equal fight. He had smothered his vengeance for long, however, and he
had no inclination to delay it much longer, as the worthy Brabançois
had more reasons than one for resolving to rid himself of the society
of a person so little trustworthy as Gallon, in the most summary
manner possible--but the only question was how to take him at a
disadvantage.

For this purpose, it was necessary to cover every appearance of wrath,
that the juggler might be thrown off his guard. Jodelle smoothed his
brow therefore, and, after a moment, affected to join in Gallon's
laugh. "Thou art a cunning dealer!" said he--"thou art a cunning
dealer, sir Gallon! But, in troth, I should like to know how thou
didst contrive to beguile this De Coucy away from the army, as thou
sayest, at such a moment."

"Haw, haw!" cried Gallon--"haw, haw! 'Twas no hard work. How dost thou
catch a sparrow, sire Jodelle? Is it not by spreading out some crumbs?
Well, by the holy rood! as he says himself, I sent him a goose's
errand all the way down the river, to reconnoitre a party of men whom
I made Ermold the page, make Hugo the squire, make Coucy the knight,
believe were going to take the king's host on the flank!--Haw, haw! Oh
rare!"

"By St. Peter! thou hast betrayed what I told thee when we were
drinking two nights since," cried Jodelle. "Fool! thou wilt have my
dagger in thee if thou heedest not!"

"Oh rare!" shouted Gallon, "Oh rare! What then, did I tell the Coucy
true, when I said Count Julian of the Mount, and William de la Roche
Guyon, were there with ten thousand men?--Haw, haw! did I tell him
true, coterel? Talk not to me of daggers, lout, or I'll drive mine in
under thy fifth rib, and leave thee as dead as a horse's bones on a
common. Haw, haw! I thought the Coucy would have gone down with all
the men of Tankerville, and have chined me that fair-faced coward,
that once fingered this great monument of my beauty;" and he laid his
finger on his long unnatural snout, with so mingled an expression of
face, that it was difficult to decide whether he spoke in vanity or
mockery. "But he only went down to reconnoitre," added the juggler.
"The great ninny! he might have swallowed father and lover up at a
mouthful, and then married the heiress if he had liked! And he calls
me fool, too! Oh rare!--But where art thou going, beau sire Jodelle? I
saw all your army a-foot before I left them to come after you; and I
dreamed that they were going to cut off the king at the passage by
Bovines; and doubtless thou art bearer of an order to Sir Julian, and
Count William, with the Duke of Limburg and the men of Ardennes, to
take him in the rear. Haw, haw! there will be fine smashing of bones,
and hacking of flesh. I must be there to have the picking of the dead
men."

Thus ran on Gallon, rambling from subject to subject, but withal
betraying so clear a knowledge of all the plans of the imperial army,
that Jodelle believed his information to be little less than magical;
though indeed Gallon was indebted for it to strolling amongst the
tents of the Germans the night before, and catching here and
there, while he amused the knights and squires with his tricks of
_jonglerie_, all the rumours that were afloat concerning the movements
of the next day. From these, with a happiness that madness sometimes
has, he jumped at conclusions, which many a wiser brain would have
missed, and, like a blind man stumbling on a treasure, hit by accident
upon the exact truth.

As his conversation with Jodelle arrived at this particular point, the
road which they were pursuing opened out upon a little irregular piece
of ground, bisected by another by-path, equally ornamented by high
rough banks. Nevertheless, neither of these roads traversed the centre
of the little green or common; the one which the travellers were
pursuing skirting along the side, under the sort of cliff by which it
was flanked, and the other edging the opposite extreme. At the
intersection of the paths, however, on the very top of the farther
bank, stood a tall elm tree, which Gallon measured with his eye as
they approached.

"Haw, haw!" cried he, delighting in every recollection that might
prove unpleasant to his neighbours.--"Haw, haw! Beau sire Jodelle!
Monstrous like the tree on which they were going to hang you, near the
Pont de l'Arche! Haw, haw, haw! The time when you were like to be
hanged, and I saved you--you remember?"

"Thou didst not save me, fool!" replied the Brabançois: "'twas king
John saved me. I would not owe my life to such a foul fool as thou
art, for all that it is worth. The king saved my life to do a great
deed of vengeance, which I will accomplish yet before I die," added
Jodelle, "and then I'll account with him too, for what I owe him--he
shall not be forgot! no, no!" and the plunderer's eyes gleamed as he
thought of the fate that the faithless monarch had appointed for him,
and connected it with the vague schemes of vengeance that were
floating through his own brain.

"Haw, haw!" cried Gallon. "If thou goest not to hell, sire Jodelle,
thou art sure t'will not be for lack of thanklessness, to back your
fair bevy of gentlemanly vices. John, the gentle, sent thee thy
pardon, that thou mightest murder De Coucy for prating of his
murdering Arthur,--I know that as well as thou dost; but had my tongue
not been quicker than his messenger's horse, thou wouldst soon have
been farther on your road to heaven than ever you may be again. Oh
rare! How the crows of the _Pont de l'Arche_ must hate me! Haw, haw!
vinegar face! didst ever turn milk sour with thy sharp nose?--Hark!
Hear you not a distant clatter? Your army is marching down towards the
bridge, prince Pumkin," he rambled on; "I'll up into yon tree, and
see; for this country is as flat as peas porridge."

So saying. Gallon sprang to the ground, climbed the bank in an
instant, and walked up the straight boll of the tree, as easily as if
he had been furnished with a ladder; giving a quick glance round,
however, every step, to see that Jodelle did not take any advantage of
him.

His movements had been so rapid, that with the best intentions
thereunto in the world, the coterel could not have injured him in his
ascent; and when he was once up, he began to question him on what he
saw.

"What do I see?" said Gallon. "Why, when I look that way, I see German
asses, and Lorraine foxes, and English curs, and Flanders mules, all
marching down towards the river as quietly as may be; and when I look
the other way, I perceive a whole band of French monkeys, tripping on
gaily without seeing the others; and when I look down there," he
continued, pointing to Jodelle, "I see a Provençal wolf, hungry for
plunder, and thirsty for blood;" and Gallon began to descend the tree.

As he had spoken, there was a sound of horses heard coming up the
road, and Jodelle spurred close up under the bank, as if to catch a
glance of the persons who were approaching; but, at the same moment,
he quietly drew his sword. Gallon instantly perceived his man[oe]uvre,
and attempted to spring up the tree once more.

Ere he could do so, however, Jodelle struck at him; and though he
could only reach high enough to wound the tendon of his leg, the pain
made the juggler let go his hold, and he fell to the top of the bank,
nearly on a level with the face of the coterel, who, rising in his
stirrups, with the full lunge of his arm, plunged his sword into his
body.

Though mortally wounded, Gallon, without word or groan, rolled down
the bank, and clung to the legs of his enemy's horse, impeding the
motions of the animal as much as if it had been clogged; while at the
same time Jodelle now urged it furiously with the spur; for the sound
of coming cavaliers, and the glance of a knight's pennon from behind
the turn of the road, at about an hundred yards' distance, showed him
that he must either ride on, or take the risk of the party being
inimical to his own.

Three times the horse, plunging furiously under the spur, set its feet
full on the body of the unfortunate juggler; but still he kept his
hold, without a speech or outcry, till suddenly shouting "Haw,
haw!--Haw, haw, haw!--The Coucy! the Coucy! Haw, haw!" he let go his
hold; and the coterel galloped on at full speed, ascertaining by a
single glance, that Gallon's shout announced nothing but the truth.

De Coucy's eyes were quick, however; and his horse far fleeter than
that of the coterel. He saw Jodelle, and recognised him instantly;
while the dying form of Gallon, and the blood that stained the dry
white sand of the road, in dark red patches round about, told their
own tale, and were not to be mistaken. Without pausing to clasp his
visor, or to brace his shield, the knight snatched his lance from his
squire, struck his spurs into the flanks of his charger; and, before
Jodelle had reached the other side of the little green, the iron of
the spear struck him between the shoulders, and, passing through his
plastron as if it had been made of parchment, hurled him from his
horse, never to mount again. A shrill cry like that of a wounded
vulture, as the knight struck him, and a deep groan as he fell to the
ground, were the only sounds that the plunderer uttered more. De Coucy
tugged at his lance for a moment, endeavouring to shake it free from
the body; but, finding that he could not do so without dismounting, he
left it in the hands of his squire, and returned to the spot where
Gallon the fool still lay, surrounded by part of the young knight's
train.

"Coucy, Coucy!" cried the dying juggler, in a faint voice, "Gallon is
going on the long journey! Come hither, and speak to him before he
sets out!"

The young knight put his foot to the ground, and came close up to his
wounded follower, who gazed on him with wistful eyes, in which shone
the first glance of affection, perhaps, that ever he had bestowed on
mortal man.

"I am sorry to leave thee, Coucy!" said he, "I am sorry to leave thee,
now it comes to this--I love thee better than I thought. Give me thy
hand."

De Coucy spoke a few words of kindness to him, and let him take his
hand, which he carried feebly to his lips, and licked it like a dying
dog.

"I have spited you very often, Coucy," said the juggler; "and do you
know I am sorry for it now, for you have been kinder to me than any
one else. Will you forgive me?"

"Yes, my poor Gallon," replied the knight: "I know of no great evil
thou hast done; and even if thou hast, I forgive thee from my heart."

"Heaven bless thee for it!" said Gallon.--"Heaven bless thee for
it!--But hark thee, De Coucy! I will do thee one good turn before I
die. Give me some wine out of thy _boutiau_, mad Ermold the page, and
I will tell the Coucy where I have wronged him, and where he may right
himself. Give me some wine, quick, for my horse is jogging to the
other world."

Ermold, as he was desired, put the leathern bottle, which every one
travelled with in those days, to the lips of the dying man; who, after
a long draught, proceeded with his confession. We will pass over many
a trick which he acknowledged to have played his lord in the Holy
Land, at Constantinople, and in Italy, always demanding between each,
"Can you forgive me now?" De Coucy's heart was not one to refuse
pardon to a dying man; and Gallon proceeded to speak of the deceit he
had put upon him concerning the lands of the Count de Tankerville. "It
was all false together," said he. "The Vidame of Besançon told me to
tell you, that his friend, the Count de Tankerville, had sent a
charter to be kept in the king's hands, giving you all his feofs; and
now, when he sees you with the army, commanding the men of
Tankerville, the vidame thinks that you are commanding them by your
own right, not out of the good will of the king. Besides, he told me,
he did not know whether your uncle was dead or not; but that Bernard,
the hermit of Vincennes, could inform you."

"But why did you not--?" demanded De Coucy.

"Ask me no questions, Coucy," cried Gallon: "I have but little breath
left; and that must go to tell you something more important still.
From the top of yon tree, I saw the king marching down to the bridge
at Bovines; and, without his knowing it, the enemy are marching after
him. If he gets half over, he is lost. I heard Henry of Brabant last
night say, that they would send a plan of their battle to the Duke of
Limburg, Count Julian, and William de la Roche Guyon, whose troops I
sent you after, down the river. He said too," proceeded Gallon,
growing apparently fainter as he spoke,--"he said too, that it was to
be carried by one who well knew the French camp. Oh, Coucy, my breath
fails me. Jodelle, the coterel--he is the man, I am sure--the papers
are on him.--But, Coucy! Coucy!" he continued, gasping for breath, and
holding the knight with a sort of convulsive grasp, as he saw him
turning to seek the important packet he mentioned,--"do not go, Coucy!
do not go to the camp--they think you a traitor.--Oh, how dim my eyes
grow!--They will have your head off--don't go--you'll be of no use
with the head off--Haw, haw! haw, haw!" And with a faint effort at his
old wild laugh. Gallon the fool gave one or two sharp shudders, and
yielded the spirit, still holding De Coucy tight by the arm.

"He is gone!" said the knight, disengaging himself from his grasp.
"Our army marching upon Bovines!" continued he: "can it be true? They
were not to quit Tournay for two days.--Up, Ermold, into that tree,
and see whether you can gain any sight of them. Quick! for we must
spur hard, if it be true.--You, Hugo, search the body of the
coterel.--Quick, Ermold--hold by that branch--there, your foot on the
other! See you any thing now?"

With some difficulty, Ermold de Marcy, though an active youth, had
climbed half-way up the tree that Gallon had sprung up like a
squirrel; and now, holding round it with both legs and arms, he gazed
out over the far prospect. "I see spears," cried he,--"I see spears
marching on by the river--and I can see the bridge too!"

"Are there any men on it?" cried De Coucy:--"how far is it from the
foremost spears?"

"It is clear yet!" replied the page; "but the lances in the van are
not half a mile from it!"

"Look to the right!--look to the right!" cried the knight; "towards
Mortain, what see you?"

"I see a clump or two of spears," replied the youth, "scattered here
and there; but over one part, that seems a valley, there rises a
cloud;--it maybe the morning mist--it may be dust:--stay, I will climb
higher;" and he contrived to reach two or three branches above.
"Lances, as I live!" cried he: "I see the steel heads glittering
through the cloud of dust, and moving on, just above the place where
the hill cuts them. They are rising above the slope--now they dip down
again--thousands on thousands--never did I see such a host in
Christendom or Paynimry!"

"Come down, Ermold, and mount!" cried the knight. "Two of the servants
of arms, take up yon poor fellow's body!" he continued, "and bear it
to the cottage where we watered our horses but now--then follow
towards the bridge with all speed.--Now, Hugo, hast thou the packet?
'Tis it, by the holy rood!" he added, taking a sealed paper that the
squire had found upon Jodelle. "To horse! to horse! We shall reach the
king's host yet, ere the van has passed the bridge. He must fight
there or lose all." And followed by the small body of spears that
accompanied him, Guy de Coucy spurred on at full gallop towards the
bridge of Bovines.

The distance might be about four miles; but ere he had ridden one-half
of that way, he came suddenly upon a body of about twenty spears, at
the top of a slight rise that concealed each party till they were
within fifty yards of the other. "Down with your lances!" cried De
Coucy; "France! France! A Coucy! a Coucy!" and in an instant the
spears of his followers, to the number of about seventy, were levelled
in a long straight row.

"France! France!" echoed the other party; and, riding forward, De
Coucy was met in mid space by the Chancellor Guerin,--armed at all
points, but bearing the coat and cross of a knight hospitaller--and
Adam Viscount de Melun, who had together ridden out from the main body
of the army, to ascertain the truth of some vague reports, that the
enemy had left Mortain, and was pursuing with all his forces.

"Well met. Sir Guy de Coucy," said Guerin. "By your cry of France but
now, I trust you are no traitor to France, though strange accusations
against you reached the king last night; and your absence at a moment
of danger countenanced them. I have order," he added, "to attach you
for treason."

"Whosoever calls me traitor, lies in his teeth," replied the knight
rapidly, eager to arrive at the king's host with all speed. "My
absence was in the kings service; and as to attaching me for treason,
lord bishop," he added with a smile, "methinks my seventy lances
against your twenty will soon cancel your warrant. I dreamed not that
the king would think of marching to-day, being Sunday, or I should
have returned before. But now, my lord, my errand is to the king
himself, and 'tis one also that requires speed. The enemy are
following like hounds behind the deer. I have here a plan of their
battle. They hope to surprise the king at the passage of the river. He
must halt on this side, or all is lost. From that range of low hills,
most likely you will see the enemy advancing.--Farewell."

Guerin, who had never for a moment doubted the young knight's
innocence, did not of course attempt to stay him, and De Coucy once
more galloped on at full speed. He soon began to fall in with
stragglers from the different bodies of the royal forces; camp
followers, plunderers, skirmishers, pedlars, jugglers, cooks, and all
the train of extraneous living lumber attached to an army of the
thirteenth century. From these he could gain no certain information
of where the king was to be found. Some said he had passed the
bridge,--some said he was yet in the rear; and, finding that they were
all as ignorant on the subject as himself, the young knight sped on;
and passing by several of the thick battalions which were hurrying on
through clouds of July dust towards the bridge, he demanded of one of
the leaders, where was the king.

"I heard but now, that he was in that green meadow to the right,"
replied the other knight; "and, see!" he added, pointing with his
lance, "that may be he, under those ash-trees."

De Coucy turned his eyes in the direction the other pointed, and
perceived a group of persons, some on horseback, some on foot,
standing round one who, stretched upon the grass, lay resting himself
under the shadow of a graceful clump of ash-trees. Close behind him
stood a squire, holding a casque in his hand; and another, at a little
distance, kept in the ardour of a magnificent battle-horse, that,
neighing and pawing the grass, seemed eager to join the phalanx that
defiled before him.

It was evidently the king who lay there; and De Coucy, bringing his
men to a halt, at the side of the high road, along which the rest were
pressing, troop after troop, towards the bridge, spurred on, followed
by his squires alone, and rode up to the group at once.

Philip Augustus raised his eyes to De Coucy's face as he came up; and,
at a few paces, the young knight sprang from his horse, and casting
his rein to Hugo de Barre, approached the monarch.

"My lord," said he earnestly, as soon as he was within hearing, "I
beseech you to order a halt, and command your troops who have passed
the bridge to return. The enemy are not half a mile from you; and
before half the army can pass, you will be attacked on all sides."

De Coucy spoke rapidly, and the king answered in the same manner. "Sir
Guy de Coucy," said he, without rising, however, "you are accused to
me of treason. Ought I to listen to counsel from a man in that
situation?"

"My lord the king," replied the knight, "God send you many such good
_traitors_ as I am! There is the enemy's plan of attack;--at least, so
I believe, for I have not opened it. You will see by the seal it is
from the Duke of Brabant; and by the superscription, that it is to the
Duke of Limburgh, together with Count Julian of the Mount, and Count
William de la Roche Guyon, his allies. I reconnoitred their forces
last night; they amount to fifteen thousand men; and lie three miles
down the river."

The king took the paper, and hastily cut the silk with his dagger.
"Halt!" cried he, after glancing his eye over it. "Mareuil de
Malvoisin, command a halt!--Ho, Guerin!" he cried, seeing the minister
riding quickly towards him. "Have you seen the enemy?"

"They are advancing with all speed, sire," shouted the hospitaller as
he rode up. "For God's sake, sire, call back the troops! They are
coming up like the swarms of locusts we have seen in Palestine. Their
spears are like corn in August."

"We will reap them," cried Philip, starting up with a triumphant smile
upon his lip,--"we will reap them!--To arms! Warriors, to arms!" And
putting his foot in the stirrup, he stood with his hand upon the
horse's neck, turning to those about him, and multiplying his orders
with the prompt activity of his keen all-grasping mind. "The oriflamme
has passed the bridge; speed to bring it back, Renault.--Hugo, to the
Count of St. Pol! bid him return with all haste.--De Coucy, I did you
wrong--forget it, and strike this day as you are wont.--Guerin, array
the host as we determined. See that the faithful communes be placed in
our own battle, but let Arras and Amiens hold the second line. Let the
barons and the knights stretch out as far as may be;--remember! every
man's own lance and shield must be his safeguard.--Eustache, speed to
the Count de Beaumont; bid him re-pass the river at the ford, and take
his place at the right.--Now, Guerin, hasten! Let the sergeants of
Soissons begin the battle, that the enemy may be broken ere the
knights charge.--Away, De Coucy! Lead Tankerville well, and win the
day.--Guillaume de Mortemar, stay by our person."

Such were some of the orders given by Philip Augustus: then, springing
on his horse, he received his casque, and, raising the visor, sat in
silence gazing upon the field, which was clear and open on all sides,
except the road, through which the troops were still seen approaching
towards the bridge; and which, in the other direction, wound away
towards Tournay, through some small woods and valleys that hid the
rear guard from view.

In the meanwhile, Guerin, whose long experience as a knight
hospitaller qualified him well to marshal the army, hastened to array
all the troops that had yet arrived on the plain, taking care to keep
the entrance of the bridge free, that the forces which had already
passed and were returning upon their steps, might take up their
position without confusion and disarray. At that moment, a messenger
arrived in breathless haste from the rear of the army, stating that
the enemy were already engaged with the light troops of Auxerre, who
sustained themselves with difficulty, and demanded help. But even
while he spoke, the two bodies engaged issued forth upon the plain;
and the spears of the whole imperial army began to bristle over the
hills.

The trumpets of the French sounded as their enemies appeared; and it
seemed that the emperor was not a little surprised to find his
adversary so well prepared to meet him.

Whether the unexpected sight of so large a body of troops drawn up to
oppose them embarrassed the confederates and deranged their plans, or
whether Philip's first line covering the bridge they did not perceive
that a great part of his forces were still either on the other side of
the river, or engaged in repassing it, cannot now be told; but they
took no advantage of so favourable a moment for attack. The body
engaged with the rear of Philip's army was called back; and wheeling
to the right of the road by which they came, they took up their
position on the slope of the hills to the north of the plain, while
Philip eagerly seized the opportunity of displaying his forces on the
southern side, thus having the eyes of his soldiers turned away from
the burning sun, that shone full in the faces of the adverse host. An
army commanded by many chiefs, is of course never well led; for what
may be gained by consultation is ever lost by indecision; and the two
great faults thus committed by the confederates were probably owing to
the uncertainty of their councils.

However that might be, they suffered Philip greatly to recover the
unity of his forces, and to take up the best position on the field;
after which succeeded a pause, as if they hesitated to begin the
strife, though theirs had been the party to follow and to urge their
enemy to a battle, and though they had overtaken him at the precise
moment which they had themselves planned, and in which an attack must
have proved the most disastrous.

CHAPTER XIII.

For several minutes after the two armies were thus ranged opposite
each other, both stood without motion, gazing on the adverse host. The
front line was composed almost entirely of cavalry, which formed in
those days the great strength of an army, and uniformly decided the
event of a battle; but between the long battalions of the knights and
men-at-arms were ranged close bodies of cross-bowmen and archers, who
waited but a signal to commence the engagement with their missiles.

Standing thus face to face, with but a narrow space between them, the
two hosts seemed as if contemplating the glittering array of the
field, which, if we may believe the "_branch of royal lineages_,"
offered on either part as splendid a pageant as ever a royal court
exhibited on fête or tournament. "There," it says in its naif jargon,
"you might see many a pleasant coat of arms, and many a neat and
gentle device, tissued of gold and various shining colours, blue,
vermilion, yellow, and green. There were to be seen serried shields,
and neighing horses, and ringing arms, pennons and banners, and helms
and glittering crests."

To the left of the imperial army appeared Ferrand, Count of Flanders,
with an immense host of hardy Flemings, together with the Count de
Boulogne and several other of the minor confederates; while, opposed
to him, was the young Duke of Champagne, the Duke of Burgundy, and the
men of the commune of Soissons. To the right of the imperial army was
a small body of English, with the Duke of Brabant and his forces in
face of the Comte de Dreux, the Bishop of Beauvais, and a body of the
troops of the clergy; while in the centre of each host, and
conspicuous to both, were Otho, Emperor of Germany, and Philip
Augustus of France, commanding in person the chosen knights of either
monarchy.

In the midst of the dark square of lances that surrounded the emperor
was to be seen a splendid car, from the centre of which rose a tall
pole, bearing on the top the imperial standard, a golden eagle
hovering above a dragon; while, beside Philip Augustus, was borne the
royal banner of France,[29] consisting of an azure field embroidered
with fleurs de lis of gold. On either hand of the king were ranged the
knights selected to attend his person, whom we find named as William
des Barres, Barthelmy de Roye, Peter de Malvoisin, Gerard Scropha,
Steven of Longchamp, William of Mortemar, John of Rouvrai, William de
Garlande, and Henry, Count de Bar, all men distinguished in arms, and
chosen for their high and chivalrous qualities.

--------------------

[Footnote 29: A different banner from the famous oriflamme which was
the standard of St. Denis.]

--------------------

A dead silence pervaded the field. Each host, as we have said, gazed
upon the other, still and motionless, waiting in awful expectation the
first movement which should begin the horrid scene of carnage about to
follow. It wanted but a word--a sign--the levelling of a lance--the
sounding of a trumpet, to cast the whole dark mass of bloodthirsty
insects there assembled into strife and mutual destruction: but yet
there was a pause; as if each monarch felt the dreadful responsibility
which that signal would bring upon his head, and hesitated to give it.
Some reflections of the kind certainly passed through the mind of
Philip Augustus; for, turning to William de Mortemar, he said, "We
must begin the fight--I seek not their blood, but God gives us a right
to defend ourselves. They have leagued to crush me, and the carnage of
this day be upon their head. Where is the oriflamme?" he continued,
looking round for the consecrated banner of St. Denis.

"It has not yet repassed the river, sire," replied Gerard Scropha. "I
heard the tramp of the communes still coming over the bridge, and
filling up the ranks behind. The oriflamme was the first banner that
passed, and therefore of course will be the last that returns.

"We must not wait for it then," said the king. "Henry de Bar, speed to
Guerin, who is on the right, with the Count de St. Paul; bid them
begin the battle by throwing in a few men-at-arms to shake that heavy
line of the Flemings. Then let the knights charge."

The young count bowed low, and set spurs to his horse; but his very
passage along the line was a signal for the confederates to commence
the fight. A flight of arrows and quarrels instantly darkened the sky,
and fell thick as hail amongst the ranks of the French; the trumpets
sounded, the lances were levelled, and two of the king's chaplains,
who were placed at a little distance behind him, began to sing the
hundred and forty-third Psalm, while the tears rolled plentifully from
their eyes, from the effects of mingled fear, agitation, and devotion.

In the meanwhile, an hundred and fifty sergeants of arms charged the
whole force of the Count of Flanders, according to the order of the
king. His intention was completely fulfilled.[30] Dropping the points
of their lances, the French men-at-arms cast themselves into the midst
of the Flemish knights, who, indignant at being attacked by men who
had not received the honours of chivalry, fell upon them furiously,
with little regard to their own good order.

--------------------

[Footnote 30: Lacurne de St. Palaye was decidedly wrong in attributing
the use of the lance solely to knights. Besides the example before
given, the present instance of the serjeants of Soissons puts the
matter beyond doubt. The words of Guillaume Guiart are--

         "Serjanz d'armes cent et cinquante.
          Criant Monjoie! ensemble brochent;
          Vers les rens des Flamens deseochent
          Les pointes des lances enclines," &c.

That the serjeants of arms of Soissons were simple burghers is evident
from the contempt with which the Flemish knights received them--Guil.
le Breton, in vit. Phil. Aug.]

--------------------

In an instant, the horses of the French men-at-arms were all slain;
but being men of the commune of Soissons, trained to fight on foot as
well as on horseback, they prolonged the fight hand to hand with the
enemy's knights, and completely succeeded in throwing the centre of
the imperial left wing into disarray. At that moment, the battalion of
knights, under the Count de St. Paul, charged in support of the
men-at-arms, and with their long lances levelled in line swept all
before them, cleaving through the host of Flemings, and scattering
them abroad upon the plain, as a thunderbolt strikes a pine, and rends
it into atoms.

The strife, thus begun upon the right wing of the royal army, soon
communicated itself to the centre; where, on a small mound sat Philip
Augustus, viewing with a calm observing eye the progress of the
battle, though gradually the dust and steam of the fight, and the
confused groups of the combatants, falling every moment into greater
disorder, would have confounded a less keen and experienced glance
than his.

Though the left was now also engaged, the monarch's eye principally
rested upon the right wing of his forces, where the Count of St. Paul,
the Dukes of Burgundy and Champagne, were still struggling hard with
the Flemings, whose second and third line, having come up, had turned
the fortune of the day, and were driving back the French towards the
river.

"By the Lord of Heaven! Burgundy is down!" cried Philip. "Ho, Michael,
gallop to Sir Guy de Coucy; tell him to charge with the men of
Tankerville, to support the good Duke of Burgundy! Away!"

The sergeant to whom he spoke galloped off like lightning to the spot
where De Coucy was placed as a reserve.

"By Heaven! the duke is down, and his banner too!" continued the king,
turning to Guerin, who now had joined him. "De Coucy moves not yet.
St. Denis to boot! they will turn our flank. Is the knight a coward or
mad?--Away, Guerin! Bid him charge for his honour."

But the king saw not what De Coucy saw, that a fresh corps of the
confederates was debouching from the road behind the imperial army. If
he attacked the Flemings before this body had advanced, he not only
left his own rear unguarded, but the flank of the whole army totally
exposed. He paused, therefore notwithstanding the critical situation
of the Duke of Burgundy, till such time as this fresh body had, in the
hurry and confusion of their arrival, advanced between him and the
Flemings.

Then, however, the fifteen hundred lances he commanded were levelled
in an instant: the trumpets sounded, the chargers sprang forward, and,
hurled like an avalanche against the flank of this newly arrived
corps, the squadron of De Coucy drove them in pell-mell upon the
Flemings, forced the Flemings themselves back upon the troops of the
emperor, and left a clear space for the soldiers of Burgundy and
Champagne, to rally round their chiefs.

"Brave De Coucy!" cried the king, who had marked the man[oe]uvre. "Good
knight! Stout lance! All goes down before him. Burgundy is up. His
banner waves again. Ride, Walter the young, and compliment the duke
for me. Who are these coming down? I cannot see for the dust."

"They are the burgesses of Compiègne and Abbeville, and the oriflamme,
sire," replied Guillaume des Barres. "They want a taste of the fight,
and are forcing themselves in between us and those Saxon serfs, who
are advancing straight towards us."

As he spoke the men of the communes, eager to signalise themselves in
the service of a king who had done so much for them, marched boldly
into the very front of the battle, and mingled hand to hand with an
immense body of German infantry that were approaching rapidly towards
the king.

The French communes, however, were inferior to the burly Saxons, both
in number and in strength; and were, after an obstinate fight, driven
back to the very foot of the mound on which Philip was placed. The
knights and men-at-arms who surrounded him, seeing the battle so near
the monarch's person, charged through the ranks of the burgesses, and,
mingling with the Saxon infantry, cut them down in all directions with
their long heavy swords. The German cavalry again spurred forward to
support their own communes; and the fight became general around the
immediate person of the monarch, who remained on the summit of the
hillock, with no one but the Count de Montigny, bearing his standard,
and Sir Stephen of Longchamp, who had refrained from following the
rest into the melée.

"For God's sake! sire, retire a little!" said the knight: "if you are
hurt, all is lost."

"Not a step, for a thousand empires!" replied the king, drawing down
his visor and unsheathing his sword, as he beheld three or four German
knights spurring towards him at full career, followed by a large troop
of footmen, contending with the burghers of Compiègne. "We must do our
devoir as a knight as well as a king, Sir Stephen."

"Mine then as a knight!" cried Stephen of Longchamp, laying his lance
in rest; and on he galloped at the foremost of the German knights,
whom he hurled dead from his horse, pierced from side to side with the
iron of the spear.

The German that followed, however, without, spending a blow on the
French knight's casque, plunged his sword in his horse's chest, at a
spot where the iron barding was wanting. Rider and horse went down at
once; and the German, springing to the ground, drew a long knife from
his side, and knelt upon his prostrate adversary's chest.

"Denis Mountjoy!" cried the king, galloping on to the aid of his
faithful follower. "Denis Mountjoy! _au secours!_" But before he could
arrive, the German knight had plunged his knife through the bars of
the fallen man's helmet, and Stephen Longchamp was no more. The
monarch avenged him, however, if he could not save; and, as the
Saxon's head was bent down, accomplishing his bloody purpose, he
struck him so fierce a blow on the back of his neck, with the full
sway of a vigorous and practised arm, that the hood of his mail shirt
yielded at once to the blow, and the edge of the weapon drove on
through the backbone.

At that moment, however, the king found himself surrounded on every
side by the German foot, who hemmed him in with their short pikes. The
only knight who was near him was the Count de Montigny, bearing the
royal banner; and nothing was to be seen around but the fierce faces
of the Saxon pikemen looking out from under their steel caps, drawing
their circle closer and closer round him, and fixing their eager eyes
upon the crown that he wore on the crest of his helmet--or else the
forms of some German knights at a short distance, whirling about like
armed phantoms, through the clouds of dust that enveloped the whole
scene.

Still Philip fought with desperate valour, plunging his horse into the
ranks of the pikemen, and dealing sweeping blows around with his
sword, which four or five times succeeded in clearing the space
immediately before him.

Well and nobly too did the Count de Montigny do his devoir, holding
with one hand the royal banner, which he raised and depressed
continually, to give notice to all eyes of the monarch's danger, and
striking with the other on every side round Philip's person, which he
thus protected for many minutes from the near approach of his enemies.

It was in vain, however, that the king and his banner-bearer displayed
such feats of chivalrous valour. Closer and closer the German
burgesses hemmed them in. Many of the Saxon knights became attracted
by the sight of the royal banner, and were urging their horses through
the melée towards the spot where the conflict was raging so fiercely,
when one of the serfs crept close to the king's charger. Philip felt
his horse reeling underneath him; and, in a moment, the animal fell to
the ground, bearing its rider down along with it.

A hundred of the long, three-edged knives, with which many of the
Saxons fought that day, were instantly at the King's throat, and at
the bars of his helmet. One thought of Agnes--one brief prayer to
Heaven, was all that seemed allowed to Philip Augustus; but that
moment, the shout of "Auvergne! Auvergne!" rang upon his ear and
yielded hope.

With his head bent down to his saddle-bow, receiving a thousand blows
as he came, his horse all in foam and blood, his armour hacked,
dented, and broken, Thibalt d'Auvergne clove the hostile press with
the fierce rapidity of a falcon in its stoop. He checked his horse but
by the royal banner; he sprang to the ground; dashed, weltering to the
earth, the boors who were kneeling on the prostrate body of the king,
and, striding over it, whirled his immense mace round his head, at
every blow sending the soul of some Saxon on the cold pilgrimage of
death. The burgesses reeled back; but at the same time the knights who
had been advancing, hurled themselves upon the Count d'Auvergne, and
heaped blow upon blow on his head.

The safety of the whole host--the life and death, or captivity of the
king--the destiny of all Europe--perhaps of all the world, depended at
that moment on the arm of a madman. But that arm bore it all nobly up;
and, though his armour was actually hewn from his flesh, and he
himself bleeding from an hundred wounds, he wavered not a step; but,
still striding over the body of the king, as he lay unable to rise,
from the weight of his horse resting on his thigh, maintained his
ground till, knight after knight arriving on both sides, the combat
became more equal.

Still the fight around the royal banner was doubtful, when the
battle-cry of De Coucy was heard approaching. "A Coucy! A Coucy! St.
Michael! St. Michael!" rang over the plain; and the long lances of
Tankerville, which had twice completely traversed and retraversed the
enemy's line,[31] were seen sweeping on, in unbroken masses, like a
thunder-cloud advancing over the heaven. The regular order they had
still preserved, as well as their admirable training, and confidence
in their leader, gave them vast superiority. The German pikemen were
trampled under their tread. The knights were forced back at the point
of the spear; the communes of Compiègne and Abbeville rallied behind
them, and, in a short time, the field around the royal banner was once
more clear of all enemies.

--------------------

[Footnote 31: This circumstance, however extraordinary, is not the
less true; and though attributed by the various chroniclers to various
persons, is mentioned particularly by all who have described the
battle of Bovines.]

--------------------

The first thing was to free the king from the weight of his horse,
which had been stabbed in the neck, and was now quite dead. The
monarch rose; but, before he remounted, though there were a thousand
horses held ready for him, and a thousand voices pressing him to
mount, he exclaimed, "Where is the Count d'Auvergne? I owe him
life.--Stand back, Guillaume des Barres! your foot is on his chest.
That is he in the black armour!"

It was indeed the unhappy Count d'Auvergne, who had borne up under a
multitude of wounds, till the life of the king was in safety. He had
then fallen in the melée, striking still, and lay upon a heap of dead
that his hand had made. By the king's order, his casque was instantly
unlaced; and Philip himself, kneeling beside him, raised his head upon
his knee, and gazed in the ashy face to see if the flame of life's
frail lamp was extinct indeed in the breast of him who had saved him
from the tomb.

D'Auvergne opened his eyes, and looked faintly in the face of the
monarch. His lips moved, but no sound issued from them.

"If thou diest, Auvergne," said Philip, in the fulness of his
gratitude, "I have lost my best subject."

The count made another effort to speak. The king stooped over him, and
inclined his ear. "Tell her," said the broken accents of the dying
man,--"tell her--that for her love--I died--to save your life."

"I will," said Philip Augustus!--"on my faith, I will! and I know her
not, or she will weep your fall."

There was something like a faint smile played round the dying knight's
lip; his eyes fixed upon the king, and the spirit that lighted them
passed away for ever!

"Farewell, Auvergne!" said the king. "Des Barres, see his body removed
and honoured. And now, good knights," cried he, springing on
horseback, "how fares the fight? My eyes have been absent too long.
But, by my faith! you have worked well while I was down. The enemy's
left is flying, or my sight deceives me."

"'Tis true, my lord;--'tis true!" replied Guillaume des Barres; "and
Ferrand of Flanders himself is taken by the Duke of Burgundy."

"Thank God for that!" cried Philip, and he turned his eyes quickly to
the centre. "They seem in strange confusion there. Where is the
imperial standard? Where is Otho himself?"

"Otho has to do with Peter of Malvoisin and Gerard the Sow," replied
William des Barres, laughing, "and finds them unpleasant neighbours
doubtless. But do you know, sire, that a pike head is sticking in your
cuirass?"

"Mind not that!" cried the king; "Let us charge! Otho's ranks are
broken; his men dispersed; one gallant charge, and the day is ours.
Down with your lances, De Coucy! Men of Soissons, follow the king!
knights, remember your own renown! Burghers, fight for your firesides!
Denis Mountjoy! Upon them! Charge!"

It was the critical moment. Otho might have rallied; and his forces
were still more than double those of the king; while the Count de
Boulogne and the English, though the Earl of Salisbury had been dashed
from his horse by the mace of the bellicose Bishop of Beauvais,
were still maintaining the fight to the left. The well-timed and
well-executed charge of the king, however, accompanied, as he was, by
the choice chivalry of his realm, who had gathered about him to his
rescue, decided the fate of the day. The Germans fled in confusion.
Otho himself narrowly escaped being taken; and though a part of the
right wing of the confederates retreated in somewhat better array, yet
the defeat even there was complete, and the Earl of Salisbury and the
Count de Boulogne were both made prisoners.

For nearly six hours the combat lasted; and, when at last the flight
was complete, the number of prisoners was so great, that Philip dared
not allow his troops to pursue the fugitives for any length of way,
lest he should be mastered at last by those he had just conquered.

At five o'clock the trumpets sounded to the standard to recall the
pursuers; and thus ended the famous battle of Bovines--a strife and a
victory scarcely paralleled in history.

CHAPTER XIV.

The hurry and confusion of the battle was over; order was greatly
restored; and the victorious army had encamped on the banks of the
river, when Philip Augustus retired to his own tent; and, after having
been disarmed by his attendants, commanded that they should leave
him alone for an hour. No one was permitted to approach; and the
monarch sat down to meditate over the vast and mighty deed he had
accomplished.

Oh, what a whirlpool of contending feelings must have been within his
bosom at that moment! Policy, triumph, ambition, hate, revenge, and
love, each claimed their place in his heart.

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."

"For form's sake, we must have some one to be hostage for your faith,"
said the king, "and then good knight, you shall have as much liberty
as a prisoner may.--Who will be William of Salisbury's surety?"

"That will I," said De Coucy, stepping forward. "In life and lands,
though I have but little of the last."

"Thank thee, old friend," said the earl, grasping his hand. "We fought
in different parts of the field, or we would have tried some of our
old blows; but 'tis well as it is, though 'twas a bishop, they tell
me, knocked me on the head. I saw him not, in faith, or I would have
split his mitre for his pains."

Prisoner after prisoner was now brought before the king, to most of
whom he spoke in a tone to allay their fears. On Ferrand of Flanders,
however, he bent his brows, strongly moved with indignation, when he
remembered the presumptuous vaunting of that vain light prince, who
had boasted that, within a month, he would ride triumphant into Paris.

"Now, rebellious vassal," said the monarch with severe dignity of
aspect, "what fate does thy treason deserve? Snake, thou hast stung us
for fostering thee in our bosom, and the pleasures of Paris, shown to
thee in the hospitality of our court, have made thee covet the
heritage of thy lord. As thou hast boasted, so shall it befall thee;
and thou shalt ride in triumph into our capital; but, by heaven's
queen! it shall not be to sport with jugglers and courtesans!"

Ferrand turned deadly pale, in his already excited fears,
misconstruing the king's words. "I hope, my lord," said he, "that you
will think well before you strike at my life. Remember, I am but your
vassal for these lands of Flanders, in right of my wife--that I am the
son of an independent monarch, and my life may not----"

"Thy life!" cried Philip, his lip curling with scorn,--"Fear not for
thy pitiful life! Get thee gone! I butcher not my prisoners; but, by
the Lord! I will take good care that ye rebel not again! Now, Renault
of Boulogne," he continued, turning to the gigantic count of Boulogne,
who, of all the confederates, had fought the longest and most
desperately, entertaining no hope of life if taken, both from being
one of the chief instigators of the confederacy, and from many an old
score of rebellion not yet wiped off between himself and the king. He
appeared before the monarch, however, with a frank smile upon his
jovial countenance, as if prepared to endure with good humour the
worst that could befall; and seeing that, as a kind of trophy, one of
the pages bore in his enormous casque, on the crest of which he had
worn two of the broad blades of whalebone, near six feet high, he
turned laughing to those around, while the king spoke to Ferrand of
Flanders--"Good faith," said he, "I thought myself a leviathan, but
they have managed to catch me notwithstanding."

"Now, Renault of Boulogne," said the king sternly--"how often have I
pardoned thee--canst thou tell?"

"Faith, my lord!" replied the count, "I never was good at reckoning;
but this I do know, that you have granted me my life oftener than I
either deserved or expected, though I cannot calculate justly how
often."

"When you do calculate, then," said Philip, "add another time to the
list; but, remember, by the bones of all the saints! it is the last!"

"Faith! my lord, you shall not break their bones for me," replied the
count. "For I have made a resolution to be your good vassal for the
future; and, as my good friend Count Julian of the Mount says, my
resolutions are as immoveable as the centre."

"Ha, Count Julian!" said the king. "You are welcome, fair count; and,
by Heaven, we have a mind to deal hardly with you. You have been a
comer and goer, sir, in all these errands. You have been one of the
chief stirrers-up of my vassals against me; and by the Lord! if block
and axe were ever well won, you have worked for them. However, here
stands sir Guy de Coucy, true knight, and the king's friend; give him
the hand of your daughter, his lady-love, and you save your head upon
your shoulders."

"My lord, it cannot be," replied old sir Julian stoutly. "I have
already given the knight his answer. What I have said, is said--my
resolutions are as immoveable as the centre, and I'd sooner encounter
the axe than break them."

"Then, by Heaven! the axe shall be your doom!" cried Philip, giving
way to one of his quick bursts of passion, at the bold and obstinate
tone in which his rebellious vassal dared to address him. "Away with
him to the block! and know, old mover of rebellions, that your lands
and lordships, and your daughter's hand, I, as your sovereign lord,
will give to this brave knight, after you have suffered the punishment
of your treason and your obstinacy."

Sir Julian's cheek turned somewhat pale, and his eye twinkled; but he
merely bit his lip; and, firm in his impenetrable obstinacy, offered
no word to turn aside the monarch's wrath. De Coucy, however, stepped
forward, and prayed the king, as sir Julian had been taken by his own
men, to give him over to him, when he doubted not he would be able to
bring him to reason.

"Take him then, De Coucy," said Philip; "I give you power to make what
terms with him you like; but before he quits this presence, he
consents to his daughter's marriage with you, or he quits it for the
block. Let us hear how you will convert him."

"What I have said, is said!" muttered sir Julian,--"my resolutions are
as immoveable as the centre!"

"Sir Julian," said De Coucy, standing forward before the circle, while
the prisoner made up his face to a look of sturdy obstinacy, that
would have done honour to an old, well-seasoned mule, "you told me
once, that I might claim your daughter's hand, if ever--Guillaume de
la Roche Guyon, to whom you had promised her, being dead--you should
be fairly my prisoner, and I could measure acre for acre with your
land. Now, I have to tell you, that William de la Roche fell on
yonder plain, pierced from the back to the front by one of the lances
of Tankerville, as he was flying from the field. You are, by the
king's bounty and my good fortune, my true and lawful prisoner; and
surely the power of saving your life, and giving you freedom, may be
reckoned against wealth and land."

"No, no!" said sir Julian. "What I have said----"

But he was interrupted by the king, who had recovered from the first
heat into which sir Julian's obstinacy had cast him, and was now
rather amused than otherwise with the scene before him. "Hold, count
Julian!" cried he, "Do not make any objection yet. The only difficulty
is about the lands, it seems--that we will soon remove."

"Oh, that alters the case," cried count Julian, not sorry in his heart
to be relieved from the painful necessity of maintaining his
resolution at the risk of his life. "If you, sire, in your bounty,
choose to make him my equal in wealth--William de la Roche Guyon
being dead, and I being his prisoner,--all the conditions will be
fulfilled, and he shall have my daughter. What I have said is as firm
as fate."

"Well then," replied the king, glancing his eye towards the barons,
who stood round, smiling at the old knight's mania, "we will not only
make De Coucy your equal in wealth, sir Julian, but far your superior.
A court of peers, lords!--a court of peers! Let my peers stand
around."

Such of the spectators as were by right peers of France, advanced a
step from the other persons of the circle, and the king proceeded.

"Count Julian of the Mount!" said he in a stern voice, "We, Philip
the Second, king of France, with the aid and counsel of our peers, do
pronounce you guilty of _leze majesté_; and do declare all your feofs,
lands, and lordships, wealth, furniture, and jewels, forfeited and
confiscate to the Crown of France, to use and dispose thereof, as
shall be deemed expedient!"

"A judgment! a judgment!" cried the peers while the countenance of
poor Count Julian fell a thousand degrees. "Now, sir," continued the
king, "without a foot of land in Europe, and without a besant to bless
yourself,--William de la Roche Guyon being dead, and you that good
knight's prisoner,--we call upon you to fulfil your word to him, and
consent to his marriage with your daughter, Isadore, on pain of being
held false and mansworn, as well as stubborn and mulish."

"What I have said is said!" replied count Julian, putting forth his
wonted proposition in a very crest-fallen tone. "My resolutions are
always as firm as the centre.--De Coucy, I promised her to you, under
such circumstances. They are fulfilled, and she is your's--though it
is hard that I must marry my daughter to a beggar.

"Beggar, sir!" cried the king, his brow darkening again; "let me tell
you, that though rich enough in worth and valour alone to match the
daughter of a prince, sir Guy de Coucy, as he stands there, possesses
double in lands and lordships what you have ever possessed. De Coucy,
it is true: the lands and lordships of Tankerville, and all those fair
domains upon the banks of the broad Rhone, possessed by the Count of
Tankerville, who wedded your father's sister, are now yours, by a
charter in our royal treasury, made under his hand, some ten years
ago, and warranted by our consent. We have ourself, pressed by the
necessities of the state, taken for the last year the revenue of those
lands, purposing to make restitution--to you, if it should appear that
the count was really dead--to him, if he returned from Palestine,
whither he was said to have gone. But we find ourself justified by an
unexpected event. We acted in this by the counsel of the wise and
excellent hermit of Vincennes, now a saint in God's paradise: and we
have just learned, that the count de Tankerville himself it was who
died ten days ago in the person of that same Bernard, the anchorite of
Vincennes. He had lived there in that holy disguise for many years;
and it was so long since we had seen him, the change in his person, by
fasts and macerations, was so great, and his appearance as a hermit
altogether so different from what it was as the splendid Count of
Tankerville, that, though not liable to forget the faces we have seen,
in his case we were totally deceived. On his death-bed he wrote to us
this letter, full of pious instruction and good counsel. At the same
time, he makes us the unnecessary prayer of loving and protecting you.
You, therefore, wed the proud old man's daughter, far his superior in
every gift of fortune; and, as some punishment to his vanity and
stubbornness, we endow you and your heirs with all those feofs that he
has justly forfeited, leaving you to make what provision for his age
you yourself may think fit."

Count Julian hung his head; but here let it be said, that he had never
any cause to regret that the king had cast his fortunes into such a
hand; for De Coucy was one of those whose hearts, nobly formed, expand
rather than contract under the sunshine of fortune.

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!

THE END.

LONDON:
Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE,
New-Street-Square.

End of Project Gutenberg's Philip Augustus, by George Payne Rainsford James