CHAPTER XII.
We must now once more go back a little in our history and return to Sir Guy de Coucy, who, on the morning of his friend's departure for Auvergne, stood at the door of their common dwelling to see him set out. In the hurry of such a moment there had been no time for many of those arrangements between the two friends, which the Count d'Auvergne much wished to have made. However, as he embraced De Coucy at parting, according to the custom of the day, he whispered in his ear: "The besants we brought from the Holy Land are in my chamber. If you love me, De Coucy, remember that we are brothers, and have all things in common. I shall find you here at my return. If I come not soon I will send you a messenger." De Coucy nodded his head with a smile, and, leaning on his large two-handed sword, saw the Count d'Auvergne mount his horse and depart.
"Farewell, D'Auvergne!" said he, as he turned to re-enter the house,--"perhaps we may never meet again; but De Coucy forgets not thy generous kindness, though he will not use it. Our fortunes are far too unequal for us longer to hold a common purse."
Be it remarked, however, that the scruples which affected De Coucy on this occasion were rather singular in the age in which he lived; for the companionship of arms, which, in their romantic spirit, the knights of even a much later period often vowed to each other, were frequently of a stricter and more generous nature than any of our most solid engagements of life at present; involving not only community of fortune and of fate, but of friendships and of enmities, of pleasures and pains, and sometimes of life or death.[[15]] When once two knights had exchanged arms, as was often the case, it became their duty to assist each other on every occasion, with body and goods, during the expedition in which they were engaged; and sometimes, even for life, to share all wealth between them, both present and to come; and in case of one dying, while under an engagement to do battle, (or under a wager of battle, as it was called,) his companion, or brother in arms, was bound to fill his place, and maintain his honour in the duel.
While in the Holy Land, cut off from frequent supplies, and in imminent and continual dangers, De Coucy had found no inequality between himself and Count Thibalt de Auvergne; but now, placed amidst the ruinous expense of tournaments and courts, he resolved to break off at once an engagement, where no parity of means existed between himself and his companion.
Slowly, and somewhat sadly, De Coucy returned to his own chamber, feeling a touch of care that his light heart had not often known before. "Hugo de Barre," said he, "give me a flask of wine; I have not tasted my morning's cup, and I am melancholy."
"Shall I put some comfits in it, beau sire?" demanded the squire. "I have often known your worship get over a bad fit of love, by a ladle-full of comfits in a cup of Cyprus."
"As thou wilt, Hugo," answered the knight; "but 'tis not love I want to cure, now-a-day."
"Marry! I thought, sire Guy," replied Hugo de Barre, "that it was all for love of the Lady Isadore; but then, again, I fancied it was strange, if you loved her, that you should leave her at Senlis, and not go on with her to her own castle, and strive to win her!"
"Her father was going to lodge with the sire de Montmorency, my cousin Enguerand's sworn foe," replied De Coucy; "and even after that, he goes not home, but speeds to Rouen, to mouth it with John, king of England.--By my faith!" he added, speaking to himself, "that old man will turn out a rebel from simple folly. He must needs be meddling with treason, but to make himself important. Yet D'Auvergne says he was a good warrior in his day. I wish I could keep his fingers from the fire, were it but for his daughter's love--sweet girl!"
Had De Coucy been alone, he would probably have thought what he now said, yet would not have spoken it; but having begun by addressing his attendant, he went on aloud, though the latter part of what he said was, in reality, merely a part of his commune with himself. Hugo de Barre, however, who had, on more than one occasion been thus made, as it were, a speaking-block by his master, understood the process of De Coucy's mind, and stood silent till his lord had done.
"Then you do love the lady, beau sire?" said he at last, venturing more than he usually did upon such occasions.
"Well, well! Hugo, what is it to thee?" demanded De Coucy. "I will not keep thee out all night, as when I courted the princess of Syracuse."
"Nay, but I love the Lady Isadore better than ever I did the princess of Syracuse," replied the squire; "and I would stay out willingly many a night for her sake, so she would be my lord's true lady. Look ye, my lord! You have seen her wear this bracelet of cloth of gold," he continued, drawing forth a piece of fine linen, in which was wrapped a broad band of cloth of gold, not at all unlike the bracelets of gilded wire, lately so much the mode amongst the fair dames of London and Paris. "I asked one of her maidens to steal it for me."
"You did not, surely, Hugo!" cried De Coucy. "How dare you be so bold with any noble lady, sirrah?"
"Nay, then, I will give it back," replied the squire. "I had intended the theft to have profited your lordship; but I will give it back. The Lady Isadore, it is true, knew that her damsel took it; but still it was a theft; and I will give it back again. She knew, too, that it was I who asked it; and doubtless guessed it was you, beau sire, would have it; but I had better give it back."
"Nay, nay! good Hugo," replied De Coucy; "give it me. I knew not you were so skilful in such matters. I knew you were a good scout, but not in sir Cupid's army.--Give it me!"
"Nay, beau sire, I had better give it back," replied the Squire; "and then I will fall into my duty again, and look for nothing but routiers, cotereaux, and the like. But there is something more I wished to tell you, sir: old Giles, the squire of the good Count Julian, told me, that if his lord keep his mind of going to Rouen, he must needs in three weeks' time pass within sight of our own--that is to say, your own--castle. Now, would it not be fair sport, to lay an ambush for the whole party, and take them prisoners, and bring them to the castle?"
"By my faith! it would," replied the knight. "But how is this, Hugo?--thou art a changed man. Ever since I have known thee, which is since I was not higher than my dagger, thou hast shown thyself as stiff and sturdy a piece of old iron, as any of the corslets that hang by the wall; and now thou art craving bracelets, and laying ambushes for fair ladies, as if thou hadst been bred up in the very palace of Love. Methinks that same damsel, who stole the bracelet for thee, must have woke up some new spirit in thy heart of stone, to make thine outward man so pliable. Why, compared to what thou wert, Hugo, thou art as a deer-skin coat to a steel plastron. Art thou not in love, man? Answer me!"
"Something like it, I fear me, beau sire," replied the squire. "And as it is arranged between me and Alixe, that if you win the lady, I am to have the maid, we are resolved to set our wits to work to help your lordship on."
"By my life! a hopeful plot," replied De Coucy: "and well do I know, Hugo, that the maid's good word is often as much gained as the mistress's smile. But go, order to saddle; leave the bracelet with me; and as soon as the horses be ready, De Coucy will spur on for the home of his fathers."
The squire delivered the bracelet to his lord, and left the apartment; and no sooner was he gone, than De Coucy carried the bracelet to his lips, to his forehead, and his heart, with as much fervour of devotion, as ever monk showed for the most sacred relic of his church.
"She knew that her damsel took it!--she knew that it was for me!" exclaimed he in an ecstasy of delight, which every one who can feel, may have felt on discovering some such unlooked-for source of happiness. Stretching out his hand, De Coucy then took up the rote, which, as a true trouvère, he made his inseparable companion. It was an age when poetry was a language--the real, not the figurative language of love--when song was in the heart of every one, ready to break forth the moment that passion or enthusiasm called for aid;--and, in the acme of his gladness, the young knight sang to the instrument a ballad, composed, indeed, long before; but the concluding verse of which he altered to suit his feelings at the moment.
SONG.
I.
"I rode my battle-horse afar--
A long, a long, and weary way;
Fading I saw night's latest star,
And morning's prime, and risen day,
But still the desert around me lay.