers, while they maintained a certain degree of discipline and subordination, but cast off every other tie.
Footnote 3: M. Charles Nodier.
Footnote 4: To ride a mare was reckoned in those days unworthy of anyone but a juggler, a charlatan, or a serf.
Footnote 5: Although this act of rashness certainly breathes the spirit of romance, yet such things have been done, and even in our own day.
Footnote 6: This is no fantastic remedy, but one of the most effectual the author of this work has ever seen employed. The skin of a sheep, however, is not a whit less potent in its effects than the skin of an izzard.
Footnote 7: Philip Augustus, after the death of his first wife, being still a very young man, married Ingerburge, sister of Canute, King of Denmark; but on her arrival in France, he was seized with so strong a personal dislike to her, that he instantly convoked a synod of the clergy of France, who, on pretence of kindred in the prohibited degrees, annulled the marriage. Philip afterwards married the beautiful Agnes, or Mary, as she is called by some, daughter of the Duke of Istria and Meranie, a district it would now be difficult to define, but which comprehended the Tyrol and its dependencies, down to the Adriatic.--See Rigord Gud. Brit. Lit. Innoc. III. Cart Philip II. &c.
Footnote 8: One of the four methods of electing a Pope is called by adoration, which takes place when the first Cardinal who speaks instantly (as is supposed by the movement of the Holy Ghost) does reverence to the person he names, proclaiming him Pope, to which must be added the instant suffrage of two-thirds of the assembled conclave.
Footnote 9: For a fuller account of this singular person, and the effect his counsels had upon the conduct of Philip Augustus, see Rigord.
Footnote 10: Later instances exist of wax having been used in the accounts of the royal treasury of France.
Footnote 11: The Chronicle of Alberic des Trois Fontaines gives some curious particulars concerning this personage, and offers a singular picture of the times.
Footnote 12: The difference between the chaperon, or hood, and the aumuce was, that the first was formed of cloth or silk, and the latter of fur.--Dic. des Franc.
Footnote 13: The name of Augustus was given to Philip the Second, even in the earlier part of his lifetime, although Mézerai mistakingly attributes it to many centuries afterwards. Rigord, the historian and physician, who died in the twenty-eighth year of Philip's reign, and the forty-second of his age, styles him Augustus, in the very title of his manuscript.
Footnote 14: It will be understood that this sudden appearance of the legate is a historical fact.
Footnote 15: Ducange cites the following formula from a work I cannot meet with. The passage refers to a fraternity of arms between Majon, high admiral of Sicily, and the archbishop of Palermo.
"Dictum est præterea quod ii, juxta consuetudinem Siculorum, fraternæ fœdus societatis contraxerint, seseque invicem jurejurando astrinxerunt ut alter alterum modis omnibus promoveret, et tam in prosperis quàm in adversis unius essent animi, unius voluntatis atque consilii; quisquis alterum læderet, amborura incurreret offensam."
The same learned author cites a declaration of Louis XI. where he constitutes Charles, Duke of Burgundy, his sole brother in arms, thereby seeming to imply that this adoption of a brother in arms was restricted to one.--Ducange, Dissert. xxi.
Footnote 16: This singular picture of the barbarism of the age immediately preceding that of Philip Augustus is rendered as literally as possible from the Life of Louis le Gros by Suger, Abbot of St. Denis.
Footnote 17: This part of the dress was a small pouch borne under the arm, and called escarcelle, or pera, when carried by pilgrims to the Holy Land. With the utmost reverence for the learning, talent, and patience of Ducange, it appears to me that he was mistaken in his interpretation of a passage of Cassian, relative to this part of the pilgrim's dress. The sentence in Cassian is as follows: "Ultimus est habitus eorum pellis caprina, quæ melotes, vel pera appellatur, et baculus;" which Ducange affirms to mean, that they wore a dress of goat-skins, a wallet, and a stick. Embarrassed by taking habitus in the limited sense of a garment, I should rather be inclined to think that the author merely meant that the last part of their (the monks') dress was what is called a pera, made of goat-skins, and a stick, and not three distinct articles, as Ducange imagines.--See Ducange, Dissert. xv.
Footnote 18: Guillaume le Breton says unqualifiedly, that Richard Cœur de Lion invented the arbalète, or cross-bow. Brompton, on the other hand, only declares that he revived the use of it, "hoc genus sagittandi in usum revocavit."
Footnote 19: This must not be looked upon as an expression hazarded without authority, notwithstanding its homeliness. The only titles of honour known in those days were Monseigneur, My Lord; Illustres Seigneurs, applied in general to an assembly of nobles; and Beau Sire, or Fair Sir, which was not only bestowed upon kings, on all occasions, but, even as lately as the reign of St. Louis, was addressed to God himself. Many prayers beginning Beau Sire Dieu are still extant.
Footnote 20: Eleanor Plantagenet, who was detained till her death, to cut off all change of subsequent heirs in the line of Geoffrey Plantagenet, John's elder brother.
Footnote 21: I know not precisely how far back a curious antiquary might trace the existence of such places of public reception. I find one mentioned, however, in the Chronicle of Vezelai, about fifty years prior to the period of which I write.
Footnote 22: There are various differences of opinion concerning the persons to whom the use of the haubert was confined. Ducange implies, from a passage in Joinville, that this part of the ancient suits of armour was the privilege of a knight. Le Laboureur gives it also to a squire. But the Brabançois and other bands of adventurers did not subject themselves to any rules and regulations respecting their arms, as might be proved from a thousand different instances.
Footnote 23: This conversation is reported by the chroniclers of the time to have taken place previous to Arthur's confinement in the tower of Rouen.
Footnote 24: The French writers of that day almost universally agree in attributing the death of Arthur to John's own hand. The English writers do not positively deny it, and we have indubitable proof that such was the general rumour through all the towns and castles of Europe at the time.--See Guill. Guiart. Guill. de Nangis. Guill. le Breton. Mat. Paris, &c.
Footnote 25: It has been asserted that these troops received no pay, but supported themselves by plunder. I find them, however, called mercenaries in more than one instance, which clearly implies that they fought for hire.
Footnote 26: Constable of Normandy in the year 1200, and following, as appears from a treaty between John and Philip, concluded at Gueuleton.
Footnote 27: Seldon has said that the custom of bearing coronets by peers is of late days. In this assertion, however, he is apparently mistaken, the proofs of which may be seen at large in Ducange, Dissért, xxiv. R. Hoved. 792. Hist. des Compte de Poitou, &c. The matter is of little consequence, except so far as the representation of the manners and customs of the times is affected by it.
Footnote 28: The closed crown was not introduced until the reign of Louis XII. or Francis I.
Footnote 29: A different banner from the famous oriflamme which was the standard of St. Denis.
Footnote 30: Lacurne de St. Palaye was decidedly wrong in attributing the use of the lance solely to knights. Besides the example before given, the present instance of the serjeants of Soissons puts the matter beyond doubt. The words of Guillaume Guiart are--
"Serjanz d'armes cent et cinquante. Criant Monjoie! ensemble brochent; Vers les rens des Flamens deseochent Les pointes des lances enclines," &c.
That the serjeants of arms of Soissons were simple burghers is evident from the contempt with which the Flemish knights received them--Guil. le Breton, in vit. Phil. Aug.
Footnote 31: This circumstance, however extraordinary, is not the less true; and though attributed by the various chroniclers to various persons, is mentioned particularly by all who have described the battle of Bovines.