 | CHAPTER II. The knights of England, France, and Scotland |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
It was a clear, bright day in the early autumn, when the
royal tiltyard, on the Isle de Paris, was prepared for a deadly
conflict. The tilt-yard was a regular, oblong space, enclosed
with stout, squared palisades, and galleries for the accommodation
of spectators, immediately in the vicinity of the royal residence
of the Tournelles, a splendid Gothic structure, adorned
with all the rare and fanciful devices of that rich style of architecture.
At a short distance thence rose the tall, gray towers
of Nôtre Dame, the bells of which were tolling minutely the
dirge for a passing soul.
From one of the windows of the palace a gallery had been
range of seats, cushioned and decked with arras, and guarded
by a strong party of gentlemen in the royal livery, with partisans
in their hands, and sword and dagger at the belt. At
either end of the list was a tent pitched: that at the right of
the royal gallery a plain marquee of canvass, of small size,
which had apparently seen much service, and been used in
real warfare. The curtain which formed the door of this was
lowered, so that no part of the interior could be seen from without;
but a parti-colored pennon was pitched into the ground
beside it, and a shield suspended from the palisades, emblazoned
with bearings, which all men knew to be those of Charles
Baron de La-Hirè, a renowned soldier in the late Italian wars,
and the challenger in the present conflict. The pavilion at the
left, or lower end, was of a widely-different kind — of the very
largest sort then in use, completely framed of crimson cloth,
lined with white silk, festooned and fringed with gold, and all
the curtains looped up to display a range of massive tables, covered
with snow-white damask, and loaded with two hundred
covers of pure silver! Vases of flowers and flasks of crystal
were intermixed upon the board with tankards, flagons, and
cups and urns of gold, embossed and jewelled; and behind every
seat a page was placed, clad in the colors of the counts de
Laguy. A silken curtain concealed the entrance of an inner
tent, wherein the count awaited the signal that should call him
to the lists.
Strange and indecent as such an accompaniment would be
deemed now-a-days to a solemn, mortal conflict, it was then
deemed neither singular nor monstrous; and in this gay pavilion
Armand de Laguy, the challenged in the coming duel, had
summoned all the nobles of the court to feast with him, after he
should have slain — so confident was he of victory — his cousin
and accuser, Charles Baron de La-Hirè.
The entrances of the tiltyard were guarded by a detachment
of the king's sergeants, sheathed cap-à-pie in steel, with shouldered
arquebuses and matches ready lighted. The lists were
strewn with sawdust, and hung completely with black serge,
save where the royal gallery afforded a strange contrast by its
rich decorations to the ghastly draperies of the battle-ground.
One other object only remains to be noticed: it was a huge
block of black oak, dinted in many places as if by the edge of
a sharp weapon, and stained with plashes of dark gore. Beside
this frightful emblem stood a tall, muscular, gray-headed man,
dressed in a leathern frock and apron, stained like the block
with many a gout of blood, bare-headed and bare-armed, leaning
upon a huge two-handed axe, with a blade of three feet in
breadth. A little way aloof from these was placed a chair,
wherein a monk was seated — a very aged man, with a bald
head and beard as white as snow — telling his beads in silence
until his ministry should be required.
The space around the lists and all the seats were crowded
well-nigh to suffocation by thousands of anxious and attentive
spectators; and many an eye was turned to watch the royal
seats, which were yet vacant, but which it was well known
would be occupied before the trumpet should sound for the onset.
The sun was now nearly at the meridian, and the expectation
of the crowd was at its height, when the passing-bell
ceased ringing, and was immediately succeeded by the accustomed
peal, announcing the hour of high noon. Within a moment
or two, a bustle was observed among the gentlemen-pensioners;
then a page or two entered the royal seats, and, after
looking about them for a moment, again retired. Another pause
of profound expectation, and then a long, loud blast of trumpets
followed from the interior of the royal residence; nearer it rang
and nearer, till the loud symphonies filled every ear and thrilled
to the core of every heart: and then the king — the dignified
and dukes, and peers, and ladies of high birth and matchless
beauty, and took their seats amid the thundering acclamations
of the people, to witness the dread scene that was about to
follow, of wounds, and blood, and butchery!
All were arrayed in the most gorgeous splendor — all except
one, a girl of charms unrivalled (although she seemed plunged
in the deepest agony of grief) by the seductive beauties of the
gayest. Her bright, redundant auburn hair was all dishevelled;
her long, dark eyelashes were pencilled in distinct relief against
the marble pallor of her colorless cheeks; her rich and rounded
form was veiled, but not concealed, by a dress of the coarsest
serge, black as the robes of night, and thereby contrasting more
the exquisite fairness of her complexion. On her all eyes
were fixed — some with disgust, some with contempt, others
with pity, sympathy, and even admiration. That girl was Marguerite
de Vaudreuil — betrothed to either combatant; the betrayed
herself, and the betrayer; rejected by the man whose
memory, when she believed him dead, she had herself deserted;
rejecting, in her turn, and absolutely loathing him whose
falsehood had betrayed her into the commission of a yet deeper
treason — Marguerite de Vaudreuil, lately the admired of all
beholders, now the prize of two kindred swordsmen, without
an option save that between the bed of a man she hated and
the lifelong seclusion of the convent.
The king was seated; the trumpets flourished once again,
and at the signal the curtain was withdrawn from the tent-door
of the challenger, and Charles de La-Hirè stepped calmly out
on the arena, followed by his god-father, De Jarnac, bearing
two double-edged swords of great length and weight, and two
broad-bladed poniards. Charles de La-Hirè was very pale
and sallow, as if from ill health or from long confinement, but
his step was firm and elastic, and his air perfectly unmoved
greeted by an enthusiastic cheer from the people, to whom his
fame in the wars of Italy had much endeared him; but the
flush was transient, and in a moment he was as pale and cold
as before the shout which hailed his entrance. He was clad
very plainly in a dark, morone-colored pourpoint, with vest,
trunk-hose, and nether socks of black-silk netting, displaying to
admiration the outlines of his lithe and sinewy frame. De Jarnac,
his godfather, on the contrary, was very foppishly attired
with an abundance of fluttering tags, and ruffles of rich lace,
and feathers in his velvet cap.
These two had scarcely stood a moment in the lists, before,
from the opposite pavilion, De Laguy and the duke de Nevers
issued, the latter bearing, like De Jarnac, a pair of swords and
daggers. It was observed, however, that the weapons of De
Laguy were narrow, three-cornered rapier-blades and Italian
stilettoes; and it was well understood that on the choice of the
weapons depended much the result of the encounter — De Laguy
being renowned above any gentleman in the French court
for his skill in the science of defence, as practised by the Italian
masters; while his antagonist was known to excel in
strength and skill in the management of all downright soldierly
weapons, in coolness, in decision, presence of mind, and calm,
self-sustained valor, rather than in sleight and dexterity. Armand
de Laguy was dressed sumptuously — in the same garb,
indeed, which he had worn at the festival whereon the strife
arose which now was on the point of being terminated, and for
ever!
A few moments were spent in deliberation between the god-fathers
of the combatants, and then it was proclaimed by De
Jarnac that “the wind and sun having been equally divided
between the two swordsmen, their places were assigned, and
that it remained only to decide upon the choice of the weapons:
that with the weapons so chosen they should fight until one or
other should be hors de combat; but that in case that either
weapon should be bent or broken, the seconds should cry,
`Hold!' and recourse be had to the other swords; the use of
the poniard to be optional, as it was to be used only for parrying,
and not for striking; that either combatant striking a blow
or thrusting after the utterance of the word `hold,' or using the
dagger to inflict a wound, should be dragged to the block and
die the death of a felon!”
This proclamation made, dice were produced, and De Nevers
winning the throw for Armand, the rapiers and stilettoes which
he had selected were produced, examined carefully, and measured,
and delivered to the kindred foemen.
It was a stern and fearful sight; for there was no bravery
nor show in their attire, nor aught chivalrous in the way of
battle. They had thrown off their coats and hats, and remained
in their shirt-sleeves and under-garments only, with napkins
bound about their brows, and their eyes fixed each on the other's
with intense and terrible malignity.
The signal was now given, and the blades were crossed,
and on the instant it was seen how fearful was the advantage
which De Laguy had gained by the choice of weapons; for it
was with the utmost difficulty that Charles de La-Hirè avoided
the incessant longes of his enemy, who, springing to and fro,
stamping, and writhing his body in every direction, never ceased
for a moment with every trick of feint, and pass, and flourish,
to thrust at limb, face, and body, easily parrying himself with
the poniard, which he held in his left hand, the less skilful
assaults of his enemy. Within five minutes the blood had been
drawn in as many different places, though the wounds were
but superficial, from the sword-arm, the face, and thigh of De
La-Hirè, while he had not as yet pricked ever so lightly his
hand, stood him in stead, and he contrived in every instance to
turn the thrusts of Armand so far at least aside as to render
them innocuous to life. As his blood, however, ebbed away,
and as he knew that he must soon become weak from the loss
of it, De Jarnac evidently grew uneasy, and many bets were
offered that Armand would kill him without receiving so much
as a scratch himself.
And now Charles saw his peril, and determined on a fresh
line of action. Flinging away his dagger, he altered his position
rapidly, so as to bring his left hand toward De Laguy, and
made a motion with it as if to grasp his sword-hilt. He was
immediately rewarded by a longe, which drove clear through
his left arm close to the elbow-joint, but just above it. De Jarnac
turned on the instant deadly pale, for he thought all was
over; but he erred widely, for De La-Hirè had calculated well
his action and his time, and that which threatened to destroy
him proved, as he meant it, his salvation: for as quick as light,
when he felt the wound, he dropped his own rapier, and grasping
Armand's guard with his right hand, he snapped the blade
short off in his own mangled flesh, and bounded five feet backward,
with the broken fragment still sticking in his arm.
“Hold!” shouted each godfather on the instant; and at the
same time De La-Hirè exclaimed, “Give us the other swords,
give us the other swords, De Jarnac!”
The exchange was made in a moment: the stilettoes and the
broken weapons were gathered up, and the heavy horse-swords
given to the combatants, who again faced each other with equal
resolution, though now with altered fortunes. “Now, De La-Hirè,”
exclaimed De Jarnac, as he put the well-poised blade
into his friend's hand, “you managed that right gallantly and
well: now fight the quick fight, ere you shall faint from pain
and bleeding!”
And it was instantly apparent that such was indeed his intention.
His eye lightened, and he looked like an eagle about
to pounce upon his foe, as he drew up his form to its utmost
height, and whirled the long new blade about his head as
though it had been but a feather. Far less sublime and striking
was the attitude and swordmanship of De Laguy, though
he too fought gallantly and well. But at the fifth pass, feinting
at his head, Charles fetched a long and sweeping blow at his
right leg, and, striking him below the ham, divided all the tendons
with the back of the double-edged blade; then, springing
in before he fell, plunged his sword into his body, that the hilt
knocked heavily at his breast-bone, and the point came out
glittering between his shoulders! The blood flashed out from
the deep wound, from nose, and ears, and mouth, as he fell
prostrate; and Charles stood over him, leaning on his avenging
weapon, and gazing sadly into his stiffening features. “Fetch
him a priest,” exclaimed De Nevers, “for by my halydom he
will not live ten minutes!”
“If he live five,” cried the king, rising from his seat, “if he
live five, he will live long enough to die upon the block; for
he lies there a felon and convicted traitor, and by my soul he
shall die a felon's doom! But bring him a priest quickly.”
The old monk ran across the lists, and raised the head of the
dying man, and held the crucifix aloft before his glazing eyes,
and called upon him to repent and to confess, as he would have
salvation.
Faint and half-choked with blood, he faltered forth the words
— “I do — I do confess guilty — oh! doubly guilty! — Pardon,
O God! — Charles! Marguerite!” — and as the words died
on his quivering lips, he sank down, fainting with the excess
of agony.
“Ho, there! — guards, headsman!” shouted Henry; “off
with him — off with the villain to the block, before he die an
for glory!”
“Then De La-Hirè knelt down beside the dying man, and
took his hand in his own and raised it tenderly, while a faint
gleam of consciousness kindled the pallid features — “May God
as freely pardon thee as I do, O my cousin!” Then turning to
the king —
“You have admitted, sire, that I have served you faithfully
and well. Never yet have I sought reward at your
hand: let this now be my guerdon. Much have I suffered:
even thus let me not feel that my king has increased my sufferings
by consigning one of my blood to the headsman's blow.
Pardon him, sire, as I do, who have the most cause of offence;
pardon him, gracious king, as we will hope that a King higher
yet shall pardon him and us, who be all sinners in the sight of
his all-seeing eye!”
“Be it so,” answered Henry; “it never shall be said of me
that a French king refused his bravest soldier's first claim upon
his justice! Bear him to his pavilion.”
And they did bear him to his pavilion, decked as it was for
revelry and feasting; and they laid him there, ghastly, and
gashed, and gory, upon the festive board, and his blood streamed
among the choice wines, and the scent of death chilled the rich
fragrance of the flowers! An hour, and he was dead who had
invited others to triumph over his cousin's slaughter; an hour,
and the court-lackeys shamefully spoiled and plundered the
repast which had been spread for nobles!
“And now,” continued Henry, taking the hand of Marguerite,
“here is the victor's prize! Wilt have him, Marguerite? —
'fore Heaven, but he has won thee nobly! Wilt have her, De
La-Hirè? — methinks her tears and beauty may yet atone for
fickleness produced by treasons such as his who now shall
never more betray, nor lie, nor sin, for ever! —”
“Sire,” replied De La-Hirè, very firmly, “I pardon her; I
love her yet! — but I wed not dishonor!”
“He is right,” said the pale girl, “he is right, ever right and
noble; for what have such as I to do with wedlock? Fare thee
well, Charles — dear, honored Charles! The mists of this
world are clearing away from mine eyes, and I see now that I
loved thee best — thee only! Fare thee well, noble one! forget
the wretch who has so deeply wronged thee — forget me,
and be happy. For me, I shall right soon be free!”
“Not so, not so,” replied King Henry, misunderstanding her
meaning; “not so, for I have sworn it, and though I may pity
thee, I may not be forsworn. To-morrow thou must to a convent,
there to abide for ever!”
“And that will not be long,” answered the girl, a gleam of
her old pride and impetuosity lighting up her fair features.
“By Heaven, I say for ever!” cried Henry, stamping his
foot on the ground angrily.
“And I reply, not long!”
| CHAPTER II. The knights of England, France, and Scotland | |