CHAPTER III.

THE CASTLE OF CHIVRY.

The castle of Chivry, situated about three leagues from Nointel, and like almost all other feudal manors, built on the brow of a precipitous mountain, has nothing to fear from an attack from without. Defended both by a hundred men-at-arms and its own natural position, it can resist a long siege. For such an attack, artillery and other engines of war would have been requisite. The interior magnificence of this seigniorial edifice matches its defensive strength. Among its many sumptuous features is the throne hall, or hall of honor, which presents a dazzling sight. Its rafters, painted and gilded, glisten under the blue of the ceiling. Rich hanging carpets cover the walls, and enormous fire-places of sculptured stone, where whole trunks of trees are burned, rise at the two extremities of the vast apartment which is lighted by ten ogive windows of glass bearing armorial designs. The hall, virtually a gallery, is two hundred feet long, by one hundred wide--vast dimensions, indispensible to the state ceremonies which the stewards of the Sire of Chivry, as is the custom, attend mounted on horseback, entering by one of the doors of the hall, and solemnly carrying on the silver platters the "dishes of honor" such as peacocks and roasted pheasants, prepared with their own heads, and out-spread tails and wings, or gigantic pastries representing the seigniorial manor, ornamented with an escutcheon painted in lively colors--a glorious dish that the pages place on the table before the queen of the feast, and that must be cut by the equerry.

On this day, a brilliant company--the nobles, seigneurs and dames, damosels and children of the neighboring estates--assembled in the throne hall of the castle of Chivry, and pressed around the beautiful Gloriande, who sat triumphant on the throne--a sort of raised seat covered and canopied with gold brocades. Never did the damosel seem more superb and brilliant in the eyes of her admirers. Her attire was dazzling. Her black hair, braided with a thread of pearls and carbuncles, is half hid under her virginal bride's veil. Her robe of white velvet, embroidered with silver, boldly exposes her breast and plump arms. A scarf of Oriental silk, fringed with pearls, girds her supple and well-shaped waist. With brilliant eyes, pink cheeks and smiling lips, Gloriande receives the compliments of the noble assemblage who congratulate her on her wedding, the celebration of which is soon to be announced by the bell of the castle's chapel. The aged Count of Chivry enjoys the happiness of his daughter and the homage she is the recipient of. Nevertheless, despite the gladness denoted by her face, from time to time Gloriande puckers up her black eyebrows, while throwing impatient looks towards the doors of the gallery. Noticing one of these looks of impatience, the Count of Chivry says to his daughter smiling: "Be at ease ... Conrad will soon be here.... There he is.... Behold your bridegroom! What a noble presence!"

At the moment when the noble seigneur was saying these words a triumphant procession entered the spacious hall. Clarion players opened the march with a bravoure, they were followed by the pages bearing the livery of Nointel who in turn were followed by the seigneur's equerries. These led ten hideous looking men in chains. Their faces and skulls, smoothly shaven, are of dark brown color. Sad and dejected, they hold their heads down. They are clad in new white and green blouses, the armorial colors of the house of Chivry. From time to time the captives noisily clank their chains and emit lamentable moanings. Behind them marches the Sire of Nointel, superbly astride of a charger, with visor down, lance in hand and accoutred in battle armor. At his side but on foot marches Gerard of Chaumontel, also in full armor and seeming to share his friend's glory. The cheers of the noble assemblage greet the procession, and the radiant Gloriande, whose cheeks are now red with pride, rises from her seat and waving her handkerchief cries:

"Glory to the victor! Honor to the bravest gallant!"

"Glory to the victor!" is echoed back by the noble assemblage. "Honor to the bravest gallant! Long live the seigneur of Nointel!"

The Sire of Nointel descends from his horse, raises the visor of his casque and while his equerries beckon the captives to kneel down, he delivers himself of the following sentence:

"My lady-love ordered me to go to war against the English and to bring ten prisoners to her feet. The duty of all gallant knights is to obey the queen of their thoughts. Here are the ten English soldiers that I took at the battle that we have fought. And I, a captive of the god of love, now lead these chained men to the feet of my lady-love."

These chivalrous and gallant words threw the assemblage into transports of enthusiasm. The Sire of Nointel bows his head and proceeds:

"These prisoners belong to my lady-love. Let her dispose of them at her sovereign will."

"Seeing that my valiant knight requests me to decide over the fate of these prisoners," answered Gloriande, "I order that they be delivered of their chains ... and that they be set free! The day of my marriage shall be a day of joy for all"; and extending her hand to Conrad who drops on one knee before his bride, she proceeds: "Here is my hand, Sire of Nointel. I can give it to no more valorous a knight."

"Happy day to the wedded couple!" cries the assemblage. "Glory and happiness to Gloriande of Chivry and Conrad of Nointel!"

While the brilliant company was thus manifesting its share in the gladness of the young couple, the Count of Chivry approached the knight of Chaumontel and asked him in a low voice:

"Gerard, what devil of Englishmen are these fellows.... Why, they are dark as moles!"

"Sir Count," gravely answered the knight, "these scamps are of the English tribe of _Ratamorphrydich!_"

"How do you call that tribe?" again inquired the aged seigneur stupefied at the barbarous name; "I never heard of it before."

"The _Ratamorphrydich_," explained the knight, "are one of the most ferocious tribes of northern England. They are supposed to descend from a gypsy or Syrian colony that migrated from Moscovy to the shores of Albion upon the back of marine horses."

"Well! Well!" rejoined the aged count enraptured at the geographic knowledge of the knight. "That is a very complete and clear explanation."

The bell of the castle's chapel now sounded, and the seigneur of Chivry said to the knight: "This is the first peal of the wedding mass. Oh, Gerard, this is a beautiful day for my old years ... doubly beautiful because it shines in otherwise sad times."

"But it seems, Sire, that you have no cause to complain of the events. Conrad returns to you covered with laurel. True enough, he is a paroled prisoner of the English, but at this very moment his vassals are emptying their purses for his ransom. He is beloved by your daughter, whom he adores. Your castle, well fortified and provisioned, and defended by a courageous garrison, has nothing to fear from either the English or the marauding bands. Jacques Bonhomme, still sore at every limb from the lesson he received last year at the tourney of Nointel, dare not raise his nose above the ditches where he is at work for you. You may live in peace and contentment. Long live love, and let the future take care of itself!"

"Father," said Gloriande to the Count of Chivry, "the bell has sounded the second call for mass.... Let us start."

"Very well, my impatient bride," the Count replied smiling upon his daughter, "give your hand to Conrad and we shall start for the altar."

"Oh, father, do you know that Conrad spoke of me to the Regent, our Sire? The young and lovely prince wishes to see me at court.... We shall have time to order three dresses, one of brocade, the other of silver ... the third laminated in flower work."

"You may order ten dresses, twenty if you wish, and of the richest. Nothing is too beautiful for Gloriande of Chivry when she makes her appearance at court! It is well to show those kings, who seek to crowd the seigneurs, that we are as great seigneurs as themselves. You shall not lack for money. My bailiffs shall levy a double tax upon my vassals in honor of your wedding, as is customary. But here comes another impatient hot-blood who implores you to take pity on his martyrdom," gaily added the Count pointing at Conrad who now approached. The Sire of Nointel lovingly took the hand of his bride, the procession formed and, followed by the pages and equerries, the noble assembly marched to the chapel of the manor.

The English prisoners, who had been freed of their chains by the order of Gloriande, brought up the rear. While crossing the threshold of the gallery a large newly sharpened knife with a coarse wooden handle dropped from the blouse of one of the prisoners.

"Adam the Devil," whispered another prisoner, "pick up your knife before it attracts the attention of the soldiers."