CHAPTER XV.
Six days had elapsed after the scenes we have described in our two last chapters, and Philip Augustus had taken all measures to secure the fruits of his victory, when, at the head of a gay party of knights and attendants, no longer burdened with warlike armour, but garmented in the light and easy robes of peace, the conquering monarch spurred along the banks of the Oise, anxious to make Agnes a sharer of his joy, and to tell her that, though the crafty policy of Rome still prolonged the question of his divorce, he was now armed with power to dictate what terms he pleased, and to bring her enemies to her feet.
The six months had now more than expired, during which he had consented not to see her; and that absence had given to his love all that magic light with which memory invests past happiness. The brightest delight, too, of hope was added to his feelings,--the hope of seeing joy reblossom on the cheek of her he loved, and the inspiration of the noblest purpose that can wing human endeavour carried him on,--the purpose of raising, and comforting, and bestowing happiness.
It may easily be believed, then, that the monarch was in one of his gayest and most gladsome moods; and to De Coucy, who rode by his side, full of as high hopes and glad anticipations as himself, he ever and anon poured forth some of the bright feelings that were swelling in his bosom.
The young knight, too, hurrying on towards the castle of Rolleboise, where Isadore, now his own, won by knightly deeds and honourable effort, still remained, uncertain of her fate--gave way at once more to the natural liveliness of his disposition; and, living in an age when Ceremony had not drawn her rigid barrier between the monarch and his vassal, suffered the high spirits, which for many months had been, as it were, chained down by circumstance, to shine out in many a quick sally and cheerful reply.
The death of his companion in arms, the unhappy Count d'Auvergne, would indeed throw an occasional shade over De Coucy's mind. But the regrets which we in the present age experience for the loss of a friend in such a manner--and which De Coucy was formed to feel as keenly as any one--in that age met with many alleviations. He had died knightly in his harness, defending his monarch; he had fallen upon a whole pile of enemies his hand had slain; he had wrought high deeds, and won immortal renown. In the eyes of De Coucy, such a death was to be envied; and thus, though, when he thought of never beholding his friend again, he felt a touch of natural grief for his own sake; yet, as he remembered the manner of his fate, he felt proud that his friend had so finished his career.
It was a bright July morning, and would have been extremely hot, had not an occasional cloud skimmed over the sky, and cast a cool though fleeting shadow upon the earth. One of these had just passed, and had let fall a few large drops of rain upon them in its course, the glossy stains of which on his black charger's neck Philip was examining with the sweet idleness of happiness, when De Coucy called his attention to a pigeon flying overhead.
"A carrier pigeon, as I live! my lord!" said the knight. "I have seen them often in Palestine. Look! there is its roll of paper!"
"Has any one a falcon?" cried the king, apparently more agitated than De Coucy expected to see, on so simple an event. "I would give a thousand besants for a falcon!"
One of the king's pages, in the train, carried, as was common in those days even during long journies, a falcon on his wrist; and, hearing the monarch's exclamation, he, in a moment, unhooded his bird, and slipped its gesses. Lifting its keen eyes towards the skies, the hawk spread its wings at once, and towered after the pigeon.
"Well flown, good youth!" cried the king. "What is thy name?"
"My name is Hubert," replied the boy, somewhat abashed, "My name is Hubert, beau sire."
"Hubert? What, nothing else? Henceforth, then be Hubert de Fauconpret;" and having sportively given this name to the youth--a name which descended distinguished to after years, he turned his eyes towards the falcon, and watched its progress through the sky. "The bird will miss his stroke, I fear me," said the king, turning towards De Coucy; and then, seeing some surprise at his anxiety painted on the young knight's countenance, he added, "That pigeon is from Rolleboise. I brought the breed from Ascalon. Agnes would not have loosed it without some weighty cause."
As he spoke, the falcon towered above the pigeon, struck it, and at a whistle brought it, trembling and half dead with fear, to the page, who instantly delivered it from the clutches of its winged enemy, and gave it into the hands of the king. Philip took the scrap of paper from the poor bird's neck, caressed it for a moment, and then again threw it up into the air. At first, it seemed as if it would have fallen, from the fear which it had undergone, though the well-trained falcon had not injured it in the least. After a few faint whirls, however, it gained strength again, rose in a perpendicular line into the sky, took two or three circles in the air, and then darted off at once directly towards Paris.
In the meanwhile, Philip Augustus gazed upon the paper he had thus received; and, whatever were the contents, they took the colour from his cheek. Without a word, he struck his horse violently with his spurs, urged him into a gallop, and, followed by his train as best they might, drew not in his rein till he stood before the barbican of the castle of Rolleboise.
Pale cheeks and anxious eyes encountered his glance, as he dashed over the drawbridge the moment it was lowered. "The queen?" cried he, "the queen? How fares the queen?" But, without waiting for a reply, he sprang to the ground in the court, rushed past the crowd of attendants, through the hall, up the staircase, and paused not, till he reached the door of that chamber which he and Agnes had inhabited during the first months of their union; and in which, from its happy memories, he knew she would be fond to dwell. There, however, he stopped, the beating of his heart seeming almost to menace him with destruction if he took a step farther.
There was a murmur of voices within; and, after an instant's pause, he opened the door, and gliding past the tapestry, stood at the end of the room.
The chamber was dim, for the night was near; but at the farther extremity was the faint light of a taper contending with the pale remains of day. He could see, however, that his marriage-bed was arrayed like the couch of the dying, that there were priests standing round in silence, and women in tears; while one lovely girl, whose face he knew not, knelt by the bed-side, and supported on her arm the pale and ashy countenance of another, over which the grey shadow of death seemed advancing fast.
Philip started forward. Could that be Agnes--that pale, blighted thing, over whose dim and glassy eyes a strange unlife-like film was drawn, the precursor of the shroud? Could that be Agnes--the bright--the beautiful--the beloved?
A faint exclamation, which broke from the attendants as they beheld him, reached even the heavy ear of the dying. The film was drawn back from her eyes for a moment; life blazed up once more, and concentrated all its parting light in the full, glad, ecstatic gaze which she fixed upon the countenance of him she loved. A smile of welcome and farewell hung upon her lip; and, with a last effort, she stretched forth her arms towards him. With bitter tears, Philip clasped her to his bosom. Agnes bent down her . . . head upon his neck and died!
Oh, glory! oh, victory! oh, power! Ye shining emptinesses! Ye bubbles on the stream of time!