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.