‘The little children come to us
With wonder in their faces.'
IT was near the going down of the sun on a fair September day in the opening year of the fifteenth century. The broad fields of Northern France ought to have been white with harvest; but few and scanty were the patches the harassed inhabitants cared to sow, and of these, fewer still would come to the reaper's sickle. War, long and wasting, and followed by all its attendant miseries, had left its traces everywhere.
In a bare and desolate plain, where no living thing was visible, a strong but gloomy castle, or donjon keep, stood in solitary state, as if frowning upon all around. It was small of its kind, and utterly devoid of ornament, but well fortified—as it had need to be in those times of danger—duly protected by a deep moat, and furnished with a portcullis and drawbridge. Over the arched gateway hung a funeral hatchment.
Towards this castle a goodly train came spurring along over the rough grass-grown pathway called by courtesy a road. It was composed of knights and men-at-arms, who all paid extreme deference to two great personages, evidently the leaders of the band. One, who was of very stately and noble bearing, wore, over his exquisitely inlaid hauberk, a long mantle of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, and his cap, also of crimson velvet, had a gold border, shaped like a ducal coronet. He was, in fact, no less a person than Philip the Bold, Duke of Burgundy. His companion wore no mail, but the miter embroidered on his rich robes, and on the gorgeous trappings of his showy, though not spirited horse, told all men that he was a great bishop, a prince of the Church.
The Duke of Burgundy, and his friend the Bishop of Arras, had ridden from the Burgundian camp, three or four leagues away, on an errand of kindness, almost of charity. The lord of the castle, Armand de Clairville, a good knight and true, had died that morning in the camp, of wounds received the day before in a skirmish with the Armagnacs—the party opposed to the duke in the civil contest at that time rending France in twain, and leaving her an easy prey to the English. Through some accident, De Clairville had been left almost alone to defend a little bridge against the enemy. He had performed what the duke called prodigies of valor,' and, although mortally wounded, had held his post until relieved, and borne back to his tent to die. The bishop himself shrived him, speaking words of praise and consolation, and the great duke asked him, not without emotion, if there was anything he could do for him. The dying knight murmured feebly, ‘My wife and children '—then added with an effort, ‘my fortune is spent; my estate ruined; God and the saints have pity on them!’ Both duke and bishop bade him be of good cheer, and assured him cordially that they would provide for all. In fulfillment of this pledge they were coming to the castle; and certainly, for those rough times, it was a good and kindly deed.
At the summons of their herald the portcullis was duly raised, the drawbridge lowered, and the great personages humbly invited to enter. A gray-haired seneschal, with tokens of grief in his face and manner, advanced to meet them, and, bowing to the ground, informed them that his dear lady had just departed this life. The tidings of her lord's mortal wound had proved her own death-stroke; a fever from which she had been just recovering returned with fatal violence, and about noon that day she had rejoined him in the other world.
The duke expressed his regret in a frank, soldierly manner; and the bishop added some words of devout consolation. The old seneschal thanked them with all humility; and having conducted them to the reception-hall, ventured, very respectfully, to inquire if his good lords would deign to cast an eye of compassion on the unhappy orphans.
‘By all means,' said the duke, stroking his beard. ‘We have come for that purpose, that we may befriend them for their brave father's sake.'
The old servant of the house withdrew, and presently returned with a fair-haired boy clinging to each hand. ‘These, my lords, are the poor children,' he said, with his lowliest reverence. Then, to his little charges, ‘Go now, and kneel to your good lord the most noble and puissant Duke of Burgundy, and to your good lord the most reverend Bishop of Arras, and ask them to protect and befriend you, for the sake of God and our Lady.'
Neither of the children would do what was expected from him. The younger, a pretty, delicate child of some three summers, clung frightened to the hand of his protector, and began to cry. But the elder, a very handsome, well-grown boy of five or six, walked boldly up to the duke, and gazed into the stern warlike face, and at the splendid mantle, the armor, the sword,—his brave blue eyes full of admiration and delight, undimmed by the slightest shade of fear. Yet those young eyes were red with tears shed that day for the dear mother whose loss he fully understood; but though the sorrow of childhood is far deeper and more lasting than most people dream, it is easily diverted by those momentary impressions which dominate the vivid, present life of the child, who ‘sees all new.'
The duke, well pleased, laid his gloved hand caressingly on the boy's shoulder, and draw him towards him. ‘What is thy name, my little lad?’ he asked kindly.
The boy's eyes were on the beautifully inlaid scabbard of the duke's sword, and he answered carelessly, without lifting them, ‘Hubert Bohun.' Then, with eager interest, ‘If you please, sir knight, may I see your sword? '
‘There is no doubt,' said the bishop, with a good-natured smile, ‘that Dame Nature has intended this lad for your calling, my lord, and not for mine.'
‘Not so fast!’ said the duke, a look of displeasure stealing over his face, while his hand dropped from the boy's shoulder. ‘Say your name again, little lad.'
‘Hubert Bohun,' the child repeated distinctly; and he gave the name an English, not a French pronunciation.
The duke, frowning, looked at the seneschal for an explanation. ‘If it please my good lords,' said the old man, ' that is my dear master's stepson. My lady, who lies dead in yonder chamber (God rest her soul!) was wedded first to Sir Hubert Bohun, an English knight, who was in her father's house, a captive and wounded. But he lived not long after; and then my dear lord, who had loved her all his life, wooed and won her, as was meet. Yet Sir Hubert's son was ever dear to him as his own. He made no difference, living, between him and the little Armand de Clairville; and he would have no difference made now that he is dead.'
The duke stroked his beard again, more thoughtfully than before. ‘I did not know this story,' he said. ‘Did you, my lord of Arras? '
‘No, my lord duke. But it is certain that our good friend De Clairville meant this boy, as well as the other, when he prayed us, with his dying breath, to protect his children.'
‘Possibly-but I will have no Englishmen about me,' said the duke, with an air of irritation.
Though he had allied himself with the English, perhaps even because he had done so, he gave free license to his personal dislike of them.
Hubert saw quite well that the splendid knight was displeased with him, though he could not guess the reason. His broad, fair brow gathered an indignant frown, and his little hand was clenched. The bishop marked his look and gesture. ‘That boy will not be easily daunted,' he said to himself. ‘If struck, he will not cry or cower, but strike back, and fight to the last.'
‘No,' said the duke, finally making up his mind; ‘I will have nothing to do with this slip of the English stock. Give me De Clairville's own boy, and he shall want for nothing. I will make a good knight of him, and if he prove himself his father's son, he may hold his head up with the best in Burgundy.'
‘But, my lord, he is so young,' the seneschal ventured.
‘What matters that? I shall send for him by a safe hand, and he shall remain with my own little ones, under the care of the duchess and her ladies, until he is old enough to enter "the Service" as one of my pages.'
This was perfectly satisfactory as far as little Armand was concerned; and the seneschal murmured some grateful words.
‘But the other boy?’ suggested the bishop.
‘Take him yourself, and make a churchman of him. Anything you like,’ said the duke, carelessly.
The bishop pondered. ‘Clearly he has wit enough,' he said. ‘Moreover, it is the business of Mother Church to take care of the friendless, and of those whom the world abandons.'
Then, turning to the seneschal, ‘Well, my good old friend, your love to your lord and lady does you much honor. You may trust this little Hubert Bohun to my care. I will have him sent at once to some monastery, for such training as he must have cannot begin too early. My lord duke, I suppose our business here is ended now? '
The duke bowed. ‘I am satisfied,' he said.
‘I can scarce say so much,' returned the bishop doubtfully. ‘I greatly fear we are putting the dove into the falcon's nest, and the brave young eyas into the dovecote.'
‘That is as God wills,' said the duke, forgetting, as men so often do, that it was his own will that had settled the matter.
A few more directions were given to the seneschal, who then left the room, but returned presently with spiced wine and manchet bread, which he made little Hubert present on his knees to the duke and the bishop. Armand could by no means be induced to take part in the ceremony. The attendant men-at-arms, who, meanwhile, for the honor of the house, had been well supplied with food and wine, were then summoned; and with due state and ceremony the noble visitors mounted their horses and rode away. The seneschal, with the children on either side of him, waited upon them to the gate, and stood bareheaded until they were out of sight. Then he turned sadly away, murmuring as he did so: ‘The bishop spake well. It is the dove to the falcon's nest, and the eyas to the dovecote,'