By C. E. BISHOP.

III.—THE FIGHTING TROUBADOUR’S RETURN FROM THE WAR.

Concerning the “good old days” of chivalry and the crusades, the London Quarterly Review once said: “Life was earnest in its beliefs, stormy in its ambition, hearty in its sports.” There is a funny story going the rounds in these “degenerate days” of a disciple of Peter Cartwright, who resisted a western rough’s invitation to drink and to fight. The concluding remark of the bully, as he picked himself out of the elder bushes, was, in the tones of a deeply-deceived man: “What do you come around here for, with a long face on, saying you ‘never have fun with the boys,’ when you are chock full of fun? You’ve nearly broke my back.” In this contest the champions of religion and of “fun” were arrayed against each other, but it was the advantage of the old crusaders that both religion and “fun” lay in the same direction.

The chief of those romantic bruisers, King Richard Coeur de Lion, is thus practically described by Charles Dickens: “He was a strong, restless, burly man, with one idea always in his head, and that the very troublesome idea of breaking the heads of other men.” Anyway, the crusades were the great safety-valve of Europe for surplus religious zeal and pugnacity, and a great relief they proved to the people who stayed at home, as Motley and Prof. Fiske have splendidly argued. Richard sought this outlet for his “idea.”

His career in the Holy Land was romantically ferocious. He was, indeed, so impatient to get to business that he fought two or three battles with Christians on the way. He showed but one redeeming trait, brute courage; and a historian declares that the Saracen Saladin shows as the Christian statesman, and Richard as the fighting barbarian in these crusades. He was far more considerate of his Saracen prisoners than of his own soldiers, and treated the Mohammedan leaders with more chivalry than he did the allied kings and dukes. His hot temper and overbearing manner really defeated the crusade, for it drove every other prince and general home in anger. The Duke of Austria, for instance: The walls of Ascalon had to be hastily repaired to repel an assault, but the Duke held back from manual labor, saying he “was no stone mason.” Whereupon King Richard incontinently kicked his Grace till he went to work.

The crusade collapsed. Richard heard that his amiable brother John, encouraged by the angry King of France, was plotting his deposition, and he started for home, undismayed by the fact that he had not a friend left on the continent, and must needs cross hostile territory to reach England. His accustomed luck and pluck seem to have deserted him, for he was cast ashore in Austria, and he tried to skulk through the booted Duke’s dominions in disguise. And so this proud, grand hero of a hundred fights was captured in an inn kitchen, attired like a scullion, wrestling with pots and pans—was Richard of the Lion Heart. He was buried in a rocky dungeon, high above the Rhine, and for months no one in England knew what had become of him.

Curiously enough, Richard owed his discovery and consequent deliverance, not to his own courage, wit, or influence, but to his ability to write songs and sing them. One of his ballads he had taught to a friend named Blondel and Blondel now went troubadouring through Europe, singing a verse of the song under the windows of every dungeon and castle. He was at length relieved to hear the second stanza of the verse trolled, or, perhaps, roared through the bars. The secret was out, but Richard was not. The Duke of Austria and the Emperor of Germany now went into partnership, trading on the expected ransom of the royal prisoner—offering him to the highest bidder. Avarice proved a worse obstacle than hatred to his release. His brother John and Philip of France promised his captors more money to keep him, or to deliver him to them, than they might get from England for his release, and so he lingered in jail for fourteen months, while friends and enemies were competitively striving to get together the price of his release or his destruction. During this time Richard busied himself composing verses lamenting his lot, and sighing for freedom and “fun,”—the most profitable and least discreditable portion of his career, for the verses were very good.

For all this time we have the following picture of affairs in England:

One of these exhibitions, the Tournament of Ashby, is famous historically, and has been made the subject of one of the finest word-pictures of the “Wizard of the North.” In a natural amphitheater near the village of Ashby the lists were enclosed with strong palisades, forming an oblong space about a quarter of a mile in length, and half as broad. At either end were strong wooden gates wide enough to admit but two horsemen abreast; each of these gates guarded by two heralds, attended by six trumpeters, six pursuivants (messengers), and a strong body of horsemen. Around the entrances the magnificent tents of knights, each of its owner’s chosen color, surmounted by his pennon, his shield and coat of arms hanging in front, his guards, retainers and jester in gay livery contributing to the moving scene. Back of these, refreshment tents and the quarters of farriers and

Around the circle were galleries, spread with tapestry for the ladies and nobles, while extending up the slopes, and even to the tops of the trees set thick about were the great multitude of common people. On one side the royal seat and canopy, occupied by Prince John and his brilliant retinue; on the opposite a gayer gallery, and the throne of the Queen of Beauty and of Love, monarch of the hour and rewarder of the victorious knights. This stand was brilliant with the rich attire of the ladies and their pages—the prevailing colors of the habits of the latter, as of the throne, being green and pink. The traditional insignia of Cupid shone all about on banner and shield—wounded hearts, bleeding hearts, burning hearts, bows, quivers, etc.

As the procession of contestants enters the arena, the sound of wild, barbaric music rends the air—a mixture of trumpets, cymbals, bells, and other instruments brought back from the East by the crusaders. It is a goodly and at the same time an anxious sight to behold so many gallant champions, mounted bravely and armed richly, awaiting the signal of encounter with the same ardor as their generous steeds, neighing and pawing the ground. The knights hold their long lances upright, their bright points glancing in the sun, and the streamers with which they are decorated fluttering over the plumage of their helmets. All is ready; the heralds make proclamation of the conditions of the tourney; the marshals of the field proclaim; the trumpets sound; the signal words, Laissez aller! [French for “Go!”] are shouted; spears drop to a horizontal, spurs are sunk in the steeds, and fifty knights crash together in full gallop. Anon the dust rises and the fight becomes visible; we see half the knights dismounted, some not to rise, others already on their feet fighting hand to hand with mace or ax amid a struggling pile of disabled horses, wounded men, broken spears and armor, the still mounted knights trampling and fighting with swords, the crash of which on iron helmets and shields makes an infernal din, over which roar the shouts of the champions, and the more excited shouts of the crazed spectators, the shriller encouragement of ladies and the clang of trumpets. The splendid armor is now defaced with dust and blood; the gay plumage, shorn from the crests, drifts upon the breeze like snowflakes; all the beautiful and graceful has disappeared, and what remains ought only to awaken terror or compassion. But all, including delicate and high bred ladies, cheer on the combatants; while the heralds spur back and forth on the borders of the melee, crying, “Fight on, brave knights! man dies, but glory lives—death is better than defeat! Fight on! for bright eyes behold your deeds!”

Now, at length, the combatants have thinned out until only one knight is left on one side to meet three powerful antagonists. It is fighting in earnest now, and Prince John incites the three to the destruction of the one whom he hates as a friend of the absent Richard. “The Disinherited Knight” is sure to be overpowered. Suddenly a voice like a trumpet-call sounds, “To the rescue!” and a horseman in black armor, not yet seen in the fray, spurs like a thunderbolt on the three. One is unhorsed in the shock; another is cut down by the sword, the last falls under his horse helpless, and the tournament is ended.

Eight knights were killed, upwards of thirty wounded, several disabled for life. This is known in history as the “Gentle and joyous Passage-at-Arms of Ashby.” “Hearty in their sports,” were those old knights. They were “chock full of fun.”

In the tumult of relieving the wounded, the knight of the black armor disappeared, and could not be found to receive the chaplet of honor. But a few minutes later there was a commotion in Prince John’s pavilion. An unknown messenger had placed a letter in his hands; it bears the signet of the arms of France; it is from his confederate, Philip, and it reads: “Take heed to yourself! the devil is loose!”

“What does it mean?” asked the courtiers.

“It means Richard is free and in England! We have seen him. Let us away!”

It was so. The ransom, partly raised from English loyalty and partly pledged by Richard’s faithful friends, had been delivered to the captors, and the plot of John and King Philip had failed. John fled to Normandy, and was subsequently forgiven by his brother. “I will try to forget my injuries as soon as John will forget my pardon,” said Richard, sarcastically. This is the only case on record where Coeur de Lion made the mistake of being too merciful. If he had disposed of John, England would have been saved from its worst king, but possibly might have missed the advantage of the great charter of rights at that time. But Richard took swift vengeance on King Philip.

Richard had landed in England March 12, 1194. He remained only two months, the rest of his reign, five years, being spent on the continent “in his proper line of business”—fighting. The two months were distinguished by two things: his extortion from his subjects, and his famous visit in the disguise of an abbott to Robin Hood, the merry outlaw of Sherwood Forest. Popular ballads have it that Richard indulged in a little “fun” with the doughty outlaw, and was badly worsted; while sober history has it that the lion-hearted king’s method of raising money “combined the attributes of the tyrant and the swindler.[B]” England had already been impoverished by the enormous taxes to raise the king’s ransom, and his return was the signal for fresh exactions. He ordered the great seal to be broken, declared the title to all property void, and required everybody to take out new deeds and pay the price over again for the affixing of the new seal. Ah, yes; “life was earnest in those days, stormy in its ambition, hearty in its sports,” and we ought to add, rascally in its administration. Government is gentler and more refined now—is it more honest?

The manner of Richard’s death was in as marked contrast to the heroic character which poetry and romance have given him, as were his capture, captivity and deliverance. He was killed in Normandy in a sordid quarrel for the possession of a pot of money which one of his knights had found concealed in his castle—very much as if Alexander the Great had met his death in a gambling-house row over the stakes.

The vulgar and repulsive features of Richard Coeur de Lion’s career did not detract at all from his character as a hero in the days of chivalry. Indeed, the minstrels sang admiringly of Richard’s atrocities: of how he supped gayly on a fat Saracen baby when he could not get roast pig; and caused a Saracen’s head to be roasted and served up to the courtly ambassadors of Saladin; and butchered his prisoners by the thousands. If the troubadours do not truly set forth Richard’s achievements, they truly mirror the spirit of chivalry in the imputed attributes of its most perfect champion. Comparing the character of this lion-hearted Plantagenet, as thus reflected, with that of Robin Hood, the Saxon hero, as pictured in the popular ballads, we must feel that the common people’s idea of manliness and virtue, though personified in a bandit, was higher than that of the Norman chivalry, and we justify Knight in saying:

[To be continued.]