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.