Philip Augustus; or, The Brothers in Arms

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER IV.

The night was dark and gloomy. A thousand black clouds were flitting over the sky, borne by a quick rough breeze, which ever and anon, with wild caprice, would scatter them abroad, leaving the yellow moonlight to shine bright upon their white edges, and pour a flood of mellow radiance on the world below, and then again would whirl some deep shadowy mass up from the profound verge of the horizon, and once more overwhelm all in gloom and obscurity.

Amidst such occasional glimpses of moonlight, struggled on from the village of Vincennes, through the great forest of St. Mandé, a stout, short man, wrapped in an immense cloak, and preceded by a boy holding a torch, which the high wind threatened every moment to extinguish.

"Art thou sure thou knowest the way, urchin?" cried the man, in a wearied and panting tone, which argued plainly enough that his corpulency loved not deeply the species of stumbling locomotion, to which his legs subjected his paunch, amidst the roots and stones of the forest path.--"Art thou sure that thou knowest the road?--Jesu preserve me! I would not lose my way here, to be called to the conclave!"

"Oh, I know the way well!" replied the boy, in a shrill treble. "I come here every day to ask the prayers of the holy hermit for my grandmother, who is ninety years of age, and sick of a hydropsy."

"Better pray God to take her, rather than to leave her!" replied his companion. "'Tis a foolish errand mine,--'tis a foolish errand!" he continued, speaking peevishly to himself, as he struggled to shake off a pertinacious branch of withered thorn which, detached from its parent bush, clung fondly to the tail of his robe, and trailed solemnly on behind him. "Not the errand itself, which is holy, just, and expedient; but the coming at night.--Take care, urchin! The wind will blow it out, if you flaunt it after such a fashion. The coming at night! Yet what could I do? The canon of St. Berthe's said true--that if I came in the day, folks would say I could not govern my diocese myself. I told you so, foolish child! I told you so! Now, what are we to do?" continued he, raising his voice to the very highest pitch of dismay and crossness, as a sharp gust of wind, up one of the long glades, extinguished completely the flame of the torch, which had for some time been wavering with a very undecided sort of flicker:--"now, what are we to do?"

"Oh, I know the way, as well without the light as with," replied the same childish voice: "I'll lead you right, beau sire."

"Ay, ay, child," said the other; "but I love not forests in the dark:--this one has a bad name too--'tis said more sorts of evil spirits than one haunt it. The Lord be merciful unto us! The devil is powerful in these hours of darkness! And besides, there are other dangers--" Here he stumbled over one of the large roots of an elm, shot across the path, and would doubtless have fallen at full length, had not his little guide's shoulder come opportunely in the way of his hand, as it sprawled forth in the act of descent, and thus afforded him some stay!--"Cursed be the root!" cried he;--"cursed be it, above the earth and under the earth!--cursed be it in this life, and to all eternity! Amen.--Lord have mercy upon me! Sinner that I am! I am repeating the anathema. It will never go out of my head, that anathema--cursed be it!--Boy, is it far off still?--Did not you hear a noise?" he added suddenly.

"I hear the rustling of the wind," replied the child, "but nothing more. You folks that do not live near the forests do not know what sounds it makes sometimes."

"Evil spirits, boy!--evil spirits!" cried the man. "Evil spirits, I tell thee, screaming in their malice; but I vow I hear a rushing, as if there were some wild beasts.--Hark! hark!" and he grasped the boy's arm, looking round and round in the darkness, which his fancy filled with all the wild creation of fear.

"Ne in furore tuo arguas me, Domine, neque in irâ tuâ corripias me. Miserere mei, Domine, quoniam infirmus sum!" cried the frightened traveller; when suddenly the clouds rolled white away from the face of the moon, and her beams for a moment, streaming down clear upon them, showed the wide open glade of the wood, untenanted by any one but themselves, with the old ruined tomb in the forest, and the rude hut of Bernard the hermit, "Kyrie eleïson! Christe eleïson!" cried the traveller, at the sight of these blessed rays; and running forward to reach the dwelling of the hermit, before the clouds again brought darkness over the face of the earth, he arrived, all breathless and panting, and struck hard with his fist against the closed door. "Open, open! brother Bernard! and let me in," he cried loudly. "Let me in, before the moon goes behind the cloud again."

"Who art thou, who breakest through my prayers?" cried the voice of the hermit. "And why fearest thou the going of the moon? Thou wilt not be one jot wiser when she is gone?"

"Nay! 'tis I, brother Bernard," replied the traveller, fretting with impatience to get in. "'Tis I, I tell thee, man! Thy friend and fellow-labourer in this poor vineyard of France!"

"I have no friend but the Lord, and his holy saints," said the hermit, opening the door.--"But how is this, lord bishop?

"Hush! hush!" cried the other, holding up his hand. "Do not let the boy hear thee!--I come in secret, upon matters of deep import."

"Does not the text say, 'That which thou doest in secret shall be proclaimed openly?'" demanded the hermit.--"But what dost thou mean to do with the boy?" continued he, laying his hand on the child's head. "If he be as terrified as thou seemest to be, he will not love to stay till thine errand with me is done."

"Oh, I fear not, father," said the youth. "I am forest bred; and nothing evil would come within sight of thy dwelling."

"Well, poor lad!" said the hermit. "Sit there by the door; and if aught scares thee, push it open, and come in."

The boy accordingly seated himself by the door, which was shut upon him; and the hermit pointed to a place on his bed of straw and moss for the bishop's seat. If it had any distinction, 'twas solely that of being situated beneath the crucifix, under which a small lamp was burning, giving the only light which the cell possessed.

The good prelate--for such he was--cast himself upon the moss, and stretching forth his hands on his broad fat knees, employed no inconsiderable space of time in cooling himself, and recovering his breath, after the bodily fear and exertion he had undergone. The hermit seated himself also; and waited, in grave silence, the communication, whatever it was, that brought so respectable a dignitary of the church as the bishop of Paris to his cell at so unsuitable an hour.

"The Lord be merciful unto me!" cried the bishop, after a long pause. "What perils and dangers have I not run this very night, for the service of the church, and the poor Christian souls of the French people, who are now crying for the rites and ceremonies of the church, as the tribes of Israel cried for flesh in the desert!"

"But if report speaks right," replied the hermit, "thy flock has no need to cry; as the interdict has not yet been enforced within thy diocese, father bishop."

"True! unhappily too true!" cried the prelate, imagining that the hermit imputed blame to him for the delay. "But what could I do, brother Bernard? God knows--praised be his name!--that I have the most holy and devout fear of the authority of the blessed church of Rome;--but how can I bear to tear the food of salvation from the mouths of the poor hungry people?--Besides, when I did but mention it to the king, he cried out, in his rude and furious way:--'By the joyeuse of St. Charlemagne! bishop, take care what you do! As long as you eat of the fat, and drink of the strong, you prelates of France mind nothing; but let me hear no more of this interdict, or I will smite you hip and thigh! I will drive you forth from your benefices! I will deprive you of your feofs, and I will strip you of your wealth!--and then you may get rosy wines and rich meats where you can!"

A sort of cynical smile gathered round the hermit's lip, as if in his heart he thought Philip's estimate of the clergy of his day was not a bad one: and indeed their scandalous luxury was but too fertile a theme of censure to all the severer moralists of those times. He contented himself, however, with demanding what the prelate intended to do.

"Nay, on that subject, I came to consult you, brother Bernard," replied the bishop. "You have ever shown yourself a wise and prudent man, since you came into this place, some seven years ago; and all you have recommended has prospered.--Now, in truth, I know not what to do. The king is furious. His love for this Agnes--(if God would but please to take her to himself, what a blessing!)--is growing more and more. He has already cast out half the bishops of France for enforcing the interdict, and seized on the lands of many of the barons who have permitted or encouraged it.--What can I do? If I enforce it, he will cast me out too; and the people will be no better. If I do not enforce it, I fall under the heavy censure of our holy father the pope!"

"You know your duty, father bishop, far better than I can tell it to you," replied the hermit, with what might almost be called a malicious determination to give no assistance whatever to the poor prelate, who, between his fears of Rome and his dread of losing his diocese, laboured like a ship in a stormy sea. "Your duty must be done."

"But hearken, brother Bernard," said the bishop. "You know John of Arville, the canon of St. Berthe's--a keen, keen man, though he be so quiet and calm, and one that knows every thing which passes in the world, though he be so devout and strict in his religious exercises."

"I know him well," said the hermit sternly, as if the qualities of the worthy canon stood not high in his esteem.--"What of him?"

"Why, you know that, now William of Albert is dead, this John is head of the canons of St. Berthe," replied the bishop. "Now, you must know still farther, that a few days ago, the young count d'Auvergne, with his train, came to Paris, and was hospitably received by the canons of St. Berthe, in whose church his father had been a great founder. As the interdict is strictly kept in his own part of the country, the Count could not confess himself there; but, wisely and religiously, seeing that years might elapse before he could again receive the comforts of the church if the interdict lasted, and not knowing what might happen in the mean time--for life is frail, you know, brother Bernard--he resolved to confess himself to John of Arville, the canon; which he did. So, then, you see, John of Arville came away to me, and told me that he had a great secret, which might heal all the wounds of the state."

"How!" exclaimed the hermit, starting up. "Did he betray the secrets of confession?"

"No, no! You mistake, brother Bernard," cried the bishop peevishly. "No, no! He did not betray the secrets of confession; but, in his conversations afterwards with the young count, he drew from him that he loved this Agnes de Meranie, and that she had been promised to him by her brother as he went to the Holy Land; and that her brother being killed there, and her father knowing nothing of the promise, gave her to the king Philip. But now, hearing that the marriage is not lawful, he--her father, the duke of Istria--has charged this young Count d'Auvergne, as a knight, and one who was her dead brother's dear friend, secretly to command her, in his name, to quit the court of France, and return to his protection: and the count has thereon staked life and fortune, that if she will consent, he will find means to bring her back to Istria, in despite of the whole world. This is what he communicated to the reverend canon, not, as you say, in confession, but in sundry conversations after confession."

Bernard the hermit gave no thought to what, in our eyes, may appear a strange commission for a parent like the duke of Istria to confide to so young a man as the Count d'Auvergne. But in those days, we must remember, such things were nothing strange; for knightly honour had as yet been so rarely violated, that to doubt it for an instant, under such a mark of confidence, would have then been considered as a proof of a base and dishonourable heart. The hermit's mind, therefore, turned alone to the conduct of the priest.

"I understand," replied he, drawing his brows together, even more sternly than he had heretofore done. "The reverend canon of St. Berthe's claims kindred in an equal degree with the fox and the wolf. He has taken care that the count's secrets, first communicated to him in confession, should be afterwards repeated to him without such a seal. Thinks he, I wonder, to juggle Heaven, as well as man, with the letter instead of the spirit? And doubtless, now, he would gladly give the Count d'Auvergne all easy access to persuade this unhappy girl to return; so that he, the canon of St. Berthe's, may but save his diocesan from the unwieldly burden of the interdict, at the expense of a civil war between the powerful Count d'Auvergne and his liege lord Philip. 'Tis a goodly scheme, good father bishop; but 'twill not succeed. Agnes loves Philip--looks on him as her husband--refuses to part from him--has the spirit of a hero in a woman's bosom, and may as soon be moved by such futile plans, as the north star by the singing of the nightingale."

"See what it is to be a wise man!" said the bishop, unable to restrain a little triumphant chuckle, at having got the hermit at fault.--"See what it is to be a wise man, and not hear a simple story out! Besides, good brother Bernard, you speak but uncharitably of the reverend canon of St. Berthe's, who is a holy and religious man; though, like you yourself, somewhat too proud of worldly wisdom--a-hem!"

"A-hem!" echoed something near; at least, so it seemed to the quick and timorous ears of the worthy prelate, who started up and listened. "Did you not hear something, brother Bernard?" demanded he in a low voice. "Did you not hear a noise? Cursed be it upon the earth! and--God forgive me----"

"I heard the roaring of the wind, and the creaking of the wood, but nothing else," replied the hermit calmly, "But what wert thou about to say, father bishop? If I have taken thee up wrongly, I am ready to acknowledge my folly. All men are but as fools, and I not amongst the least. If I have wronged the canon of St. Berthe's, I am ready to acknowledge the fault. All men are sinners, and I not amongst the least. But how have I been mistaken at present?

"Why, altogether!" replied the prelate, after having re-assured himself by listening several moments without hearing any farther sound,--"altogether, brother Bernard, the canon of St. Berthe's aims at nothing you have mentioned. No one knows better than he the queen's mind as he is her confessor; and he sees well, that till the king shows some sign of willingness to part with her, she will remain fixed to him, as if she were part of himself: but he knows, too, that if Philip does but evince the least coldness--the least slackening of the bonds that bind him to her, she will think he wearies of his constancy, or fears the consequences of his opposition to the holy church; and will herself demand to quit him. His scheme therefore is, to let the king grow jealous of the Count d'Auvergne to such a point, as to show some chilliness to the queen. Agnes herself will think that he repents of his opposition to our blessed father the pope, and will propose to depart. Philip's jealousy will prevent him from saying nay; and the reverend canon himself, as her confessor, will conduct her with a sufficient escort to the court of Istria: where, please God! he may be rewarded as he deserves, for the signal service he renders France!"

"Hoo! hoo! hoo!" cried a voice from without; which sounded through the unglazed window, as if it was in the very hut.

"Miserere mei, Domine, secundum multitudinem miserationem tuarum!" exclaimed the bishop; the rosy hue of his cheek, which had returned, in the security of the hermit's cell, to much the colour of the field pimpernel, now fading away to the hue of the same flower in an ancient herbal.

"'Tis but an owl!--'tis but an owl!" cried the hermit; and, fixing his eyes on the ground, he meditated deeply for several minutes, regardless of the still unsubdued terror of the bishop, who, drawing a chaplet from beneath his robe, filled up the pause with paters and aves, strangely mixed with various ungodly curses from the never-forgotten anathema, which in his fright, like prisoners in a popular tumult, rushed forth against his will the moment fear unbarred the door of his lips.

"It is a cruel scheme!" said the hermit at length, "and the man who framed it is a cruel man; who, for his own base ambition of gaining bishoprics in Germany and credit at Rome, scruples not to tear asunder the dearest ties of the heart;--but for you or me, father bishop," he added, turning more immediately to the prelate, "for you and me, who have no other interest in this thing, than the general welfare of our country, to prevent civil war and general rebellion of the king's vassals, which will inevitably ensue if the interdict lasts, especially while he bears so hard a hand upon them,--for us, I say, it is to consider whether by the sorrow inflicted in this instance, infinite, infinite misery may not be spared through the whole nation. If you come then, father bishop, to ask me my opinion, I think the scheme which this canon of St. Berthe's proposed may be made use of--as an evil indeed--but as the least, infinitely the least, of two great ones. I think, then, that it may conscientiously be made use of; but, at the same time, I think the worse of the man that framed it--ay! and he knew I should think the worse of him.

"Why, indeed, and in truth, I believe he did," answered the bishop, who had somewhat recovered his composure by the non-repetition of the sounds, "I believe he did, for he mightily opposed my consulting you on the matter; saying that--though all the world knows, brother Bernard, you are a wise man, and a holy one too; for, indeed, none but a holy man dare inhabit such a wild place, amidst all sorts of evil spirits--cursed be they above the earth and under the earth!--but saying--as I was going to observe--that if I were seen coming here, people would think I knew not how to govern my own diocese, but must needs have your help. So I came here at night, God forgive me and protect me! for, if ever the sin of pride and false shame was punished, and repented of with fear and trembling, it has been this night."

So frank a confession changed the cynical smile that was gathering round the anchorite's lips into one of a blander character. "Your coming in the day, good father bishop," replied he, "would have honoured me, without disgracing you. The world would but have said, that the holy bishop of Paris visited the poor hermit of Vincennes, to consult with him for the people's good.--But let us to the question. If you will follow my counsel, good father, you will lay this scheme before that honoured and noble knight and reverend bishop, Guerin; for, believe me, it will be necessary to keep a careful guard over Philip, and to watch him well, lest, his passions being raised to a dangerous degree, it become necessary to tell him suddenly the whole truth. I am absent from him; you are busied with the cares of your flock; and the canon of St. Berthe's must not be trusted. But Guerin is always near him; and, with your holy zeal and his prudent watching, this scheme, though it may tear the heart of the king and of the fair unfortunate girl, Agnes his wife, may also save bloodshed, rebellion, and civil war, and raise the interdict from this ill-fated kingdom."

A loud scream, like that of some ravenous bird, but prolonged so that it seemed as if no mortal breath could have given it utterance, thrilled through the air as the hermit spoke, and vibrated round and round the hut. The bishop sank on his knees, and his little guide pushed open the door and ran in. "I dare stay out there no longer!" cried the boy: "there is something in the tree!--there is something in the tree!"

"Where?" cried the hermit, striding towards the door, his worn and emaciated figure erecting itself, and seeming to swell out with new-born energy. "Where is this sight? Were it the prince of evil himself, I defy him!"--and with a firm step, he advanced into the moonlight, between the threshold of the hut and the ancient tomb, casting his eyes up into the shattered oak, whose remaining branches stretched wide and strong over the path.

To his surprise, however, he beheld seated on one of the large boughs, in the attitude of an ape, a dark figure, like that of a man; who no sooner cast his eyes on the hermit, than he began to pour forth more strange and detestable sounds than ever were uttered by a human tongue, moving backwards along the branches at the same time with superhuman agility.

"Avoid thee, Satan! In the name of Jesus thy conqueror! avoid thee!" cried the hermit, holding up the crucifix attached to his rosary.

"Ha, ha! oh rare! The interdict, the interdict!" shouted the vision gliding along amongst the branches. "Oh rare! oh rare!" And then burst forth a wild scream of unnatural laughter, which for a moment rang round and round, as if echoed by a thousand voices; then died away fainter and fainter, and at last was lost entirely; while the dark figure, from which it seemed to proceed, disappeared amidst the gloom of the thick boughs and leaves.

"Rise, rise, father bishop!" cried the hermit, entering the hut. "The fiend is gone; and verily his coming, where he has never dared to come before, seemed to show that he is fearful of your design, and would fain scare us from endeavouring to raise the interdict:--rise, good father, I say, and be not frightened from your endeavour!" So saying, the hermit stooped and aided his reverend visiter; whom at his return he had found stretched flat on his face, at the foot of the cross, before which the anchorite's lamp was burning.

"Now, Jesu preserve us! this is very dreadful, brother Bernard!" cried the poor bishop, his teeth chattering in his head. "How you can endure it, and go on living here, exposed to such attacks, I know not; but I do know that one week of such residence would wear all the flesh off my bones."

The hermit glanced his eye, with somewhat of a cold smile, from the round, well-covered limbs of the prelate, to his own meagre and sinewy form. He made not, however, the comment that sprang to his lips, but simply replied, "I am not often subject to such visitations, and, as you see, the enemy flies from me when I appear."

"But, for all that," answered the bishop, "I tell thee, good brother Bernard, I dare as much go home through that forest alone with this urchin, as I dare jump off the tower of the Louvre!"

"Fear not: I will go with thee," replied the anchorite. "The boy, too, has a torch, I see. The night is now clear, and the wind somewhat gone down, so that the way will be soon trodden."

Company of any kind, under such circumstances, would have been received as a blessing by the good bishop; but that of so holy a man as the hermit was reputed to be, was doubly a security. Clinging to him, therefore, somewhat closer than bespoke much valour, the prelate suffered himself to be led out into the forest; while the boy, with his torch now lighted again, accompanied them, a little indeed in advance, but not sufficiently so as to prevent him also from holding tight by the anchorite's frock.

Thus, then, they proceeded through the winding paths of the wood, now in light, and now in shade, till the dark roofs of the village near Vincennes, sleeping quietly in the moonshine, met once more the delighted eyes of the bishop of Paris. Here the anchorite bade God speed him, and, turning his steps back again, took the way to his hut.

Did we say that the hermit, Bernard, did not every now and then give a glance to the wood on either side as he passed, or that he did not hold his crucifix in his hand, and, from time to time, murmur a prayer to Heaven or his guardian angel, we should say what was false; but still he walked on with a firm step, and a far more erect carriage than usual, prepared to encounter the enemy of mankind, should he appear in bodily shape, with all the courage of a Christian and the zeal of an enthusiast.

When he had reached his hut, however, and fastened the door, he cast himself on his knees before the cross, and, folding his arms devoutly on his bosom, he exclaimed:--"O, blessed Saviour! pardon if J have sinned in the counsel I have this night given. Let not weakness of understanding be attributed to me for wickedness of heart; but, as thou seest that my whole desire is to serve Thee, and do good unto my fellow-christians, grant, O Lord! pardon and remittance unto the faults of my judgment! Nevertheless, if my counsel be evil, and thou hast permitted thy conquered enemy to show himself unto me visibly, as a sign of thy wrath, let me beseech thee. Lord! to turn that counsel aside that it have no effect, and that the sorrow of my brethren lay. not heavy on my head!"

To this extempore prayer the good hermit added one or two from the regular ritual of the church; and then, casting himself on his bed of moss, with a calmed mind, he fell into a profound sleep.

In the mean while, day broke upon the glades of the forest; and at about the distance of a mile from the dwelling of the hermit, dropped down from one of the old oaks, with the first ray of the sun, no less a person than our friend Gallon the fool.

"Ha, ha!" cried he, "Ha, ha, haw! My lord ordered me to be shut out, if I came not home by dusk; and now, by my shutting out, I have heard a secret he would give his ears to hear.--Ha, haw! Ha, haw!--I've ninety-nine minds not to tell him--but it wants the hundredth. So I will tell him. Then he'll break their plot, or give news of it to the king and the Auvergne;--and then, they'll all be hanged up like acorns.--Haw, haw! and we shall keep the sweet interdict--the dear interdict--the beloved interdict. I saw five dead men lying unburied in the convent field.--Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw! I love the interdict--I do! 'Tis like my nose: it mars the face of the country, which otherwise were a fair face.--Ha, haw! I love interdicts. My nose is my interdict.--Haw, haw, haw! But I must find other means to spite the De Coucy, for shutting me out! I spited him finely, by sending down the old fool Julian into the glade, where he was cajoling his daughter!--Haw, haw, haw! Ha, haw!" So saying, he bounded forward, and ran as hard as he could towards the distant city.