The Pilgrim's Shell; Or, Fergan the Quarryman: A Tale from the Feudal Times

The bellicose ardor of the stripling seemed to strike the royal envoy even more forcibly than anything he had yet seen. He remounted his horse escorted by Fergan and his son. The redoubled peals from the belfry resounded far into the distance. In all the streets that the King's man traversed on his way to the city gate, shops were hastily closing, and soon the faces of women and children appeared at the windows, following with anxious mien the husband, father, son or brother, who was leaving the house to meet in arms at the call of the belfry. The King's messenger, sombre and silent, could not conceal the astonishment and fear produced in him by the warlike excitement of that people of bourgeois and artisans, all running with enthusiasm to the defence of the Commune. "Before you arrived at the gate of the city," Fergan said to him, "you surely expected to meet here with a craven obedience to the orders of the King and the bishop. But you see it for yourself, here, as at Beauvais, as at Cambrai, as at Noyons, as at Amiens, the old Gallic blood is waking up after centuries of slavery. Report faithfully to Louis the Lusty and to Gaudry what you have witnessed while crossing the city. Perchance, at the supreme moment, they may recoil before the iniquity that they are contemplating, and they may yet save grave disasters to this city that asks but to be allowed to live peacefully and happy in the name of the faith that has been plighted."

"I have no authority in the councils of my seigneur the King," answered the envoy sadly, "but I swear in the name of God, I did not expect to see what I have seen, and hear what I have heard. I shall faithfully report it all to my master."

"The King of the French is all-powerful in Gaul, the city of Laon is strong only in its right and the bravery of its inhabitants. It now awaits its enemies! You see it is on its guard," added Fergan, pointing to a troop of bourgeois militia that had just occupied the ramparts contiguous to the gate by which the King's envoy made his exit.

CHAPTER VIII.

RETRIBUTION

The episcopal palace, fortified with towers and thick walls, was separated from the city by a wide space, lined with trees and that served as a promenade. Fergan and his son were busy organizing the transport of materials destined for the defence of the walls in case of an attack, when the quarryman saw the outer gate of the episcopal palace thrown open. Several of the King's men came out, looked around cautiously, as if to make sure that the promenade was clear, re-entered the palace in hot haste, and almost immediately a strong escort of knights rode out, and took the road that led to the boundary of Picardy. This vanguard was closely followed by a few warriors, clad in brilliant armor, one of them, notable for his enormous stomach; two ordinary men could have been easily held in this one's cuirass. The rider's casque was topped with a golden crown engraved with fleur-de-lis. The long scarlet saddle-cloth, that covered his horse almost wholly, was likewise embroidered in gold fleur-de-lis. These insignias, coupled with the extraordinary corpulence of the rider, designated Louis the Lusty to Fergan. A few steps behind the Prince the quarryman recognized the messenger, whom, shortly before, he had himself accompanied to the gate of the city, and who, now was engaged in an animated conversation with the Abbot de la Marche. The train closed with several baggage mules and servants; the rear was brought up by another squad of knights. The whole cavalcade soon fell into a gallop, and Fergan saw the King at a distance turning towards the ramparts of Laon, whose belfry bell did not cease ringing, and menace the city with a gesture of rage by shaking at it his closed fist, covered with a mailed gauntlet. Giving then the spurs to his horse, Louis the Lusty soon disappeared at the turning of the road in the midst of a cloud of dust.

"You flee before the insurgent communiers, oh, King of the Franks, noble descendant of Hugh Capet!" cried out Colombaik in the passionate heat of his age. "Old Gaul is waking up! The descendants of the kings of the conquest flee before the popular uprisings! The day predicted by Victoria has arrived!"

Ripened with age and experience, Fergan said to his son in a grave and melancholic voice: "My son, let us not take the first glimmerings of the approaching dawn for the light of the midday sun." At that very moment, the sound of the great bell of the cathedral, never rung but at certain great holidays, was suddenly heard. Instead, however, of ringing slowly and in measured ryhthm, as usual, its clang now was alternately rapid and then again at long intervals. The tolling lasted only a short time; soon the bell was silent. "To arms!" Fergan cried out in a thundering voice. "This must be a signal agreed upon between the knights of the city and the episcopal palace. While waiting for the re-inforcements that, undoubtedly, the King is gone after, the episcopals deem themselves able to overcome us. To arms! Cover the ramparts! Death to the episcopals!"

At the call of Fergan and his son, the latter of whom ran to rally the insurgents, the communiers hastened near, some armed with bows, others with pikes, hatchets and swords – all ready to repel an attack. Others again lighted fires under caldrons full of pitch, while their companions rolled with great effort towards the ramparts certain engines of war, which, by means of turning pallets, fastened in the middle of a twisted rope, hurled enormous stones more than a hundred paces off. Suddenly a great noise, in which shouts were mixed with the clatter of arms, sounded from afar in the center of the city. As Fergan had forseen, the episcopals sallying forth from their fortified dwellings at the signal given by the great bell of the cathedral, had fallen upon the bourgeois in the city at the same time that, as agreed upon, the serfs of the episcopal palace, led by several knights, were to begin the siege of the ramparts. The communiers were, accordingly, to find themselves between two enemies, one within, the other without. In fact, Fergan saw the gate of the episcopal palace swing open once more, and there issued forth from it a huge four-wheeled wagon, pushed from behind with feet and hands. The wagon was filled with straw and faggots, heaped so high, that the mass of combustibles, raised twelve or fifteen feet above the rails of the wagon, completely hid and covered those who shoved it, serving them as a shelter against the projectiles that might be hurled at them from the walls. The assailants figured upon setting fire to the combustibles in the wagon, with the object of pushing it near enough to the gate so as to communicate its fire to the latter. The move, although skilfully planned, was baffled by the quick wit of Robin the Crumb-cracker, the blacksmith's apprentice. Armed with his pike, he was one of the first at the ramparts, and had noticed the chariot advancing slowly and always pushed from behind. Several insurgents, armed with bows, yielded to a thoughtless impulse, and hastened to shoot their arrows at the wagon. These, however, fastened themselves uselessly in the straw or the wood. Robin pulled off his shirt, tore it in shreds, and sighting a tall militiaman, who, seduced by the example of his fellows was also about to shoot uselessly upon the straw, the blacksmith's apprentice brusquely disarmed the townsman, seized the arrow, wrapped it in one of the shreds of his shirt, ran and plunged it into a caldron of pitch, already liquid, lighted it at the fire, and quickly placing it on the cord of the bow, fired the flaming arrow into the middle of the chariot filled with combustibles, and then but a short distance from the walls. Overjoyed at his own inspiration, Robin clapped his hands, turned somersaults, and while returning the bow to the astonished militiaman, set up the shout: "Commune! Commune! The episcopals prepare the bonfires, the communiers light them!" And the blacksmith's apprentice ran to pick up his pike.

Hardly had the firebrand dropped upon that load of straw and fagots than it took fire, and offered to the eyes one mass of flames, overtopped by a dense cloud of smoke that the wind drove towards the episcopal palace. Noticing the circumstance, Fergan hastened to profit by it. "My friends!" cried he, "let's finish the work begun by little Crumb-cracker! That cloud of smoke will mask our movements from the episcopals. Let's make a sortie. Form into a column of armed men, and let's take the episcopal palace by storm. Death to the episcopals!"

"Fall to!" was the insurgents' response. "To the assault! Commune! Commune!"

"One-half of our troops will remain here with Colombaik to guard the walls," Fergan proceeded. "They are fighting in the village. The episcopals might try to attack the ramparts from behind. Let those follow me who are ready to storm the episcopal palace. Forward, march!"

A large number of communiers hastened upon the heels of Fergan. Among them was Bertrand, the son of Bernard des Bruyeres, the ill-starred victim of Gaudry's murderous nature. Bertrand was silent, almost impassible in the midst of the seething effervescence of the people. His only thought was to avoid dropping his heavy axe that weighed down his shoulder. Fergan had cleverly led the sortie of the insurgents. Masked for a sufficient space of time to the eyes of the enemy by the flames and smoke of the burning wagon and its load, they soon reached the walls of the episcopal palace, found the gate open, and a crowd of armed serfs standing under the arch. Under the lead of several knights, they were preparing to march on the assault of the postern, their chief, as well as Fergan, having relied upon masking their attack behind the burning chariot. At the unexpected sight of the insurgents, the episcopals only thought of barring the entrance to the palace. It was too late. A bloody hand-to-hand encounter took place under the arch that joined the two towers on either side of the gate. The communiers, warming to the conflict, fought with fury. Many were killed, others wounded. Fergan received from a knight a blow with an axe that broke his casque and struck his forehead. After a stubborn struggle, the inhabitants of Laon threw the episcopals back and entered the vast yard where the combat proceeded with redoubled fury. Fergan, still in the hottest of the fight, despite his wound, for a moment thought himself and his men lost. Just as the fight was at its hottest, Thiegaud came in from the green of the bishopric at the head of a large body of woodmen serfs, armed with stout hatchets, and threw himself into the fray. The re-inforcement was intended to crush the insurgents. What was not the surprise of these, when they heard the serf of St. Vincent and his men set up the cry: "Death to the bishop! To the sack of the palace! To the sack! Commune!"

The combat changed its aspect on the spot. The larger number of the bishop's serfs who had taken part in the struggle, hearing the woodmen cry: "Commune! Death to the bishop! To the sack of the palace!" dropped their arms. Deserted by a part of their men, the knights redoubled their efforts of valor, but in vain; they were all killed or disabled. Soon masters of the palace, the insurgents spread in all directions, yelling: "Death to the bishop!"

Thiegaud approached Fergan with a mien of triumphant hatred brandishing his cutlass. "I answered Gaudry for the faithfulness of the woodmen of the abbey," cried the serf of St. Vincent, "but in order to revenge myself upon the wretch for having debauched my daughter, I caused our men to mutiny against him and his tonsured fellow devils!"

"Where is the bishop?" the insurgents shouted, brandishing their weapons. "To death with him!"

"Friends, your vengeance shall be satisfied, and mine also. Gaudry will not escape us," replied Thiegaud. "I know where the holy man lies in hiding. The moment you forced the gate of the palace, and fearing the issue of the fight, Gaudry put on the coat of one of the servants, in the hope of fleeing under cover of the disguise. But I advised him to lock himself up in his storeroom, and to crawl into the bottom of one of the empty hogsheads. Come, come!" he proceeded with savage laughter, "We shall stave in the head and draw red wine." Saying which, the serf of St. Vincent, followed by the mob of the insurgents who were exasperated at the bishop, wended his way to the storeroom. Among the furious crowd was the son of Bernard des Bruyeres. Having by the merest chance escaped unscathed from the melée, the frail youth marched close behind Thiegaud, endeavoring, despite the smallness of his stature and his feebleness, not to lose the post he had taken. His pale and sickly features were rapidly regaining their color; a feverish ardor illumined his eyes and imparted to him fictitious strength. No longer did his heavy battle axe seem to weigh on his puny arm. From time to time he lovingly contemplated the weapon, while he passed his finger along its sharp edge. At such times he would emit a sigh of repressed joy, while he raised his flashing eyes to heaven. Guiding the communiers, the serf of St. Vincent, threaded his way to the storeroom, a spacious chamber located at one of the corners of the first yard. Before reaching it, the inhabitants of Laon, having stumbled against the corpse of Black John that lay riddled with wounds, they threw themselves in a paroxysm of fury upon the lifeless body of the savage executor of Gaudry's cruelties. In the tumult that ensued upon these acts of reprisal, the son of Bernard des Bruyeres was, despite all stubborn resistance on his part, separated from Thiegaud, at the moment when the latter, helped by several of the insurgents, broke down and forced the door of the storeroom, that, for greater precaution, the prelate had bolted and barred from within. The mass emptied itself into the vast chamber that was barely lighted by narrow skylights and crowded with full and empty vats. A kind of alley wound its way between the numerous hogsheads. Thiegaud made a sign to the insurgents to halt and stay at a distance. Wishing to prolong the bishop's agony, he struck with the flat of his cutlass the head of several vats, calling out each time: "Anyone inside?" Of course he received no answer. Arriving finally near a huge hogshead that stood on end he turned his head to the communiers with the slyness of a wolf, and removing and throwing down the cover that had been lightly placed upon it, asked again: "Any one inside?"

"There is here an unhappy prisoner," came from the trembling voice of the bishop. "Have mercy upon him in the name of Christ!"

"Oho! my friend Ysengrin!" said Thiegaud, now taking his turn in giving the nickname to his master. "Is it you who are cowering down in that barrel? Come out! Come out! I want to see whether, perhaps, my daughter is there in hiding with you." Saying which, the serf of St. Vincent seized the prelate by his long hair with a vigorous clutch, and forced him, despite his resistance, to rise by little and little from the bottom of the ton into which he had crawled. It was a frightful spectacle. For a moment, always holding the bishop by the hair as the latter rose on his feet in the barrel, Thiegaud seemed to hold in his hand the head of a corpse, so livid was Gaudry's face. For a moment Gaudry stood upon his legs inside of the barrel, with his head and shoulders above the edge. But his limbs shook so that, wishing to support himself inside of the barrel, it tumbled over and the Bishop of Laon rolled at the feet of the serf. Stooping down, while the prelate was painfully trying to rise, Thiegaud affected to look into the bottom of the barrel, and cried out: "No, friend Ysengrin, my daughter is not there. The jade must have stayed in your bed."

"Beloved sons in Jesus Christ!" stammered Gaudry, who, upon his knees, extended his hands towards the communiers. "I swear to you upon the gospels and upon my eternal salvation, I shall uphold your Commune! Have pity upon me!"

"Liar, renegade!" yelled back the enraged communiers. "We know what your oath is worth. Swindler and hypocrite!"

"You shall pay with your life for the blood of our people that has flowed to-day! Justice! Justice!"

"Yes, justice and vengeance in the name of the women, who this morning had husbands, and this evening are widows!"

"Justice and vengeance in the name of the children, who this morning had fathers, and this evening are orphans!"

"Oh, Gaudry, you and yours have by dint of perjuries and untold outrages tired the patience of the people! Your hour has sounded!"

"Which of us is it that wanted war, you or we? Did you listen to our prayers? Did you have pity for the peace of our city? No! Well, then, neither shall there be pity for you! Death to the bishop!"

"My good friends … grant me my life," repeated the bishop, whose teeth chattered with terror. "Oh! I pray you!.. Grant me my life! I … I shall renounce the bishopric… I shall leave this city… You shall never see my face again… Only leave me my life!"

"Did you show mercy to my brother Gerhard, whose eyes were put out by your orders?" cried a communier, seizing the prelate by the collar and shaking him with fury. "Infamous criminal! Did you have pity for him?"

"Did you have mercy for my friend Robert of the Mill, who was stabbed to death by Black John?" added another insurgent. And the two accusers seized the prelate, who quietly allowed himself to be dragged upon his knees, "You shall die in the face of the sun that has witnessed your crimes!"

Overwhelmed with blows and insults, Gaudry was pushed out of the storeroom. In vain did he cry: "Have pity upon me!.. I shall restore your Commune!.. I swear to you!.. I swear! – "

"Will you restore their husbands to the widows, their fathers to the orphans you have made?"

"After having lived the life of a traitor and a homicide; after exasperating an inoffensive people that only asked to be allowed to live in peace in accordance with the pledge that was sworn, it is not enough to cry 'Pity!' in order to be absolved."

"Clemency is holy, but impunity is impious! Death to the bishop!"

"Heaven and earth!" cried Fergan. "The justice of the people is the justice of God! Death to the bishop! Death!"

"Yes, yes! To death with the bishop!"

The prelate was dragged in the midst of these furious cries outside of the storeroom. Suddenly a tremulous voice dominated the uproar: "What, shall not the son of Bernard des Bruyeres be allowed to avenge his father!" Immediately, by a simultaneous movement, the insurgents opened a path to the son of the victim. His face radiant, his eyes flashing, Bertrand rushed upon the prostrate bishop, and raising his heavy axe with his weak hands, cleaved the skull of Gaudry; then, casting off the blood-stained weapon, he cried: "You are avenged, my father!"

"Well done, my lad! The death of your father and the dishonor of my daughter are avenged at one blow!" cried Thiegaud; and seeing the episcopal ring on the bishop's finger, he added: "I take my daughter's token of marriage!" Unable, however, to tear the ring off the prelate's finger, the serf of St. Vincent cut it off with a blow of his cutlass and stuck both finger and ring in his pocket.

So legitimate was the hatred that Gaudry inspired the communiers, that it survived even the man's death. His corpse was riddled with wounds and covered with curses. The insurgents were in the act of throwing his lifeless body into a sewer close to the storeroom, when from another side the cry fell upon their ears: "Commune! Commune! Death to the episcopals!"

CHAPTER IX.

RESTING ON THEIR ARMS

While this tragic scene was enacting, another body of the people of Laon, led by Ancel Quatre-Mains and his sprightly wife, invaded the episcopal palace from another side. Fergan was running to meet them the moment he saw them enter the green, when he caught sight of Archdeacon Anselm, who, having so far kept aloof from the theater of the conflict, was now hastening to the spot, informed of the bishop's fate by one of his domestics. The archdeacon succeeded in inducing the communiers to refrain from submitting the remains of their enemy to the idle and last disgrace contemplated by them. Helped by two servants, the worthy priest of Christ was carrying the corpse of the bishop, when he noticed Fergan, and said to him in a voice deeply moved, with the tears running down his cheeks: "I wish to bury the body of this unfortunate man, and to pray for him. My sad forecasts have been verified. Only yesterday, warning him in the midst of his braggart and fatal illusion of security, I expressed the hope that I may not soon have to pray over his grave. Oh, Fergan, civil war is a terrible scourge!"

"A curse upon those who provoke these execrable strifes, that carry mourning into the camp of both the vanquishers and the vanquished!" answered the quarryman, and leaving the archdeacon to fulfil his pious office, he proceeded to join Quatre-Mains, who commanded the other troop of the invaders.

The worthy Councilman, ever hampered and incommoded by his military equipment, had rid himself of it in the moment of battle. Replacing his iron casque with a woolen cap and keeping on his leather jerkin only, with his coat sleeves rolled back, as he was wont when kneading his dough, he had armed himself with the poker of his oven, a long and heavy iron implement, bent at one end. His stout-hearted little wife Simonne, her cheeks in a glow and her eyes aflame, carried in her skirt a bundle of lint and bandages ready for use, together with a wicker-covered flask, containing a decoction, pronounced marvelous by her for checking the flow of blood. Joy and the excitement of triumph radiated from the charming features of the baker's wife. At the sight of Fergan, however, whose face was clotted with the blood of the wound he had received on his head, she cried out sadly: "Neighbor Fergan, you are wounded! Let me tend you, the fight is over; be not alarmed about your son; we have just seen him at his post on the ramparts; he is safe and sound, although there was a sharp encounter at that spot; sit down on this bench, I shall nurse you the same as I would have done Ancel, had he been wounded. Upon the faith of a Picardian woman, if he escaped being hurt, it was not his fault; he merited anew his surname of Quatre-Mains, the way he belabored the heads and backs of the episcopals."

Fergan accepted Simonne's offer and sat down upon a bench, while the young woman looked for the lint in her pockets. The baker himself stopped a few steps behind to gather the details of the capture of the bishop. He then approached his wife, and seeing her engaged upon Fergan, hastened his steps, asking with deep interest: "What, neighbor, wounded? Nothing serious?"

"I was struck with an axe on my casque," and raising his head which he had inclined to facilitate the nursing of Simonne, Fergan noticed the rather unmilitary accoutrement of his friend: "Why did you take off your armor in the middle of the fight?"

"Upon my faith, the casque kept dropping on my nose, the corselet took the breath from me, the sword encumbered my legs. Accordingly, when the fight started, I made myself comfortable, just as I do when I am kneading dough. I rolled up my sleeves, and instead of that devil of a sword, which I cannot handle, I armed myself with my iron poker, the use of which is familiar to me."

"But what could you do with a poker? It is a rather singular implement of war."

"What could he do with it?" put in Simonne, saturating a bandage with the contents of the wicker-covered flask, and applying the same to the quarryman's wound. "Oh, Ancel is quick with his hands. If a nobleman on horseback came near, armed to the teeth, my husband grappled his throat with the hook of his long poker and then pulled with all his might; I helped when necessary. In almost every instance we unhorsed the knight, and throwing him to the ground he was at our mercy."

"After which," added the baker calmly, "and after beating my man with the hook of my poker, I dispatched him with the handle. I settled more than one of them. One does what he can!"

"Oh, neighbor!" Simonne proceeded with enthusiasm; "it was especially at the siege of the house of the knight of Haut-Pourcin that Ancel made a famous use of his poker. Several episcopals and their servants, entrenched upon a crenelated terrace, fired down upon us with cross-bows. They had killed or wounded so many communiers, that none dared come near the accursed house, and our people had retired to the end of the street. Presently, we saw the wicked knight of Haut-Pourcin, cross-bow in hand, leaning half over the battlement of the terrace, to see if there was any of ours that he could hit. At that instant – ," but interrupting herself, Simonne said to her husband: "Tell your own story, Ancel; while I speak I cannot pay proper attention to the bandage of our neighbor."