‘He saw the tourney's victor crowned
Amidst the knightly ring.'
‘ARE you going tomorrow to the great tourney?' This was the question which a hundred thousand people in Constance and its environs were asking each other on the evening of March 19, 1415. ‘Would not miss it for the world ' was the usual answer, with the addition of words like these, ‘It will be the grandest show we shall see in a lifetime. Everyone knows what a magnificent prince is our Lord Frederick, Duke of Austria; and he will spare neither pains, nor gold, nor good contrivance to make this the proudest day of his life. A gallant knight, too; it is like his brave spirit to challenge Queen Barbe's own brother, the young Count of Cilly, to single combat. Probably he wishes it was her husband, the Kaiser, and that the tilt was right earnest sword-play.' For the enmity between the duke and the Kaiser was well known to everyone. The duke was the ally and maintainer of Pope John XXIII, whom he would fain have delivered, if he could, out of the hand of both the Kaiser and the Council.
Armand asked all his acquaintances, who by this time were many, the question of the day. He did not omit to ask it of his brother; but Hubert, though for him the clash of arms and the waving of banners had ever a strong attraction, gave him an undecided answer—he would go if he could. Armand called for him, accordingly, the next day. Hubert, in his ordinary dress, and with a pen behind his ear, opened the door for him softly. ‘Hush!’ he said, ‘don't let the chancellor hear your voice. His people, chaplains and all, are gone to see the tourney. He thinks I am off with the rest. But if he thought I was going to leave him alone he was mistaken—for once,' laughed Hubert. Not for all the jousts in Christendom. Bring me back a full report of the doings, Armand.'
‘A plague on your devotion to the chancellor!’ said Armand, as he turned away.
Armand was disappointed, certainly; yet the enjoyment of the day was not by any means spoiled for him. Remembering something he wished to do, he turned aside from his way into a narrow street, where his favorite Nuremburg confectioner had set up a booth. Here he made pretty extensive purchases, which he stowed away in his pouch and in a wallet which he carried. Then, observing with concern that the town already looked deserted, he quickened his steps, that he might not be late for the show.
Presently there passed by him, in the now empty street, a corpulent, ill-dressed groom or postilion, in a gray cloak, mounted on a sorry horse, with a cross-bow fastened on the pommel of his saddle. Next to hawks, Armand loved horses better than anything else in the world; so he felt irritated at the clumsy way in which the fellow was managing his steed, and was tempted to give him a sharp lesson. But on second thoughts he refrained, thinking neither horse nor rider worth the trouble. ‘Besides,' he said to himself, ‘that varlet has been in a fray, since his head is bound with a kerchief. No doubt he has consoled himself for his bruises with a cup or two of their strong heady German beer. There is not much of his face to be seen; but what there is—that coarse, sensual mouth and heavy jaw—brings to my mind no one else, no one less (and I presume there is no one greater here) than our most holy, or unholy, lord the pope. I always thought Pope John was no gentleman, but rather a fitting companion for grooms and kitchen-varlets, in manners as well as in mind—and this sorry rascal's likeness to him goes to prove it.'
Then, dismissing the circumstance from his mind, he overtook the festive crowd streaming out of the city to the Brühl, where, with great pomp and splendor, the lists had been prepared and arranged. Here he met his Burgundian friends, and with them looked idly about him for some time. By-and-by, however, he left their company, and gradually made his way through the crowd to the decorated platform, where Queen Barbe and her attendant ladies sat in state, to animate the combatants by their presence, and in due time to award the prizes.
The young squire had already made friends amongst these ladies, and amongst the German and Hungarian nobles who formed their escort. His French skill in the training of falcons had enabled him to render them some slight services, which were graciously acknowledged, and his winning exterior and pleasant manners did the rest. On the present occasion the crafty youth produced the choice confections with which he had provided himself, and in the somewhat tedious pauses of the tourney ventured to offer them, with his most devoted homage,' to the ladies near him. This procured for him admission to the platform. Once there he watched his opportunity, and drew quietly near a young lady wearing the colors of Queen Barbe, but seated modestly in one of the lowest places, amongst the least distinguished of her suite. She was a slender, dark-eyed girl, very pale—too pale some thought for beauty—but her features were exquisitely formed, and her face was full of expression. She flushed slightly at the approach of Armand, who was evidently no new acquaintance, and he addressed her in rapid French.
She answered in the same language, and in a low, very sweet voice, ‘As the trumpets and hautboys were sounding at the time, they were able to maintain a conversation under cover of the noise, unheard by those around them.
‘Both of us French, both of us Burgundians, surely we were meant to be friends,' urged Armand.
His first boyish fancy, half real, half affected, for a lady much older than himself, had now given way to a far more genuine adoration of this bright particular star, the Demoiselle Jocelyne de Sabrecourt.
‘Ah, sir squire, if you knew all about me you would not say that,' she answered.
Armand quite lost himself in high-flown compliments and romantic protestations; which, however, the young lady brushed quietly aside, with as little ceremony as if they had been cobwebs. Then he spoke seriously, and the best that was in him came out. The martial music had ceased, but his immediate neighbors were talking loudly enough, and besides were not likely to understand him, as lie spoke in French. ‘Fair demoiselle,' he said, ‘you are not happy here; I know it.'
‘I have no cause of unhappiness,' returned the young lady. ‘The queen is kind to me; and though the Hungarian and German ladies of her suite may not care much for the solitary Burgundian girl, yet they are not unkind.'
‘How did you come here?' asked Armand. ‘Since we knew one another as children at the Burgundian court—ay, and were partners in the dance, as you have graced me forever by deigning to remember—I had not heard your name until you rose upon me like a star that happy day when I went to Petershausen about the falcons. I shall bless those birds all my life long. Nay, let St. Maurice hear my vow. I shall have a falcon in effigy made of the purest wax, and present it to him in the great church here, which is dedicated to his name.'
‘It is always well to hold the saints in honor,' said the lady; ‘but as for the falcons, I doubt that you, or I either, have special cause for gratitude to them.'
Armand protested eagerly; but Jocelyne continued without heeding him: ‘I can, however, answer your question about my coming hither. And in so doing I shall prove my point, that our meeting is not specially fortunate, at least for you. Do you remember my brother—my brave, brilliant young brother—the most promising squire at the court of Burgundy and the most favored of his lord? '
‘I have only the honor to know the Demoiselle Jocelyne by that sweetest and most musical of names,' returned the courtly Armand.
‘It is true that the name of De Sabrecourt is but seldom heard now.'
Armand started and turned pale. ‘Was Godefroi de Sabrecourt your brother?’ he asked quickly.
‘You knew him, then? Yes, he was my dear and only brother, and my mother and father are both dead. Tell me, sir squire, what have you heard about Godefroi de Sabrecourt? '
With a quick, half-involuntary gesture, Armand turned away from her, and was silent.
‘Do not be afraid to speak,' pursued the lady. ‘I can bear anything but want of truth. What have you heard about him? '
‘That he was killed in a duello—in single combat,' Armand answered at last, in a low voice and without turning towards her.
‘You heard more than that,' said Jocelyne.
Armand was silent. Had his face been visible she would have seen it was very pale. At last Jocelyne resumed, with a sort of cold composure: ‘Since you will not speak, I am forced to do so, though I like not the task. After that fatal day when Fancroix gave him his death-wound (Fancroix was not to blame, you understand that; I bear no malice against him), a packet of important papers belonging to the duke was missing; and it was soon found that it had fallen into the hands of the Armagnacs. Surely you remember it, though you will not speak, doubtless lest you should grieve me. It was much talked about at the time, just four years ago, and, as I remember, you got your promotion from page to squire just then. The packet had been sent to Godefroi by a safe hand; and he was to ride to Paris, and deliver it secretly to Caboche. Nothing was done about the affair, my brother being dead; but everyone believed him guilty of culpable carelessness, if not of treason. The duke spoke no word of blame; yet it did not please him to see me about the duchess after that. And it was best that our name should be mentioned no more in his hearing. So I was very thankful when the Countess de Cilly (as the queen then was), being a guest at our court, compassionately offered me an asylum.'
Armand did not dare to lift up his face to hers. He knew that it was white with shame and fear; and he felt as if the solid ground was reeling beneath him. No one had suspected the young page, to whom the fatal packet had been entrusted to bring to Godefroi, of being the real delinquent. Godefroi's own lips were sealed in death, and on that very account all inquiry had been silenced. Armand, up to this hour, had honestly believed that no living person was the worse for his cowardly silence. Was it so cowardly after all? It would probably have cost him—and at the time he was but a boy—all that makes life desirable to break it.
The moment afterward a general stir and movement about him showed that something unusual had happened; and he felt like a criminal reprieved from the scaffold. A lady who was sitting near Jocelyne begged him to go to the lists and find out what was the matter. He was about to obey, as in duty bound, when one of the queen's Hungarian gentlemen came towards them and said, ‘Do not disturb yourselves, ladies. What has occurred is of no consequence. Some malapert fellow, who had business with the duke, must needs force his way to the lists, and beckon him to speak with him, as if, forsooth, his business could not wait until the tourney was over. They spake together for a moments space, then the duke returned to his place, and quite in good-humor too. He and the Count de Cilly are continuing their tilting-match—as you see, ladies. However, you can see very ill where you are. Let me find you seats higher up.'
But Jocelyne did not care to move; and Armand was only too glad to keep his white face hidden from view. Meanwhile the disclosure which burdened the heart of one greatly relieved the other. Jocelyne had now discharged what, according to her code of honor, was a paramount duty. She had informed a young gentleman, who was plainly showing himself her admirer, of the cloud that rested upon her name and her fortunes. Moreover, she had intimated to the same young gentleman that, as a squire of the Duke of Burgundy, who hoped everything from the favor of his patron, she was the very last person he ought to allow his fancy to dwell upon. Now, for every reason, the best thing she could do was to talk lightly on indifferent subjects.
‘I would the Kaiser himself had condescended to enter the lists today in place of his young brother-in-law,' she said. ‘Is not the Kaiser splendid, Sieur de Clairville? Handsome as Apollo, with his long golden hair, his fair face, his stately figure.' Armand agreed carelessly: not thinking much at the moment about either king or Kaiser.
Jocelyne continued: ‘He is brave too, and quick of wit, and has a noble heart, I fain would think. But just now he is in a difficulty. I wonder what he will do. Think you the Council will prevail with him to be false to his plighted word, and to give up that poor priest to his enemies?'
‘Do you mean the Bohemian heretic? '
‘Heretic or no—that is a matter of opinion. There is a certain Jew, physician to the pope, of whose skill the queen has a high opinion. She often sends for him to Petershausen; and I have heard him tell very strange things of this man, whom he visited by the pope's command when lying ill of fever and ague in his prison.'
‘I have heard,' said Armand, rousing himself with an effort, ‘that churchmen are far less in favor with the queen than with her lord the Kaiser.'
‘That is true. Indeed, Queen Barbe—but this is only for your own ear, sir squire—believes little enough of all churchmen tell us. Sometimes it makes me shudder to hear her talk. She says—oh, I dare not tell you what she says! But this I know, if the Holy Council were to meddle with her on the ground of heresy, it would have enough to do. Still, whatever we may think of her, I say this of the Kaiser—if he breaks his word to that Bohemian and gives him up to his enemies, he will of course be lawful Kaiser, but he will be true knight and gentleman no more—he will be a dishonored liar. Of all things on earth or in heaven, I hate a liar.'
‘Is silence always a lie?’ said Armand in a low voice, and as it seemed irrelevantly.
‘It will be the worst of lies if the Kaiser stands by in silence and lets other men break his word for him,' returned Jocelyn, rather surprised at his remark. ‘But listen! I think the tourney is over.'
‘What, already?’ cried Armand; and indeed there was ground for astonishment in a termination so speedy and so abrupt. A great shout of applause rent the air. The Count of Cilly had unhorsed the Duke of Austria. But, in truth, it was an easy triumph. Since that mysterious whisper from the unknown messenger, the duke had been only anxious to bring the proceedings to a close and to get away. He gracefully yielded the victory lo his young antagonist, and, as soon as he decently could, left the place.
Armand slipped away also, very heavy in heart. His one boyish fault, which he thought unknown to all the world, and which he himself had well-nigh forgotten, was coming back now, like a ghost from the tomb, to overshadow his life, and to wound him in the tenderest part. Purposely avoiding his acquaintances, he walked slowly home. As he did so, he lived over again the events of the day when, although still a page, he had been trusted by the duke himself to bear an important packet with speed and secrecy to the neighboring town. There Godefroi de Sabrecourt was to meet him, to take it from his hand, and to bring it on to Paris. But Godefroi was not to be found when Armand came to the trysting-place— unluckily for him, a tavern, in front of which a tennis-match was going on. The young page saw the match out, drank to the health of the winners, enjoyed himself thoroughly, and finally went to bed with the fatal packet in the pouch at his girdle, instead of where it should have been, under his pillow. In the morning it was gone. Then Godefroi came—too late—and found the boy in utter distress and perplexity. Being a kind-hearted youth, and feeling also that he himself was partly to blame for the misfortune, he proposed that, before saying anything to the duke, they should make every effort to recover the packet. If they were unsuccessful, then, of course, the duke must know. But he said that before doing anything else he must fight out the quarrel which had been the cause of his delay. He did so in the course of the day, and met his death at the hand of his antagonist. Everyone regretted the promising young squire; and in the first excitement the packet supposed to have been given into his charge was scarcely remembered. But a little while afterward it was very unpleasantly recalled, for it became evident that the Armagnacs were aware of its contents, and were using them to the injury of the duke.
Then inquiries were made about it. Armand was questioned in his turn. The terrible Jean Sans Peur had never spoken an angry word to his bright young page, yet Armand trembled like an aspen-leaf before him. The very sound of his voice, the very glance of his eye, seemed to paralyze the boy, and to force him, in spite of himself, to deny his fault. He faltered out that he had given the letter up safely to the Sieur de Sabrecourt, and he was readily believed. The duke did not suspect ‘that child ' either of failure in a simple, easy duty, or of deceit in hiding it. Suspicion therefore fell, and rested, upon the dead. Remaining suspicion, and no more, it still did its evil work. How evil that work had been Armand did not know until this day. And now that he knew it, he was overwhelmed.
Armand had been taught to ride, to fence, to tilt. He had been instructed in the noble art of falconry and the mysteries of the chase. He had been even taught, after a fashion, to read and to write—but he had never been taught to think. This lack of mental training and discipline helped to throw him, in this his first real trouble, into utter and hopeless confusion. He had cruelly injured the one whom of all others he most passionately desired to serve and please. Was he not sinning against her more and more every day he persisted in his cowardly silence? Yet, if he should decide to break that silence, would he not ruin his cause with her forever? Would she not despise him and execrate his name? Moreover—and Armand could spare a thought for this too—the duke, when he heard it, would forever withdraw his favor from him, and would dismiss him from his service with ignominy. It seemed that he must still keep silence, let it cost him what it might.
Yet he could not rest satisfied with this conclusion. After tossing on his hard pallet for more sleepless hours than he had ever known in his life, he said to himself at last, ‘I will tell all to Hubert. Hubert is brave and strong; and above all, he is true. He is kind too, and fond of me. He will know what I ought to do.' And so he fell asleep.