Troubadour Tales 8
It was long, long ago that Geoffrey lived—nearly six hundred years.
The inn in which he served had been built in the Norman town of Dives
nearly three centuries earlier by the great Duke of Normandy, William
the Conqueror, whose name, which in French (for Normandy is a part of
France) is Guillaume-le-Conquérant, the inn still bore in Geoffrey’s
time as it bears to this day. The Duke William had built the house
because he wished to have some safe and pleasant stopping place during
the time he was overseeing the finishing and freighting of the fleet of
boats which lay near by in the river Dives, and in which he meant to
sail to the conquest of England.
And so, with such illustrious beginning, the inn had become very
famous among the nobles of Normandy, and grown larger and larger, till,
in the days when Geoffrey lived, it was a very beautiful place indeed.
The courtyard, which one entered through an arched gateway covered with
guelder roses, was surrounded by ancient wooden buildings; their dark
mossy beams were put together with white plaster, and their innumerable
picturesque peaks and gables and wooden galleries and winding stairways
were richly overhung with masses of the most lovely vines; for roses,
wistarias, clematis, and jasmines clambered everywhere. There were two
gardens also; one for the kitchen, the other full of lilies and clove
pinks and French daisies, and numberless sweet old-fashioned flowers;
for Monsieur Jean, the innkeeper, had much taste and loved both flowers
and birds. Indeed, besides several cockatoos, he always kept dozens of
peacocks that trailed about the courtyard squawking and spreading their
gorgeous tails every time a new guest entered the gateway. There were
fine pigeons, too, and rabbits and chickens, and no end of interesting
things.
Geoffrey thought it a charming place to live, and he did not in the
least mind the work he had to do; for all were kind to him, and
moreover, he was happy in being able to give some of his earnings to
his family at home, who were very poor. His father was a peasant living
on the estate of the young Count Boni, of Château Beauvais, and had it
not been for the kind-heartedness of this count, the poor peasant would
have had hard shift to keep his little children in bread; for in those
days the country had been so wasted by wars that the peasant folk had
almost nothing left on which to live. But the Count Boni had always
been most generous and considerate to the people on his estate, and
especially to Geoffrey’s father, who was honest, and intelligent above
his class. The count it was who had secured for Geoffrey the place at
the inn, and it was he also who had spoken to the monks of Dives of
the boy’s sweet voice, so that the good Fathers had become interested,
and were taking much pains in teaching him music.
And now we come to the reason that Geoffrey was so unhappy as he sat
under the plane-tree, vainly trying to practise his lesson; for he was
thinking all the while of a deadly peril that threatened this good
Count Boni, to whom he was deeply grateful for so many things, and whom
he truly loved next to his own father.
His knowledge of the count’s danger had come about in this way. It had
happened that, the day before, Geoffrey had been sent to the Château
Beauvais, which was not far distant from Dives, to carry some rabbits
which Monsieur Jean had promised to Isabeau, the little daughter of
the count. When Geoffrey reached the château and inquired for the
little Lady Isabeau, he had been sent into the garden, and there he
found her crying as if her heart would break! Now this grieved Geoffrey
very much indeed; as he quite worshiped the gracious little girl who
used often to visit their cottage when he lived at home, and who had
sometimes gaily carried him back with her for a day’s happy romp in the
beautiful château grounds.
When he asked her the reason of her tears, she had told him between her
sobs:
“O, Geoffrey! my dear father, the count, is to fight a dreadful duel
with the wicked Count Hugo, who will surely kill him with his evil
sword! I heard nurse Marie talking with the gardener, and they say he
will surely kill him! Oh! Oh! Oh!” and here poor little Isabeau fairly
shook with the violence of her sobbing.
Geoffrey tried as best he could to comfort her, but to no avail; she
could not be induced even to look at the rabbits she had so much
wanted; so at last he was obliged to set them down quietly, and
sorrowfully take his leave, though not until he had questioned some
of the château pages for more particulars of that which the little
girl had told him. He thus learned that Count Boni had indeed been
challenged to a duel by the old Count Hugo, who lived in a castle
beyond the city of Meaux.
Now in those days, when people got into disputes about things, even
a bit of property, instead of settling the matter in courts of law
as we do, it was quite customary to fight a “judicial duel,” as it
was called; that is, the two men disputing appointed a meeting-place
where they tried to wound each other, generally with swords, and the
one who succeeded in disabling, or as sometimes happened, killing his
adversary, was adjudged the better man and the winner of his case.
This was certainly a strange and cruel way of doing, but six hundred
years ago people did many strange and cruel things. Had young Count
Boni merely engaged to fight an ordinary duel, that would have been bad
enough, though it would not perhaps have been a matter of such concern;
for the count was brave and a good swordsman,—and, ah, well! one must
expect a duel now and then.
But that which caused Isabeau, and Geoffrey, too, when he learned of
it, such grief, was that her father was to fight the Count Hugo; for
this nobleman was known to be most wicked and unscrupulous. It was his
custom to pick an unjust quarrel with some noble whose lands he coveted
and falsely claimed; then he would challenge his victim to a “judicial
duel,” which always resulted in the noble being slain, and his estates
being seized by Hugo. For no one had ever been able to stand against
the wicked count, who fought not merely to wound, but to kill, and who
had the reputation of being the most skilful and merciless swordsman
in all France. Indeed, his cruel sword had slain so many noble lords
that people declared it was bewitched; that Count Hugo, who had been
a crusader, had obtained it from the heathen Saracens, who had forged
it under some evil spell. They insisted the more on the unholy power
of this sword, as Count Hugo himself seemed to regard it with great
superstition and always preferred it to any other weapon; though,
indeed, many people even went further in their talk, and asserted also
that the count had got his unhallowed skill from some heathen wizard,
and that any sword would, in his hands, be certain to deal a fatal
thrust.
And so it was that when he chose a victim for one of his duels, it was
considered equal to a death warrant; though he always took care to make
the nobles he challenged so angry that they would not listen to reason,
and would fight him regardless of the fate of all who had crossed
swords with him before. This, too, it was whispered, was a part of his
sorcery—though perhaps really it was because the high-spirited Norman
noblemen were no cowards, and would let no one assail their honor or
seize their property if they could possibly help it.
The more Geoffrey thought of these things, and of the many kindnesses
of Count Boni, and then as he saw in memory the sweet, tear-stained
face of little Isabeau, his singing became more and more melancholy,
till at last he stopped altogether, and gave himself up to thinking. He
knew from the inn servants that the Count Hugo was expected there the
next day, and that the duel was fixed for the following morning just
outside the walls of Dives.
“Oh,” he thought, “if it only, only could in some way be prevented!”
Now Count Boni himself would have been very indignant had he known that
anybody was thinking it should be prevented; for, just as Count Hugo
had desired, he was very angry with his adversary, and had no wish to
avoid the encounter. But that could not prevent Geoffrey from wishing
it might be avoided for him.
Indeed, Geoffrey had learned many things. He had a quick intelligence,
and was very observant, and many travelers came to the inn; so he was
by no means so ignorant of affairs as many little boys of his age. He
had heard it said that the Norman nobles had long sought in vain for
some pretext to rid themselves of the wicked Hugo, who was a rich and
powerful lord and seemed to lead a life charmed against all attack, for
he had been many times openly assailed. As to his shameless dueling,
since that was then within bounds of the law, they could do nothing. So
how, thought Geoffrey sadly, how could he, a poor little peasant boy,
hope to do anything where the great nobles seemed powerless!
But, by and by, he was aroused from his reverie by Monsieur Jean, who
wished his help in the many preparations demanded of the inn folk by
the important guest of the morrow, this hateful Hugo who was coming
to kill his dear Count Boni! Ugh! had it not been bad enough to have
to catch the chicken for his soup? How he wished it might strangle
him! And how poor Geoffrey hated himself now because he was compelled
to assist in this and that arrangement for the entertainment of the
murderous nobleman and his many followers. How he wished they were all
at the bottom of the Red Sea!
But at last, after much labor, that disagreeable day wore to an end
for the little boy, though when he went to bed and tried to forget
his troubles, he dreamed all night of poor little Isabeau, and seemed
to hear her piteous sobs and to see the hot tears streaming down her
pretty pink cheeks.
Early the next morning the inn was astir, and busy with more
preparations for the expected guests. And, sure enough, just before
midday, in through the rose-covered gateway galloped four outriders,
wearing the crimson livery of Count Hugo, and insolently jingling their
bridle reins and clanking their great gilded spurs.
Shortly after their arrival the coach itself dashed into the middle of
the courtyard with a great clatter of hoofs and wheels, followed by a
long train of mounted and liveried servants, and lackeys, and pages,
and men-at-arms; for traveling in those days was none too safe without
a guard of spearmen and lancers. The coach was painted a bright yellow
and richly gilded; on the panels of its doors the count’s crest and
coat of arms were blazoned in blue and crimson; and no sooner had its
wheels stopped than the lackeys jumped from their horses and, running
to its side, flung open the doors, which they respectfully held back as
still others assisted the nobleman to alight.
Count Hugo was a heavily-built man of middle age, with cold, cruel
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기