  Near the close of the twelfth century a hunting-castle stood in the northern part of Brittany, in the midst of dense forests. It belonged to Geoffrey Plantagenet, Duke of Brittany On the second evening after her arrival, Constance found herself alone with her attendants, for the Duke and the nobles, who were taking part in the chase, had ridden to the forest at early morning light with their retinues. There were but few guests, for many an old house had lost its brave master, and many a strong castle stood empty. Many of the stoutest vassals had been drafted into the service of the English king, and others had fallen in the French wars. The country was impoverished and well-nigh deserted; the Duke was no longer powerful enough to protect it from marauding hordes and the ravages of wild animals. He had come at this time not only to indulge in the pleasures of the chase, but to restrain these pillagers as far as possible. The Duchess and her ladies impatiently paced the high stone terrace of the castle, stopping now and then to scan the forest, in whose gloom the road by which the hunters entered was soon lost. As the sun disappeared behind the dense mass of trees the Duchess eagerly listened for the first peal of the horns announcing the return. But as the sun sank still lower and the darkness grew more intense, no peal sounded from the forest. The wind rustled the banner above her, then suddenly ceased, and an ominous silence followed. After a few minutes the neigh of a horse was heard in the distance. “Do you hear that?” joyfully exclaimed the Duchess to her ladies. “It is thus my husband’s faithful steed always announces its approach to the castle. We shall soon hear the signal of the horn, summoning us to make ready for them. Come, let us go to meet the Duke in the hall.” Followed by her ladies, who cast parting and anxious glances at the forest, the Duchess hastened inside, ascended the steep, winding stairs, and entered the large reception hall, brilliantly illuminated by torches, where the remaining inmates of the castle assembled, among them the chaplain in his black vestments. Uttering the greeting, “Peace be with you,” he took his place near the Duchess, the others arranging themselves in a circle around the walls. The warder, with his heavy bunch of keys in his leathern girdle, went out to the courtyard, prepared to open the outer gate, which was protected by the drawbridge, when the hunting-party arrived. At that instant the horn signal was sounded; but what a mournful tone they heard! All were astonished, and anxiously looked at the Duchess, who advanced toward the door with pallid face. Once again the horn sounded a piercingly mournful call, and through the outer gate, which the warder had opened, they saw the party advancing. A squire was in the advance, leading the Duke’s horse by the bridle. When she saw the horse was riderless, the Duchess pressed her hand to her heart but retained her composure; for, if her husband was injured and needed her care, she must be courageous. The next to enter the courtyard were the Duke’s followers. With slow and measured step they carried a covered bier, and silently placed it in the entrance to the hall. Behind them pressed knights and hunters, on foot and horse, and much confusion prevailed. Constance seemed to pay no heed to them. She went to the bier and lifted the covering. There she saw Geoffrey, her husband—dead! The handsome, noble features in their setting of luxuriant blond hair, so lately lit up with life and animation, were now rigid in the chill of death. Long Constance stood immovable, with the edge of the covering in her uplifted hand, and gazed with horror-stricken eyes, as if transformed to stone. The chaplain tenderly approached her. “Gracious Princess, permit us to conduct you to your apartments.” His words broke the silence. She uttered an exclamation of despair and with a shriek fell fainting into the arms of her ladies. The chaplain had her quickly removed to her chamber and cared for, and then returned to the hall. The knights had given over their weapons and horses to their servants, and were assembled there. A low murmur of hushed voices, mingled with sounds of mourning, filled the great room. “Speak, Sir Knight,” the chaplain implored of HÖel of Mordant, Geoffrey’s oldest vassal and friend, who stood by the bier with bowed head, leaning upon his sword. “I know not yet how this dreadful tragedy occurred. I only realize that the Duke, whom we saw but a few hours ago in the flower of his health and strength, is dead.” Several voices were raised to relate the circumstances. The hunters had had an enjoyable time until noon, and had slain many stags and boars, but one huge boar, which the Duke discovered at the very outset, managed for a long time to elude his spear. The hounds kept upon its track, and, guided by their baying, he at last overtook it and hurled his spear. He only wounded it slightly, whereupon the infuriated beast turned upon the Duke’s horse and attacked it with its tusks. At this instant several knights came up, and saw the Duke draw his hunting-knife, intending to stab the boar in the neck; but at that moment his horse, overcome by pain and fear, reared and fell, and in the fall the knife pierced the Duke’s side. He lay weltering in his blood as his friends gathered around him, and only once he opened his eyes. They rested upon Knight HÖel, who knelt by his side. The sorrowful glance of appeal in Geoffrey’s dimming eyes deeply affected the knight. Raising his head he thus spoke: “Whatever it may be, my Prince and brother-in-arms, that thou would’st ask, trust me it shall be done. I will devote my loyal service to the end of my life to thy memory, and hold it as a sacred trust.” The Duke closed his eyes. A sigh escaped him, and his face was illuminated with joyous satisfaction. Then they carried his body home. “And now,” said HÖel, “we will execute the last service for our master. Chaplain, remove the body to the chapel and perform the sacred rites.” Then, turning to two of the knights, he said: “And you, my friends, keep the death-watch at the bier. I cannot yet master the sorrow which has overcome me. I must have time for reflection, for my responsibility to the ducal house is great. See that the gates are secure, and station sentinels. In the morning all must assemble in the hall and have their steeds in readiness, for messengers must be sent in all directions. Now, betake yourselves to rest, if you can find it,” he ended with a sigh. Suddenly cries were heard from above, and some one said, “The Duchess is dying.” “In the name of all the saints at once,” groaned the knight, “see to it that she has help!” The chaplain obeyed, but soon returned with the announcement, “Our gracious lady has recovered and does not need me.” Thereupon he motioned to the squires to take the bier into the chapel, and followed it. Through the open door the priest was seen as he advanced to the altar, which was faintly lit by tapers. In a low voice he began the service. The mourners remained kneeling for a time during the sacred ceremony, then gradually withdrew, and only the murmur of prayer was heard. Priest and watchers were alone with the dead. |
|
