CHAPTER I.
Gloom and consternation spread over the face of France:--the link seemed cut between it and the other nations of the earth. Each man appeared to stand alone: each one brooded over his new situation with a gloomy despondency. No one doubted that the curse of God was upon the land; and the daily,--nay, hourly deprivation of every religious ceremony, was constantly recalling it to the imaginations of all.
The doors of the churches were shut and barred; the statues of the saints were covered with black; the crosses on the high roads were veiled. The bells which had marked the various hours of the day, calling all classes to pray to one beneficent God, were no longer heard swinging slowly over field and plain. The serf returned from the glebe, and the lord from the wood, in gloomy silence, missing all those appointed sounds that formed the pleasant interruption to their dull toil, or duller amusements.
All old accustomed habits,--those grafts in our nature, which cannot be torn out without agony, were entirely broken through. The matin, or the vesper prayer, was no longer said; the sabbath was unmarked by its blessed distinctness; the fêtes, whether of penitence or rejoicing, were unnoticed and cold in the hideous gloom that overspread the land, resting like the dead amidst the dying.
Every hour, every moment, served to impress the awful effects of the interdict more and more deeply on the minds of men. Was a child born, a single priest, in silence and in secrecy, as if the very act were a crime, sprinkled the baptismal water on its brow. Marriage, with all its gay ceremonies and feasts, was blotted, with other happy days, from the calendar of life. The dying died in fear, without prayer or confession, as if mercy had gone by; and the dead, cast recklessly on the soil, or buried in unhallowed ground, were exposed, according to the credence of the day, to the visitation of demons and evil spirits. Even the doors of the cemeteries were closed; and the last fond commune between the living and the dead--that beautiful weakness which pours the heart out even on the cold, unanswering grave,--was struck out from the solaces of existence.
The bishops and clergy, in the immediate neighbourhood of Dijon, first began to observe the interdict; and gradually, though steadily, the same awful privation of all religious form spread itself over France. Towards the north, however, and in the neighbourhood of the capital, the ecclesiastics were more slow in putting it in execution; and long ere it had reached the borders of the Seine, many a change had taken place in the fate of Guy de Coucy.
Having ascertained that the cotereaux had really left his woods, De Coucy gave his whole thoughts to the scheme which had been proposed to him by his squire, Hugo de Barre, for surprising Sir Julian of the Mount and his fair daughter, and bringing them to his castle, without letting them know, till after their arrival, into whose hands they had fallen.
Such extravagant pieces of gallantry were very common in that age; but there are difficulties of course in all schemes; and the difficulty of the present one was, so to surprise the party, that no bloodshed or injury might ensue; for certainly, if ever there was an undertaking to which the warning against jesting with edged tools might be justly applied, it was this.
The brain, however, of Hugo de Barre, which for a great part of his life had been sterile, or at least, had lain fallow, seemed to have become productive of a sudden; and he contrived a plan by which the page, who, from many a private reason of his own, was very willing to undertake the task, was to meet Sir Julian's party, disguised as a peasant, and, mingling with the retinue, to forewarn the male part of the armed train of the proposed surprisal, enjoining them, at the same time, for the honour of the masculine quality of secrecy, not to reveal their purpose to the female part of the train. "For," observed Hugo de Barre, "a woman's head, as far as ever I could hear, is just like a funnel: whatever you pour into her ear, is sure to run out at her mouth."
De Coucy stayed not to controvert this ungallant position of his squire, but sent off in all haste to Gisors, for the purpose of preparing his château for the reception of such guests, as far as his scanty means would permit. His purse, however, was soon exhausted; and yet no great splendour reigned within his halls.
The air of absolute desolation, however, was done away; and, though the young knight had ever had that sort of pride in the neatness of his horse, his arms, and his dress, which perhaps amounted to foppery, he valued wealth too little himself to imagine that the lady of his love would despise him for the want of it. He could not help wishing, however, that the king had given another tournament, where, he doubted not, his lance would have served him to overthrow five or six antagonists, the ransom of whose horses and armour might have served to complete the preparations he could now only commence. It was a wish of the thirteenth century; and though perhaps not assimilating very well with our ideas at present, it was quite in harmony with the character of the times, when many a knight lived entirely by his prowess in the battle or the lists, and when the ransom of his prisoners, or of the horses and arms of his antagonists, was held the most honourable of all revenues.
As the period approached in which De Coucy had reason to believe Count Julian and his train would pass near his castle, a warder was stationed continually in the beffroy, to keep a constant watch upon the country around; and many a time would the young knight himself climb into the high tower, and gaze over the country spread out below.
Such was the position of the castle, and the predominating height of the watch-tower, that no considerable party could pass within many miles, without being seen in some part of their way. In general, the principal roads lay open beneath the eye, traced out, clear and distinct, over the bosom of the country, as if upon a wide map: and with more eagerness and anxiety did De Coucy gaze upon the way, and track each group that he fancied might contain the form of Isadore of the Mount, than he had ever watched for Greek or Saracen. At length, one evening, as he was thus employing himself, he saw, at some distance, the dust of a cavalcade rise over the edge of a slight hill that bounded his view to the north-east. Then came a confused group of persons on horseback; and, with a beating heart, De Coucy strained his eyes to see whether there were any female figures amongst the rest. Long before it was possible for him to ascertain, he had determined twenty times, both that there were, and that there were not; and changed his opinion as often. At length, however, something light seemed to be caught by the wind, and blown away to a little distance from the party, while one of the horsemen galloped out to recover it, and bring it back.
"'Tis a woman's veil," cried De Coucy. "'Tis she! by the sword of my father!" and darting down the winding steps of the tower, whose turnings now seemed interminable, he rushed into the court, called, "To the saddle!" and springing on his horse, which stood always prepared, he led his party into the woods, and laid his ambush at the foot of the hill, within a hundred yards of the road that led to Vernon.
All this was done with the prompt activity of a soldier long accustomed to quick and harassing warfare. In a few minutes, also, the disguises, which had been prepared to render himself and his followers as like a party of cotereaux as possible, were assumed, and De Coucy waited impatiently for the arrival of the cavalcade. The moments now passed by with all that limping impotence of march which they always seem to have in the eyes of expectation, For some time the knight reasoned himself into coolness, by remembering the distance at which he had seen the party, the slowness with which they were advancing, and the rapidity with which he himself had taken up his position. For the next quarter of an hour he blamed his own hastiness of disposition, and called to mind a thousand instances in which he had deceived himself in regard to time.
He then thought they must be near; and, after listening for a few minutes, advanced at little to ascertain, when suddenly the sound of a horse's feet struck on his ear, and he waited only the first sight through the branches to make the signal of attack.
A moment, after, however, he beheld, to his surprise and disappointment, the figure of a stout market-woman, mounted on a mare, whose feet had produced the noise which had attracted his attention, and whose passage left the road both silent and vacant once more. Another long pause succeeded, and De Coucy, now almost certain that the party he had seen must either have halted or turned from their course, sent out scouts in various directions to gain more certain information. After a short space one returned, and then another, all bringing the same news, that the roads on every side were clear; and that not the slightest sign of any large party was visible, from the highest points in the neighbourhood.
Evening was now beginning to fall; and, very sure that Count Julian would not travel during the darkness, through a country infested by plunderers of all descriptions, the young knight, disappointed and gloomy, emerged with his followers from his concealment, and once more bent his steps slowly towards his solitary hall.
"Perhaps," said he mentally, as he pondered over his scheme and its want of success,--"perhaps I may have escaped more bitter disappointment--perchance she might have proved cold and heartless--perchance she might have loved me, yet been torn from me;--and then, when my eye was once accustomed to see her lovely form gliding through the halls of my dwelling, how could I have afterwards brooked its desolate vacancy? When my ear had become habituated to the sound of her voice in my own home, how silent would it have seemed when she were gone! No, no--doubtless, I did but scheme myself pains. 'Tis better as it is."
While these reflections were passing in his mind, he had reached the bottom of the hill, on which his castle stood, and turned his horse up the steep path. Naturally enough, as he did so, he raised his eyes to contemplate the black frowning battlements that were about to receive him once more to their stern solitude; when, to his astonishment, he saw the flutter of a woman's dress upon the outward walls, and a gay group of youths and maidens were seen looking down upon him from his own castle.
De Coucy at first paused from mere surprise, well knowing that his own household offered nothing such as he there beheld but the next moment, as the form of Isadore of the Mount showed itself plainly to his sight, he struck his spurs into his horse's sides, and galloped forward like lightning, eager to lay himself open to all the disappointments over which he had moralised so profoundly but a moment before.
On entering the court he found a multitude of squires stabling their horses with all the care that promised a long stay and, the moment after, he was accosted by old Sir Julian of the Mount himself, who informed him that, finding himself not so well as he could wish, he had come to crave his hospitality for a day's lodging, during which time he might communicate to him, he said, some important matter for his deep consideration. This last announcement was made in one of those low and solemn tones intended to convey great meaning; and, perhaps, even Sir Julian wished to imply, that his ostensible reason for visiting the castle of De Coucy was but a fine political covering, to veil the more immediate and interesting object of his coming.
"But how now. Sir Guy!" added he; "surely you have been disguising yourself! With that sack over your armour, for a cotte d'armes, and the elm branch twisted round your casque, you look marvellous like a coterel.
"By my faith! good Sir Julian," replied De Coucy with his usual frankness, "I look but like what I intended then. The truth is, hearing of your passing, I arrayed my men like cotereaux, and laid an ambush for you, intending to take you at a disadvantage, and making you prisoner, to bring you here; where, in all gentle courtesy, I would have entreated your stay for some few days, to force a boar and hear a lay, and forget your weightier thoughts for a short space. But, by the holy rood! I find I have made a strange mistake; for, while I went to take you, it seems you have taken my castle itself!"
"Good, good! very good!" cried Sir Julian; "but come with me. Sir Guy. Isadore has found her way to the battlements already, and is looking out at the view, which, she says, is fine. For my part, I love no fine views but politic ones.--Come, follow me.--Let me see, which is the way?--Oh, here--No, 'tisn't.--This is a marvellous stronghold, Sir Guy! Which is the way?"
Cursing Sir Julian's slow vanity, in striving to lead the way through a castle he did not know, with its lord at his side, Sir Guy de Coucy stepped forward, and, with a foot of light, mounted the narrow staircase in the wall, that led to the outer battlements.
"Stay, stay! Sir Guy!" cried the old man. "By the rood! you go so fast, 'tis impossible to follow! You young men forget we old men get short of breath; and, though our brains be somewhat stronger than yours, 'tis said, our legs are not altogether so swift."
De Coucy, obliged to curb his impatience, paused till Sir Julian came up, and then hurried forward to the spot where Isadore was gazing, or seeming to gaze, upon the prospect.
A very close observer, however, might have perceived that--though she did not turn round till the young knight was close to her--as his clanging step sounded along the battlements, a quick warm flush rose in her cheek; and when she did turn to answer his greeting, there was that sort of glow in her countenance and sparkle in her eye which, strangely in opposition with the ceremonious form of her words, would have given matter for thought to any more quick-witted person than Count Julian of the Mount.
That worthy baron, however, wholly pre-occupied with his own sublime thoughts, saw nothing to excite his surprise, but presented De Coucy to Isadore as a noble chief of cotereaux, who would fain have taken them prisoner, had they not in the first instance stormed his castle, and "manned, or rather," said Sir Julian, "womanned, his wall," and the worthy old gentleman chuckled egregiously at his own wit. "Now that we are here, however," continued Sir Julian, "he invites us to stay for a few days, to which I give a willing consent:--what say you, Isadore? You will find these woods even sweeter than those of Montmorency for your mornings' walks."
Isadore cast down her large dark eyes, as if she was afraid that the pleasure which such a proposal gave her, might shine out too apparently through a commonplace answer. "Wherever you think fit to stay, my dear father," replied she, "must always be agreeable to me."
Matters being thus arranged, we shall not particularise the passing of that evening, nor indeed of the next day. Suffice it to say, that Sir Julian found a moment to propose to De Coucy, to enter into the coalition which was then forming between some of the most powerful barons of France, with John king of England in his quality of duke of Normandy, and Ferrand count of Flanders at their head, to resist the efforts which Philip Augustus was making to recover and augment the kingly authority.
"Do not reply. Sir Guy--do not reply hastily," concluded the old knight; "I give you two more days to consider the question in all its bearings; and on the third I will take my departure for Rouen, either embracing you as a brother in our enterprise, or thanking you for your hospitality, and relying on your secrecy."
De Coucy was glad to escape an immediate reply, well knowing that the only answer he could conscientiously make, would but serve to irritate his guest, and, perhaps, precipitate his departure from the castle. He therefore let the matter rest, and applied himself, as far as his limited means would admit, to entertain Sir Julian and his suite, without derogating from the hospitality of his ancestors.
The communication of feeling between the young knight and his fair Isadore made much more rapid advances than his arrangements with Sir Julian. During the journey from Auvergne to Senlis, each day's march had added something to their mutual love, and discovered it more and more to each other. It had shone out but in trifles, it is true; for Sir Julian had been constantly present, filling their ears with continual babble, to which the one was obliged to listen from filial duty, and the other from respect for her he loved. It had shone out but in trifles, but what is life but a mass of trifles, with one or two facts of graver import, scattered like jewels amidst the seashore sands?--and though, perhaps, it was but a momentary smile, or a casual word, a glance, a tone, a movement, that betrayed their love to each other, it was the language that deep feelings speak, and deep feelings alone can read, but which, then, expresses a world more than words can ever tell.
When Isadore arrived at De Coucy's château, there wanted but one word to tell her that she was deeply loved; and before she had been there twelve hours that word was spoken. We will therefore pass over that day,--which was a day of long, deep, sweet thought to Isadore of the Mount, and to De Coucy a day of anxious hope, with just sufficient doubt to make it hope, not joy,--and we will come at once to the morning after.
'Twas in the fine old woods, in the immediate proximity of the castle, towards that hour of the morning when young lovers may be supposed to rise, and dull guardians to slumber in their beds. It was towards five o'clock, and the spot, a very dangerous scene for any one whose heart was not iron, with some fair being near him. A deep glade of the wood, at the one end of which might be seen a single grey tower of the castle, here opened out upon the very edge of a steep descent, commanding one of those wide extensive views, over rich and smiling lands, that make the bosom glow and expand to all that is lovely. The sun was shining down from beyond the castle, chequering the grassy glade with soft shadows and bright light; and a clear small stream, that welled from a rock hard by, wound in and out amongst the roots of the trees, over a smooth gravelly bed; till, approaching the brink of the descent, it leaped over, as if in sport, and went bounding in sparkling joyousness into the rich valley below. All was in harmony--the soft air, and the birds singing their matins, and the blue sky overhead; so that hard must have been the heart indeed that did not then feel softened by the bland smiles of nature.
Wandering down the glade, side by side, even at that early hour, came De Coucy and Isadore of the Mount, alone--for the waiting-maid, Alixe, was quite sufficiently discreet to toy with every buttercup as she passed; so that the space of full a hundred yards was ever interposed between the lovers and any other human creature.
"Oh, De Coucy!" said Isadore, proceeding with a conversation, which for various reasons is here omitted, "if I could but believe that your light gay heart were capable of preserving such deep feelings as those you speak!"
"Indeed, indeed! and in very truth!" replied De Coucy, "my heart, sweet Isadore, is very, very different from what it seems in a gay and heartless world. I know not why, but from my youth I have ever covered my feelings from the eyes of my companions. I believe it was, at first, lest those who could not understand should laugh; and now it has become so much a habit, that often do I jest when I feel deepest, and laugh when my heart is far from merriment; and though you may have deemed that heart could never feel in any way, believe me now, when I tell you, that it has felt often and deeply."
"Nay!" said Isadore, perhaps somewhat wilful in her mistake, "if you have felt such sensations so often, and so deeply, but little can be left for me."
"Nay, nay!" cried De Coucy eagerly. "You wrong my speech. I never loved but you. My feelings in the world, the feelings that I spoke of, have been for the sorrows and the cares of others--for the loss of friends--the breaking of fond ties--to see injustice, oppression, wrong;--to be misunderstood by those I esteemed--repelled where I would have shed my heart's blood to serve. Here, have I felt all that man can feel; but I never loved but you. I never yet saw woman, before my eyes met yours, in whose hand I could put my hope and happiness, my life and honour, my peace of mind at present, and all the fond dreams we form for the future. Isadore, do you believe me?"
She cast down her eyes for a moment, then raised them, to De Coucy's surprise, swimming with tears. "Perhaps I do," replied she.--"Do not let my tears astonish you, De Coucy," she added; "they are not all painful ones; for to find oneself beloved as one would wish to be, is very, very sweet. But still, good friend, I see much to make us fear for the future. The old are fond of wealth, De Coucy, and they forget affection. I would not that my tongue should for a moment prove so false to my heart, as to proffer one word against my father; but, I fear me, he will look for riches in a husband to his daughter."
"And will such considerations weigh with you, Isadora?" demanded De Coucy sadly.
"Not for a moment!" replied she. "Did I choose for myself, I would sooner, far sooner, that the man I loved should be as poor a knight as ever braced on a shield, that I might endow him with my wealth, and bring him something more worthy than this poor hand. But can I oppose my father's will, De Coucy?"
"What!" cried the knight; "and will you, Isadore, wed the first wealthy lover he chooses to propose, and yield yourself, a cold inanimate slave, to one man, while your heart is given to another?"
"Hush, hush!" cried Isadore--"never, De Coucy, never!--I will never wed any man against my father's will; so far my duty as a child compels me:--but I will never, never marry any man--but--but--what shall I say?--but one I love."
"Oh, say something more, sweet, sweet girl!" cried the young knight eagerly;--"say something more, to give my heart some firm assurance--let that promise be to me!"
"Well, well!" said Isadore, speaking quick, as if afraid the words should be stayed upon her very lip, "no one but you--Will that content you?"
De Coucy pressed her hand to his lips, and to his heart, with all that transport of gratitude that the most invaluable gift a woman can bestow deserves; and yet he pressed her to repeat her promise. He feared, he said, the many powerful arts with which friends work on a woman's mind,--the persuasions, the threats, the false reports; and he ceased not till he had won her to repeat again and again, with all the vows that could bind her heart to his, that her hand should never be given to another.
"They may cloister me in a convent," she said, as the very reiteration rendered her promise bolder; and his ardent and passionate professions made simple assurances seem cold: "but I deem not they will do it; for my father, though quick in his disposition, and immoveable in what he determines, loves me, I think, too well, to part with me willingly for ever. He may threaten it; but he will not execute his threat. But oh! De Coucy, have a care that you urge him not to such a point, that he shall say my hand shall never be yours; for if once 'tis said, he will hold it a matter of honour never to retract, though he saw us both dying at his feet."
De Coucy promised to be patient, and to be circumspect, and all that lover could promise; and, engaging Isadore to sit down on a mossy seat that nature herself had formed with the roots of an old oak, he occupied the vacant minutes with all those sweet pourings forth of the heart to which love, and youth, and imagination alone dare give way, in this cold and stony world. Isadore's eyes were bent upon him, her hand lay in his, and each was fully occupied with the other, when a sort of half scream from the waiting-maid Alixe woke them from their dreams; and, looking up, they found themselves in the presence of old Sir Julian of the Mount.
"Good! good! marvellous good!" cried the old knight.--"Get thee in, Isadore--without a word!--Get thee in too, good mistress looker on!" he added to Alixe; "'tis well thou art not a man instead of a woman, or I would curry thy hide for thee. Get thee in, I say!--I must deal with our noble host alone."
Isadore obeyed her father's commands in silence, turning an imploring look to De Coucy, as if once more to counsel patience. Alixe followed, grumbling; and the old knight, turning to De Coucy, addressed him in a tone of ironical compliment, intended to be more bitter than the most unmixed abuse.
"A thousand thanks! a thousand thanks! beau sire!" he said, "for your disinterested hospitality. Good sooth, 'twas a pity your plan for taking us prisoners did not go forward; for now you might have a fair excuse for keeping us so, too. 'Twould have been an agreeable surprise to us all--to me especially; and I thank you for it. Doubtless, you proposed to marry my daughter without my knowledge also, and add another agreeable surprise. I thank you for that, too, beau sire!"
"You mistake me, good Sir Julian," replied De Coucy calmly: "I did not propose to wed your daughter without your knowledge, but hoped that your consent would follow your knowledge of our love. I am not rich, but I do believe that want of wealth is the only objection you could have----"
"And enough surely," interrupted Sir Julian. "What! is that black castle, and half a hundred roods of wild wood, a match for ten thousand marks a year, which my child is heir too?--Beau sire, you do mistake. Doubtless you are very liberal, where you give away other people's property to receive yourself; but I am of a less generous disposition. Besides," he added, more coolly, "to put the matter to rest for ever. Sir Guy de Coucy, know that I have solemnly promised my daughter's hand to the noble Guillaume de la Roche Guyon."
"Promised her hand!" exclaimed De Coucy, "to Guillaume de la Roche Guyon! Dissembling traitor! By the holy rood! he shall undergo my challenge, and die for his cold treachery!"
"Mark me!--mark me! I pray you, beau sire!" cried Sir Julian of the Mount in the same cool tone. "Should Guillaume de la Roche Guyon fall under your lance, you shall never have my child---so help me. Heaven!--except with my curse upon her head. Ay! and even were he to die or fall in the wars that are coming--for I give her not to him till they be passed--you should not have her then--without," he added, with a sneer, "I was your prisoner chained hand and foot; and you could offer me acre with acre for my own land. But perhaps you still intend to keep me prisoner, here in your stronghold. Such things have been done, I know."
"They will never be done by me, Count Julian," replied De Coucy, "though it is with pain I see you go, and would fain persuade you to stay, and think better of my suit; yet my drawbridge shall fall at your command, as readily as at my own. Yet, let me beseech you to think--I would not boast;--but still let me say, my name and deeds are not unknown in the world. The wealth that once my race possessed has not been squandered in feasting and revelry, but in the wars of the blessed cross, in the service of religion and honour. As to this Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, I will undertake, within a brief space, to bring you his formal renunciation of your promise."
"It cannot be, sir!--it cannot be!" interrupted Sir Julian. "I have told you my mind. What I have said is fixed as fate. If you will let me go, within this hour I depart from your castle; if you will not, the dishonour be on your own head. Make no more efforts, sir," he added, seeing De Coucy about to speak. "The words once passed from my mouth are never recalled. Ask Giles, my squire, sir,--ask my attendants all. They will tell you the same thing. What Count Julian of the Mount has spoken is as immoveable as the earth."
So saying, the old man turned, and walked back to the castle followed by De Coucy, mourning over the breaking of the bright day-dream, which, like one of the fine gossamers that glitter in the summer, had drawn a bright shining line across his path, but had snapped for ever with the first touch.
Sir Julian's retinue were soon prepared, and the horses saddled in the court-yard; and, when all was ready, the old knight brought down his daughter to depart. She was closely veiled, but still De Coucy saw that she was weeping, and advanced to place her on horseback. At that moment, however, one of the squires, evidently seeing that all was not right between his lord and the lord of the castle, thrust himself in the way.
"Back, serf!" exclaimed de Coucy, laying his hand upon his collar, and in an instant he was seen reeling to the other side of the court, as if he had been hurled from a catapult. In the mean while De Coucy raised Isadore in his arms, and, placing her on her horse, pressed her slightly in his embrace, saying in a low tone, "Be constant, and we may win yet;" then yielding the place to Sir Julian, who approached, he ordered the drawbridge of the castle to be lowered.
The train passed through the arch, and over the bridge; and De Coucy advanced to the barbican to catch the last look, as they wound down the hill. Isadore could not resist, and waved her hand for an instant before they were out of sight. De Coucy's heart swelled as if it would have burst; but at that moment his squire approached, and put into his hand a small packet, neatly folded and sealed, which, he said, Alixe the waiting-woman had given him for his lord. De Coucy eagerly tore it open. It contained a lock of dark hair, with the words "Till death," written in the envelope. De Coucy pressed it to his heart, and turned to re-enter the castle.
"Ha, haw! Ha, haw!" cried Gallon the fool, perched on the battlements. "Haw, haw, haw! Ha, haw!"