Agnes Sorel: A Novel

by G. P. R. James

"He is ill at ease, my lord--sick at heart--is in a fever to return to his own land."

"You little deceiver," cried Lord Willoughby, laughing. "You made me anxious about the good young baron, and now it is but the old story, after all. But why should he pine so to get back to France? This is a fine country--this a fine city; and God is my witness I do all I can to make him happy. He is little more than a prisoner in name."

"But still a prisoner, my lord," replied Agnes, with a touching earnestness. "The very name is the chain. Think you not that to a gentleman, a man of a free spirit, the very feeling of being a prisoner is heavier than fetters of iron to a serf. You may cage a singing-bird, my lord, but an eagle beats itself to death against the bars. Would you be content to rest a captive in France, however well treated you might be? Would you be content to know that you could not revisit your own dear land, see the scenes where your youth had passed, embrace your friends and relations, breathe your own native air? Would you be content to sit down at night in a lonely room, not in your own castle, and, looking at your wrists, though you saw not the fetters there, say to yourself, 'I am a captive, nevertheless. A captive to my fellowman--I can not go where I would, do what I would. I am bound down to times and places--a prisoner--a prisoner still, though I may carry my prison about with me!' Would any man be content with this? and if so, how much less can a knight and a gentleman sit down in peace and quiet, content to be a prisoner in a foreign land, when his country needs his services, when every gentleman of France is wanted for the aid of France, when his king is to be served, his country's battles to be fought, even against you, my lord, and his own honor and renown to be maintained?"

"Ay; you touch me there--you touch me there, young lady," said the old nobleman. "On my life, for my part, I would never keep a brave enemy in prison, but have him pay only what he could for ransom, and then let him go to fight me again another day."

"Monsieur De Brecy's father," continued Agnes, simply, "died in a lost field against the English. The son is here in an English prison. Think you not that he envies his father?"

"Perhaps he does, perhaps he does," cried Lord Willoughby, starting up, and walking backward and forward in the room. "But what can I do?" he continued, stopping before Agnes and gazing at her with a look of sincere distress. "The king made me promise that I would not liberate any of my prisoners, so long as he and I both lived, without his special consent, except at the heavy ransoms he himself had fixed. My dear child, you talk like a woman, and yet you touch me like a child. But you can, I am sure, understand that it is not in my power; or, upon my faith and chivalry, I would grant what you desire."

The tears rose in Agnes's beautiful eyes. "I know you would be kind," she said. "But his mother insisted upon selling all they have to pay his ransom. He would not have it; for it would reduce her to poverty, and I came away to see if I could not move you."

"On my life," cried Lord Willoughby, "I have a mind to send you to the king."

"Where is he?" cried Agnes. "I am ready to go to him at once."

The old lord shook his head: "He is in France," he said; and was going to add something more, when a tall servant suddenly opened the door, and began some announcement by saying, "My lord, here is--"