Quentin Durward

“So much was it otherwise than cordial,” answered the Countess, “that it induced me, at least, to doubt how far it was possible that your Majesty should have actually given the invitation of which we had been assured, by those who called themselves your agents, since, supposing them to have proceeded only as they were duly authorized, it would have been hard to reconcile your Majesty’s conduct with that to be expected from a king, a knight, and a gentleman.”

The Countess turned her eyes to the King as she spoke, with a look which was probably intended as a reproach, but the breast of Louis was armed against all such artillery. On the contrary, waving slowly his expanded hands, and looking around the circle, he seemed to make a triumphant appeal to all present, upon the testimony borne to his innocence in the Countess’s reply.

Burgundy, meanwhile, cast on him a look which seemed to say, that if in some degree silenced, he was as far as ever from being satisfied, and then said abruptly to the Countess, “Methinks, fair mistress, in this account of your wanderings, you have forgot all mention of certain love passages. – So, ho, blushing already? – Certain knights of the forest, by whom your quiet was for a time interrupted. Well – that incident hath come to our ear, and something we may presently form out of it. – Tell me, King Louis, were it not well, before this vagrant Helen of Troy [the wife of Menelaus. She was carried to Troy by Paris, and thus was the cause of the Trojan War], or of Croye, set more Kings by the ears, were it not well to carve out a fitting match for her?”

King Louis, though conscious what ungrateful proposal was likely to be made next, gave a calm and silent assent to what Charles said; but the Countess herself was restored to courage by the very extremity of her situation. She quitted the arm of the Countess of Crevecoeur, on which she had hitherto leaned, came forward timidly, yet with an air of dignity, and kneeling before the Duke’s throne, thus addressed him “Noble Duke of Burgundy, and my liege lord, I acknowledge my fault in having withdrawn myself from your dominions without your gracious permission, and will most humbly acquiesce in any penalty you are pleased to impose. I place my lands and castles at your rightful disposal, and pray you only of your own bounty, and for the sake of my memory, to allow the last of the line of Croye, out of her large estate, such a moderate maintenance as may find her admission into a convent for the remainder of her life.”

“What think you, Sire, of the young person’s petition to us,” said the Duke, addressing Louis.

“As of a holy and humble motion,” said the King, “which doubtless comes from that grace which ought not to be resisted or withstood.”

“The humble and lowly shall be exalted,” said Charles. “Arise, Countess Isabelle – we mean better for you than you have devised for yourself. We mean neither to sequestrate your estates, nor to abase your honours, but, on the contrary, will add largely to both.”

“Alas! my lord,” said the Countess, continuing on her knees, “it is even that well meant goodness which I fear still more than your Grace’s displeasure, since it compels me – ”

“Saint George of Burgundy!” said Duke Charles, “is our will to be thwarted, and our commands disputed, at every turn? Up, I say, minion, and withdraw for the present – when we have time to think of thee, we will so order matters that, Teste Saint Gris! you shall either obey us, or do worse.”

Notwithstanding this stern answer, the Countess Isabelle remained at his feet, and would probably, by her pertinacity, have driven him to say upon the spot something yet more severe, had not the Countess of Crevecoeur, who better knew that Prince’s humour, interfered to raise her young friend, and to conduct her from the hall.

Quentin Durward was now summoned to appear, and presented himself before the King and Duke with that freedom, distant alike from bashful reserve and intrusive boldness, which becomes a youth at once well born and well nurtured, who gives honour where it is due but without permitting himself to be dazzled or confused by the presence of those to whom it is to be rendered. His uncle had furnished him with the means of again equipping himself in the arms and dress of an Archer of the Scottish Guard, and his complexion, mien, and air suited in an uncommon degree his splendid appearance. His extreme youth, too, prepossessed the councillors in his favour, the rather that no one could easily believe that the sagacious Louis would have chosen so very young a person to become the confidant of political intrigues; and thus the King enjoyed, in this, as in other cases, considerable advantage from his singular choice of agents, both as to age and rank, where such election seemed least likely to be made. At the command of the Duke, sanctioned by that of Louis, Quentin commenced an account of his journey with the Ladies of Croye to the neighbourhood of Liege, premising a statement of King Louis’s instructions, which were that he should escort them safely to the castle of the Bishop.

“And you obeyed my orders accordingly,” said the King.

“I did, Sire,” replied the Scot.

“You omit a circumstance,” said the Duke. “You were set upon in the forest by two wandering knights.”

“It does not become me to remember or to proclaim such an incident,” said the youth, blushing ingenuously.

“But it doth not become me to forget it,” said the Duke of Orleans. “This youth discharged his commission manfully, and maintained his trust in a manner that I shall long remember. – Come to my apartment, Archer, when this matter is over, and thou shalt find I have not forgot thy brave bearing, while I am glad to see it is equalled by thy modesty.”

“And come to mine,” said Dunois. “I have a helmet for thee, since I think I owe thee one.”

Quentin bowed low to both, and the examination was resumed. At the command of Duke Charles he produced the written instructions which he had received for the direction of his journey.

“Did you follow these instructions literally, soldier?” said the Duke.

“No; if it please your Grace,” replied Quentin. “They directed me, as you may be pleased to observe, to cross the Maes near Namur; whereas I kept the left bank, as being both the nigher and the safer road to Liege.”

“And wherefore that alteration?” said the Duke.

“Because I began to suspect the fidelity of my guide,” answered Quentin.

“Now mark the questions I have next to ask thee,” said the Duke. “Reply truly to them, and fear nothing from the resentment of any one. But if you palter or double in your answers I will have thee hung alive in an iron chain from the steeple of the market house, where thou shalt wish for death for many an hour ere he come to relieve you!”

There was a deep silence ensued. At length, having given the youth time, as he thought, to consider the circumstances in which he was placed, the Duke demanded to know of Durward who his guide was, by whom supplied, and wherefore he had been led to entertain suspicion of him. To the first of these questions Quentin Durward answered by naming Hayraddin Maugrabin, the Bohemian; to the second, that the guide had been recommended by Tristan l’Hermite; and in reply to the third point he mentioned what had happened in the Franciscan convent near Namur, how the Bohemian had been expelled from the holy house, and how, jealous of his behaviour, he had dogged him to a rendezvous with one of William de la Marck’s lanzknechts, where he overheard them arrange a plan for surprising the ladies who were under his protection.

“Now, hark,” said the Duke, “and once more remember thy life depends on thy veracity, did these villains mention their having this King’s – I mean this very King Louis of France’s authority for their scheme of surprising the escort and carrying away the ladies?”

“If such infamous fellows had said,” replied Quentin, “I know not how I should have believed them, having the word of the King himself to place in opposition to theirs.”

Louis, who had listened hitherto with most earnest attention, could not help drawing his breath deeply when he heard Durward’s answer, in the manner of one from whose bosom a heavy weight has been at once removed. The Duke again looked disconcerted and moody, and, returning to the charge, questioned Quentin still more closely, whether he did not understand, from these men’s private conversation, that the plots which they meditated had King Louis’s sanction?

“I repeat that I heard nothing which could authorize me to say so,” answered the young man, who, though internally convinced of the King’s accession to the treachery of Hayraddin, yet held it contrary to his allegiance to bring forward his own suspicions on the subject; “and if I had heard such men make such an assertion, I again say that I would not have given their testimony weight against the instructions of the King himself.”

“Thou art a faithful messenger,” said the Duke, with a sneer, “and I venture to say that, in obeying the King’s instructions, thou hast disappointed his expectations in a manner that thou mightst have smarted for, but that subsequent events have made thy bull headed fidelity seem like good service.”

“I understand you not, my lord,” said Quentin Durward, “all I know is that my master King Louis sent me to protect these ladies, and that I did so accordingly, to the extent of my ability, both in the journey to Schonwaldt, and through the subsequent scenes which took place. I understood the instructions of the King to be honourable, and I executed them honourably; had they been of a different tenor, they would not have suited one of my name or nation.”

“Fier comme an Ecossois,” said Charles, who, however disappointed at the tenor of Durward’s reply, was not unjust enough to blame him for his boldness. “But hark thee, Archer, what instructions were those which made thee, as some sad fugitives from Schonwaldt have informed us, parade the streets of Liege, at the head of those mutineers, who afterwards cruelly murdered their temporal Prince and spiritual Father? And what harangue was it which thou didst make after that murder was committed, in which you took upon you, as agent for Louis, to assume authority among the villains who had just perpetrated so great a crime?”

“My lord,” said Quentin, “there are many who could testify that I assumed not the character of an envoy of France in the town of Liege, but had it fixed upon me by the obstinate clamours of the people themselves, who refused to give credit to any disclamation which I could make. This I told to those in the service of the Bishop when I had made my escape from the city, and recommended their attention to the security of the Castle, which might have prevented the calamity and horror of the succeeding night. It is, no doubt, true that I did, in the extremity of danger, avail myself of the influence which my imputed character gave me, to save the Countess Isabelle, to protect my own life, and, so far as I could, to rein in the humour for slaughter, which had already broke out in so dreadful an instance. I repeat, and will maintain it with my body, that I had no commission of any kind from the King of France respecting the people of Liege, far less instructions to instigate them to mutiny; and that, finally, when I did avail myself of that imputed character, it was as if I had snatched up a shield to protect myself in a moment of emergency, and used it, as I should surely have done, for the defence of myself and others, without inquiring whether I had a right to the heraldic emblazonments which it displayed.”

“And therein my young companion and prisoner,” said Crevecoeur, unable any longer to remain silent, “acted with equal spirit and good sense; and his doing so cannot justly be imputed as blame to King Louis.”

There was a murmur of assent among the surrounding nobility, which sounded joyfully in the ears of King Louis, whilst it gave no little offence to Charles. He rolled his eyes angrily around; and the sentiments so generally expressed by so many of his highest vassals and wisest councillors, would not perhaps have prevented his giving way to his violent and despotic temper, had not De Comines, who foresaw the danger, prevented it, by suddenly announcing a herald from the city of Liege.

“A herald from weavers and nailers!” exclaimed the Duke. “But admit him instantly. By Our Lady, I will learn from this same herald something farther of his employers’ hopes and projects than this young French Scottish man at arms seems desirous to tell me!”

CHAPTER XXXIII: THE HERALD

Ariel. – Hark! they roar.

Prospero. Let them be hunted soundly.

THE TEMPEST

There was room made in the assembly, and no small curiosity evinced by those present to see the herald whom the insurgent Liegeois had ventured to send to so haughty a Prince as the Duke of Burgundy, while in such high indignation against them. For it must be remembered that at this period heralds were only dispatched from sovereign princes to each other upon solemn occasions; and that the inferior nobility employed pursuivants, a lower rank of officers at arms. It may be also noticed, in passing, that Louis XI, an habitual derider of whatever did not promise real power or substantial advantage, was in especial a professed contemner of heralds and heraldry, “red, blue, and green, with all their trumpery,” to which the pride of his rival Charles, which was of a very different kind, attached no small degree of ceremonious importance.

The herald, who was now introduced into the presence of the monarchs, was dressed in a tabard, or coat, embroidered with the arms of his master, in which the Boar’s Head made a distinguished appearance, in blazonry, which in the opinion of the skilful was more showy than accurate. The rest of his dress – a dress always sufficiently tawdry – was overcharged with lace, embroidery, and ornament of every kind, and the plume of feathers which he wore was so high, as if intended to sweep the roof of the hall. In short, the usual gaudy splendour of the heraldic attire was caricatured and overdone. The Boar’s Head was not only repeated on every part of his dress, but even his bonnet was formed into that shape, and it was represented with gory tongue and bloody tusks, or in proper language, langed and dentated gules, and there was something in the man’s appearance which seemed to imply a mixture of boldness and apprehension, like one who has undertaken a dangerous commission, and is sensible that audacity alone can carry him through it with safety. Something of the same mixture of fear and effrontery was visible in the manner in which he paid his respects, and he showed also a grotesque awkwardness, not usual amongst those who were accustomed to be received in the presence of princes.

“Who art thou, in the devil’s name?” was the greeting with which Charles the Bold received this singular envoy.

“I am Rouge Sanglier,” answered the herald, “the officer at arms of William de la Marck, by the grace of God, and the election of the Chapter, Prince Bishop of Liege.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Charles, but, as if subduing his own passion, he made a sign to him to proceed.

“And, in right of his wife, the Honourable Countess Hameline of Croye, Count of Croye, and Lord of Bracquemont.”

The utter astonishment of Duke Charles at the extremity of boldness with which these titles were announced in his presence seemed to strike him dumb; and the herald conceiving, doubtless, that he had made a suitable impression by the annunciation of his character, proceeded to state his errand.

“Annuncio vobis gaudium magnum [I announce to you a great joy],” he said; “I let you, Charles of Burgundy and Earl of Flanders, to know, in my master’s name, that under favour of a dispensation of our Holy Father of Rome, presently expected, and appointing a fitting substitute ad sacra [to the sacred office], he proposes to exercise at once the office of Prince Bishop, and maintain the rights of Count of Croye.”

The Duke of Burgundy, at this and other pauses in the herald’s speech, only ejaculated, “Ha!” or some similar interjection, without making any answer; and the tone of exclamation was that of one who, though surprised and moved, is willing to hear all that is to be said ere he commits himself by making an answer. To the further astonishment of all who were present, he forbore from his usual abrupt and violent gesticulations, remaining with the nail of his thumb pressed against his teeth, which was his favourite attitude when giving attention, and keeping his eyes bent on the ground, as if unwilling to betray the passion which might gleam in them.

The envoy, therefore, proceeded boldly and unabashed in the delivery of his message. “In the name, therefore, of the Prince Bishop of Liege, and Count of Croye, I am to require of you, Duke Charles, to desist from those pretensions and encroachments which you have made on the free and imperial city of Liege, by connivance with the late Louis of Bourbon, unworthy Bishop thereof.”

“Ha,” again exclaimed the Duke.

“Also to restore the banners of the community, which you took violently from the town, to the number of six and thirty – to rebuild the breaches in their walls, and restore the fortifications which you tyrannically dismantled – and to acknowledge my master, William de la Marck, as Prince Bishop, lawfully elected in a free Chapter of Canons, of which behold the proces verbal.”

“Have you finished?” said the Duke.

“Not yet,” replied the envoy. “I am farther to require your Grace, on the part of the said right noble and venerable Prince, Bishop, and Count, that you do presently withdraw the garrison from the Castle of Bracquemont, and other places of strength, belonging to the Earldom of Croye, which have been placed there, whether in your own most gracious name, or in that of Isabelle, calling herself Countess of Croye, or any other, until it shall be decided by the Imperial Diet whether the fiefs in question shall not pertain to the sister of the late Count, my most gracious Lady Hameline, rather than to his daughter, in respect of the jus emphyteusis [a permanent tenure of land upon condition of cultivating it properly, and paying a stipulated rent; a sort of fee farm or copyhold].”

“Your master is most learned,” replied the Duke.

“Yet,” continued the herald, “the noble and venerable Prince and Count will be disposed, all other disputes betwixt Burgundy and Liege being settled, to fix upon the Lady Isabelle such an appanage as may become her quality.”

“He is generous and considerate,” said the Duke, in the same tone.

“Now, by a poor fool’s conscience,” said Le Glorieux apart to the Count of Crevecoeur, “I would rather be in the worst cow’s hide that ever died of the murrain than in that fellow’s painted coat! The poor man goes on like drunkards, who only look to the ether pot, and not to the score which mine host chalks up behind the lattice.”

“Have you yet done?” said the Duke to the herald.

“One word more,” answered Rouge Sanglier, “from my noble and venerable lord aforesaid, respecting his worthy and trusty ally, the most Christian King.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the Duke, starting, and in a fiercer tone than he had yet used; but checking himself, he instantly composed himself again to attention.

“Which most Christian King’s royal person it is rumoured that you, Charles of Burgundy, have placed under restraint contrary to your duty as a vassal of the Crown of France, and to the faith observed among Christian Sovereigns. For which reason, my said noble and venerable master, by my mouth, charges you to put his royal and most Christian ally forthwith at freedom, or to receive the defiance which I am authorized to pronounce to you.”

“Have you yet done?” said the Duke.

“I have,” answered the herald, “and await your Grace’s answer, trusting it may be such as will save the effusion of Christian blood.”

“Now, by Saint George of Burgundy!” said the Duke, but ere he could proceed farther, Louis arose, and struck in with a tone of so much dignity and authority that Charles could not interrupt him.

“Under your favour, fair cousin of Burgundy,” said the King, “we ourselves crave priority of voice in replying to this insolent fellow. – Sirrah herald, or whatever thou art, carry back notice to the perjured outlaw and murderer, William de la Marck, that the King of France will be presently before Liege, for the purpose of punishing the sacrilegious murderer of his late beloved kinsman, Louis of Bourbon; and that he proposes to gibbet De la Marck alive, for the insolence of terming himself his ally, and putting his royal name into the mouth of one of his own base messengers.”

“Add whatever else on my part,” said Charles, “which it may not misbecome a prince to send to a common thief and murderer. – And begone! – Yet stay. – Never herald went from the Court of Burgundy without having cause to cry, Largesse! – Let him be scourged till the bones are laid bare.”

“Nay, but if it please your Grace,” said Crevecoeur and D’Hymbercourt together, “he is a herald, and so far privileged.”

“It is you, Messires,” replied the Duke, “who are such owls as to think that the tabard makes the herald. I see by that fellow’s blazoning he is a mere impostor. Let Toison d’Or step forward, and question him in your presence.”

In spite of his natural effrontery, the envoy of the Wild Boar of Ardennes now became pale; and that notwithstanding some touches of paint with which he had adorned his countenance. Toison d’Or, the chief herald, as we have elsewhere said, of the Duke, and King at arms within his dominions, stepped forward with the solemnity of one who knew what was due to his office, and asked his supposed brother in what college he had studied the science which he professed.

“I was bred a pursuivant at the Heraldic College of Ratisbon,” answered Rouge Sanglier, “and received the diploma of Ehrenhold [a herald] from that same learned fraternity.”

“You could not derive it from a source more worthy,” answered Toison d’Or, bowing still lower than he had done before; “and if I presume to confer with you on the mysteries of our sublime science, in obedience to the orders of the most gracious Duke, it is not in hopes of giving, but of receiving knowledge.”

“Go to,” said the Duke impatiently. “Leave off ceremony, and ask him some question that may try his skill.”

“It were injustice to ask a disciple of the worthy College of Arms at Ratisbon if he comprehendeth the common terms of blazonry,” said Toison d’Or, “but I may, without offence, crave of Rouge Sanglier to say if he is instructed in the more mysterious and secret terms of the science, by which the more learned do emblematically, and as it were parabolically, express to each other what is conveyed to others in the ordinary language, taught in the very accidence as it were of Heraldry.”

“I understand one sort of blazonry as well as another,” answered Rouge Sanglier boldly, “but it may be we have not the same terms in Germany which you have here in Flanders.”

“Alas, that you will say so!” replied Toison d’Or. “our noble science, which is indeed the very banner of nobleness and glory of generosity, being the same in all Christian countries, nay, known and acknowledged even by the Saracens and Moors. I would, therefore, pray of you to describe what coat you will after the celestial fashion, that is, by the planets.”

“Blazon it yourself as you will,” said Rouge Sanglier; “I will do no such apish tricks upon commandment, as an ape is made to come aloft.”

“Show him a coat and let him blazon it his own way,” said the Duke; “and if he fails, I promise him that his back shall be gules, azure, and sable.”

“Here,” said the herald of Burgundy, taking from his pouch a piece of parchment, “is a scroll in which certain considerations led me to prick down, after my own poor fashion, an ancient coat. I will pray my brother, if indeed he belong to the honourable College of Arms at Ratisbon, to decipher it in fitting language.”

Le Glorieux, who seemed to take great pleasure in this discussion, had by this time bustled himself close up to the two heralds. “I will help thee, good fellow,” said he to Rouge Sanglier, as he looked hopelessly upon the scroll. “This, my lords and masters, represents the cat looking out at the dairy window.”

This sally occasioned a laugh, which was something to the advantage of Rouge Sanglier, as it led Toison d’Or, indignant at the misconstruction of his drawing, to explain it as the coat of arms assumed by Childebert, King of France, after he had taken prisoner Gandemar, King of Burgundy; representing an ounce, or tiger cat, the emblem of the captive prince, behind a grating, or, as Toison d’Or technically defined it, “Sable, a musion [a tiger cat; a term of heraldry] passant Or, oppressed with a trellis gules, cloue of the second.”