The Knights of England, France, and Scotland

by Henry William Herbert

Next this lady, on the outer side, there rode one who was as much and as deservedly detested by the neighborhood as she was admired and beloved—a strange compound of all the foul and hideous vices which can render humanity detestable, unredeemed by one solitary virtue, if bravery be excepted, which was a quality so general and necessary—being, in fact, almost unavoidable, from the peculiar nature of chivalrous institutions—that it must be regarded rather as a virtue of the age and military caste of nobles, than of this or that individual. He had earned himself a fearful reputation, and how well he had deserved no one could doubt who looked upon his face, all scathed and furrowed by the lines stamped on it by habitual indulgence in every hateful vice, habitual surrender to every fiery passion. A cousin of the marquis, and his nearest male relative, he had done much to deprave and corrupt his mind; and though an accomplished and gallant gentleman, honorable, and affable, and companionable to his own caste, a fond husband, a kind brother, and a warm friend, he had succeeded in rendering him as cruel and unmerciful an oppressor of all beneath him as a feudal seigneur in those days could be, if his power was equalled by his will to do evil. He also was Canillac, the reproach and disgrace of an old and noble name, and was known far and wide, for his furious and frantic crimes—which seemed, so perfectly unprovoked were they at times and devoid of meaning, to arise from actual insanity—by the soubriquet of Canillac le fou, the madman—a title of which, so shameless was he in his infamous renown, he actually appeared to glory, signing it as a portion of his name, or an honorable title of distinction.

On the other side, next to Louise de Roche d’or, rode a tall and handsome youth, wearing the belt and spurs of knighthood, and gazing at times into the face of the beautiful girl with eyes full of deep, ardent affection, and speaking to her in those low, earnest tones which denote so certainly the existence of strong and pervading interest and affection. The knight, already famous far beyond his years, for deeds of dauntless daring, was Sir Louis de Montfauçon, a puissant baron of Auvergne, whose bands marched with those of Castel de Roche d’or, and the affianced husband of the young and fair Louise. Pages and equerries, with the usual attendants, followed, and the courtyard rang and re-echoed with the clang of hoofs, the neighing of coursers, the deep baying of the bloodhounds, and the screams of the frightened falcons.

They issued from the castle-gates; wound through the open park, and the dense woodland chase beyond it; swept down a steep descent into a broad and fertile valley, watered by a great, clear river, which they crossed by a wooden bridge: traversed the narrow, sandy street of the village of Castel de Roche d’or, and, turning off short to the right, entered a little dell, through which a bright, clear rivulet murmured over its pebbly bed, on its way to join the larger river in the valley.

The lower part of this little dell was principally open pasturage, dotted here and there with brakes and solitary bushes of hawthorn; and along the margin of the rivulet there ran a fringe of willow and alder thickets, but a little higher up it degenerated into a mere gorge or ravine, thickly overshadowed by the gnarled arms and dense, verduous umbrage of huge, immemorial oaks, the outskirts and advanced guard, as it were, of a vast oak-forest, which covered leagues on leagues of rough and broken country, to which this dell formed the readiest means of access.

Just in the jaws of this pass, overhung by the oaks, stood a small, gray, rustic chapel, supported on four clustered columns, with groined arches intersecting each other resting upon them, a small, arched canopy containing a bell on the summit of its steep, slated roof, and a low-browed door, with a round arch, decorated with the wolf-toothed carvings of the earliest Norman style. Immediately in front of the door, the little rivulet which watered the dell burst out of the other in a strong, gushing spring, which had been blessed by some saint of old, and, being surmounted by a vaulted canopy, was held to be peculiarly holy by the superstitious rustics of the region.

This lovely spot, however, peaceful as it showed, and calm in its tranquil and sequestered security, had been the scene, some two or three years before, of a fearful and cruel crime: had witnessed the violent seizure of a sweet, innocent, and rarely lovely bride, fresh from the marriage benediction, by this very Raoul de Canillac; and the girl had escaped pollution only by self-immolation.

It was a cursed deed—and cursed was the vengeance it provoked!

Just as the company I have described wheeled into the lower end of the little dell, conversing joyously together, and enjoying the sweet influences of the season and the place, they were saluted by the long, keen blast of a bugle, well and clearly winded, in that peculiarly note known at that period as the mort, being the call that announced the death of the game, whatever it was, which might be the object of pursuit.

This call came from the oaks above the chapel, although no performer was seen, nor was there any baying of hounds or clamor of hunters, such as usually accompanies the termination of a chase.

There was no privilege at that time more highly regarded by the nobles than the rights of the chase, nor was there any crime more jealously pursued and punished more vindictively than the infraction of the forest-laws; so much so, indeed, that the death of a stag or wild-boar by unlicensed hands was visited with a far deeper meed of vengeance than the murder of a man!