CHAPTER I.
THE QUEEN'S "FLYING SQUADRON."
The Abbey of St. Severin, situated on the Limoges road not far from the town of Malraye, belonged to the Order of St. Bernard. Before the beginning of the religious wars, the abbey was a splendid monument, built by the hands of Jacques Bonhomme,[47] like so many other monasteries that dot the soil of France. As a church vassal, Jacques Bonhomme transported either upon his own back, or, to the still greater injury of field agriculture, with the help of oxen, the stones, the lumber, the sand and the lime requisite for the erection of these pretentious monastic residences. He thereupon carried to the idling monks the tithes on his corn, on his cattle, on his poultry, on his eggs, on his butter, on his wine, on his oil, on the fleece of his sheep, on his honey, on his linen, in short, the prime of all that he produced with the sweat of his brow. Then came the corvee[48]—to till the convent lands, to sow, weed and gather the crops thereon; to keep the convent roads in repair; to irrigate its meadows; to dredge its ponds; to serve as watchman; and finally to lay down his life in its defense against the roving bands of vagabonds and robbers. In return for all these services—when either old, or sick, or exhausted with toil, Jacques Bonhomme could work no more—he was allowed to hold out his bowl at the gate of the monastery, when the monks would occasionally deign to fill it with greasy water from their kitchen. When the church vassal was at his last breath, stretched upon the straw in his hut, the good Fathers came to assist and solace him with their Oremus.[49] "God created man for sorrow and poverty," they would say to him; "you have suffered—God is pleased; you shall enjoy a famous seat in Paradise. Yours will be the delights of the celestial mansion."
When the spirit of the Reformation penetrated some of the provinces, Jacques Bonhomme began to lend an ear to a new theory. "Poor, ignorant people, poor duped and defrauded people," said the pastors of the new church; "offerings to saints, masses, and purgatory are idolatries, tricks, frauds, sacrilegious inventions with the aid of which the priests and monks appropriate to themselves the silver laid by fools upon the altars and at the feet of wooden and stone images. Good men! Read the sacred Book. You will discover that God forbids the traffic on which thousands of frocked and tonsured idlers grow fat." In sight of such a revelation, based as it was upon the texts of Holy Writ, Jacques Bonhomme said to himself in his own rustic common sense: "’Tis so! I have been cheated, duped and robbed all these centuries by the Church of Rome!" Thereupon Jacques Bonhomme turned himself loose upon the convents and churches; he overthrew, broke and profaned the altars, the relics and the statues of saints that had so long been the objects of his veneration.
On the other hand, in the provinces where the population remained under the mental domination of the clergy, Jacques Bonhomme turned himself loose upon the houses of Huguenots, set them on fire, slaughtered the men, violated the women, and dashed the brains of old men and children against the walls.
Occupied before the religious wars by the Bernardine monks, the Abbey of St. Severin had been repeatedly sacked, like so many other monastic resorts in the districts of Poitou, Berri and Limousin. Reared on an admirable site—the slope of a hill shaded by a thick forest—the convent clearly revealed the traces of a sack, freshly undergone: shattered windows, doors broken open or torn from their hinges, portions of the walls blackened by fire, and the capitals of the columns mutilated by the discharge of arquebuses and the fury of the devastators.
One day, towards the middle of the month of June, 1569, as the sun drew near the western horizon, the silence around the ruins of the Abbey of St. Severin was disturbed by the arrival of two squadrons of light cavalry belonging to the Catholic army. The cavalcade escorted a long convoy of pack-mules, the men in charge of whom wore the colors and arms of the royal house of France and of the house of Lorraine. The convoy entered the yard of the cloister. The lackeys unloaded the mules and took possession of the deserted abbey. True to their name, the horsemen were armed in the lightest manner, with Burgundian helmets and breastplates, together with armlets and gauntlets, besides thigh-pieces partly covered by their boots; small arquebuses, only three feet long and well polished, hung from their saddle pommels, and short swords and iron maces completed their outfit.
The armed corps had for its commandant Count Neroweg of Plouernel, a man beyond sixty years of age, of rough, haughty and martial mien. From head to foot he was covered with armor damascened in gold. His Turkish silver-grey horse was cased at the neck, chest and crupper in light flexible sheets of chiseled and richly gilt steel. Its orange-colored velvet housings and saddle were ornamented with green and silver lace, the heraldic colors of the house of Plouernel. The jacket or floating coat that the Count wore above his armor was also of orange-colored velvet, and likewise embroidered with green and silver thread. The commandant of the detachment alighted from his horse; ordered the monastery to be searched; set up watches and sent out pickets over the principal roads that led to the place. He then remounted and rode away in the direction of Limoges, escorted by only one of the two squadrons.
Immediately after the departure of the Count, the quartermasters of Queen Catherine De Medici, assisted by her serving-men and those of Charles of Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine, fell to work on the task of imparting to the devastated halls of the abbey the most presentable appearance possible, with the view of lodging the Queen and the prelate whose arrival they expected. The mules, to the number of more than sixty, carried a complete traveling equipment on their pack-saddles, or in large trunks strapped to their backs—tent cloths, lambrequins, tapestry, easels, dismantled beds, curtains, mattresses, silver vessels, besides an abundance of eatables and wines with the necessary kitchen utensils, and even ice, in leather bags. The valets set to work with a will, and with a promptitude truly marvelous they tapestried the apartments destined for the Queen and for the Cardinal by hanging rich cloths, provided in advance with gilt hooks, from nails that they deftly drove along the upper edges of the walls. They then fitted out the two rooms with the necessary furniture brought by the mules. A chamber, separated from that of the Queen by a small passage was likewise prepared for the reception of the sovereign's four maids of honor. The pages, the knights, the chamberlains, the officers and the equerries were all quartered, as in time of war, in the outhouses of the abbey, the vast kitchen of which was invaded by the master cook and his aides, who prepared supper, while the stewards spread the royal table in the refectory of the monastery. Shortly before sunset forerunners announced the approach of the Queen. Upon the heels of the forerunners came a vanguard, and immediately after, several armed squadrons, in the center of which was the royal litter, enclosed with hangings of gold-embroidered violet velvet and carried by two mules, likewise in trappings of violet velvet. A second litter, not so richly decorated and empty at the time, was reserved for those maids of honor who might tire of riding. These maids, however, together with their governess, had preferred to cover the distance on the backs of their richly caparisoned palfreys, the necks, flanks and cruppers of which were decked in embroidered velvet emblazoned with the arms of the royal house of France. Pages and equerries followed the maids of honor. The rear was brought up by the litter of the Cardinal of Lorraine, wrapped in purple taffeta hangings and surrounded by several leading dignitaries and Princes of the Church.
Before entering the yard of the abbey the prelate put his head out of his litter, and ordered one of his gentlemen-in-waiting to summon before him the commandant of the escort. Charles of Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine, was at that time forty-six years of age. His otherwise handsome features, now marred by debauchery, reflected shrewdness, craft, and above all haughtiness, these being the dominant traits of his character. Count Neroweg of Plouernel, who was summoned by the prelate, approached the litter.
"Monsieur," said the Cardinal in an imperious tone, "do you answer for the safety of the Queen and myself?"