Philip Augustus; or, The Brothers in Arms

by G. P. R. James

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."