"Seeing you admit these wrong-doings, seigneur Bishop of Laon, I decide that you return the horse to its owner, or that you pay him his price, a hundred and twenty silver sous; and I decide that you render justice for the crime committed by your black slave John."

"And I shall keep the horse without paying for it; and I hold that my servant John did justly punish an insolent communier! Now, p.r.o.nounce your sentence."

"Bishop of Laon, those are very serious words," answered the Councilman with emotion. "I conjure you, deign to think that over while I shall read to you aloud two clauses from our charter, sworn to by yourself, signed with your own hand, and sealed with your own seal; do not forget that; and moreover confirmed by our seigneur the King." Whereat the Councilman, producing a parchment from his pocket, read as follows: "'If anyone injure a man who shall have taken the oath of the Commune of Laon, a complaint being lodged with the Mayor and Councilmen, they shall, after due trial, enforce justice upon the body and upon the property of the guilty party.... If the guilty party takes refuge in a fortified castle, the Mayor and Councilmen shall notify the seigneur of the castle, or his lieutenant. If in their opinion satisfaction shall have been rendered against the guilty party, that will suffice; but if the seigneur refuses satisfaction, they shall themselves enforce justice upon the property and upon the men of the said seigneur.' That, seigneur bishop, is the law of our Commune, agreed and sworn to by yourself and us. If, then, you do not return the horse, if you do not give us satisfaction for the crime of your servant John, we shall see ourselves forced to ourselves enforce justice upon you and upon your men."

Certain of the support of the King, the bishop and the episcopals had for some time desired to provoke a conflict with the communiers. They felt certain of success, and looked in that way to reconquer by force their seigniorial rights, a one-time inexhaustible treasure, but alienated by them three years previous, for a considerable sum of money, that had by this time been dissipated. By refusing to satisfy the legitimate demands of the Councilmen, the bishop was inevitably bound to lead to a collision at the very moment when Louis the l.u.s.ty would arrive at Laon with a numerous troop of knights. Accordingly, making no doubt that the people would be crushed in the struggle, and considering himself seconded by circ.u.mstance, Gaudry, so far from angrily answering the baker, now replied with a sarcastic affectation of humility: "Alack, ill.u.s.trious Councilman, poor seigneurs that we are, we shall have no choice but to try and resist you, my valiant Caesars, and to prevent you from enforcing justice upon our goods and our persons, as you triumphantly announce. We shall have to don our casques and cuira.s.ses, and await you, lance in hand, mounted on our battle horses! Alack!"

"Seigneur bishop," answered the baker, anxiously joining his hands, "your refusal to do justice to the Commune, is equivalent to a declaration of war between our townsmen and you!"

"Alack!" replied Gaudry ironically imitating Ancel's gesture, "we shall then have to resign ourselves to battle. Fortunately the episcopal knights know how to manage the lance and sword wherewith they will run you through."

"The battle will be terrible in our city," cried out the Councilman excitedly. "Why would you reduce us to such extremities, when it depends upon you to avert such a calamity by proving yourself equitable and faithful to your oath?"

"I implore you, yield to these wise words," now put in the archdeacon addressing Gaudry. "Your refusal will unchain all the scourges of civil war, and cause torrents of blood to flow. Woe is us!"

"Seigneur bishop," the Councilman resumed with insistence and in a sad yet firm tone: "What is it that we demand of you? Justice. Nothing more.

Return the horse or pay for it. Your servant has committed a crime.

Inflict exemplary punishment upon him. Is that asking too much of you?

Are you ready by your resistance to hand over our beloved country to innumerable calamities, and cause the shedding of blood? Reflect on the consequences of the conflict. Think of the women whom you will have widowed, the children whom you will have orphaned! Think of the calamities that you will conjure over our city!"

"I'm bound to think, heroic Councilman," replied the bishop with a disdainful sneer, "that you are afraid of war!"

"No, we are not afraid!" cried out Simonne, unable longer to control her impetuous nature. "Let the belfry summon the inhabitants to the defense of the Commune, and you will see that, as at Beauvais, as at Noyons, as at Rheims, the men will fly to arms and the women will accompany them to nurse the wounded!"

"By the blood of Christ, my charming Amazon, if I take you prisoner, you will pay the arrears due to your seigneur."

"Seigneur bishop," interposed the Councilman, "such words ill-become the mouth of a priest, above all when the issue is bloodshed. We dread war!

Yes, undoubtedly, we dread it, because its evils are irreparable. I fear war as much or more than anyone else, because I wish to live for my wife, whom I love, and to enjoy in peace our modest means, the fruit of our daily labor. I fear war by reason of the disasters and the ruin that follow upon its wake."

"But you will fight like any other!" cried out Simonne almost irritated at the sincerity of her husband. "Oh, I know you! You will fight even more bravely than others!"

"More bravely than others is saying too much," naively interposed the baker. "I have never fought in my life. But I shall do my duty, although I am less at home with the lance or the sword than with the poker of the furnace in my bakery. Each to his trade."

"Admit it, good man," retorted the bishop laughing uproarously, "you prefer the fire of your furnace to the heat of battle?"

"On my faith, that's the truth of it, seigneur bishop. All of us good people of the city, bourgeois and artisans that we are, prefer good to evil, peace to war. But, take my word for it, there are things we prefer to peace, they are the honor of our wives, our daughters and sisters, our dignity, our independence, the right of ourselves and through ourselves to administering the affairs of our city. We owe these advantages to our enfranchis.e.m.e.nt from the seigniorial rights.

Accordingly, we shall all allow ourselves to be killed, to the last man, in the defence of our Commune and in the protection of our freedom.

That's why, in the name of the public peace, we implore you to do justice to our demand."

"Patron," broke in at this point Black John who entered the room precipitately, "a forerunner of the King has just arrived. He announces that he precedes his master only two hours, and that he comes accompanied with a strong escort."

"The King must have hastened his arrival!" cried out the prelate triumphantly. "By the blood of Christ, everything is working according to our wishes!"

"The King!" exclaimed the Councilman with joy, "The King in our city!

Oh, we now have nothing more to fear. He signed our charter, he will know how to compel you to respect it, Bishop of Laon. Your wicked intentions will now be paralyzed."

"Certes!" answered Gaudry with a sardonic smile. "Count with the support of the King, good people. He comes in person, followed by a large troop of knights armed with strong lances and sharp swords. Now, then, my valiant bourgeois, go and join your shop heroes, and carry my answer to them. It is this: 'Gaudry, bishop and seigneur of Laon, certain of the support of the King of the French, awaits in his episcopal palace to see the communiers come themselves to enforce justice upon his property and his men!'" And turning then to Black John: "Order my equerry to saddle the stallion that was brought here this morning. I know no more mettlesome horse to ride on ahead of the King and in the beard of those city clowns. Let the knights of the city be notified, they shall serve for my escort. To horse! To horse!" Saying which, the prelate stepped off into another room, leaving the baker as stupefied as he was alarmed at the sight of his crumbling hopes. He heard the bishop's words regarding the King's intention, yet hesitated to give them credence.

The townsman remained thunderstruck.

"Ancel," said the archdeacon to him. "There is no doubt about it. Louis the l.u.s.ty will side with the episcopals. A conflict must be avoided at any price. Recommend the other Councilmen to redouble their prudence. I shall, on my part, endeavor to conjure off the storm that threatens."

"Come, my poor wife," said the Councilman, whose eyes were filling with tears! "Come! Woe is us, the King of the French is against us. May G.o.d protect the Commune of Laon!"

"As to me," answered Simonne, "upon the faith of a Picardian woman, I place my reliance upon the stout hearts of our communiers, upon the pikes, the hatchets and the swords in our hands!"

CHAPTER VI.

THE GATHERING STORM.

Louis the l.u.s.ty had made his entry into the city of Laon on the eve of Holy Thursday of the year 1112. On the day following the arrival of the Prince, Colombaik, his mother and his wife were seated together in the bas.e.m.e.nt chamber of their house. Dawn was about breaking. Fergan's son, Martine and Joan the Hunchback had watched all night. A lamp threw its light upon them. The two women, uneasy in the extreme, were stripping old linen into bandages and lint, while Colombaik, together with his three apprentices, plying their saws and planes, were actively engaged in fashioning pike-shafts, four feet long, of oak and ash branches recently lopped off. Colombaik did not seem to share the apprehension of his mother and his wife, who silently pursued their work, listening from time to time in the direction of the little window that opened on the street. They awaited, with as much impatience as anxiety, the return of Fergan, absent since the previous evening. What tidings would he bring?

"Lively, my lads," Colombaik was jovially saying to his apprentices, "ply your planes and your saws with dispatch! It does not much matter if these pike-shafts be rough. They are to be used by hands as callous as our own. May there be a chance to use them!"

"Oh, master Colombaik," remarked one of the young apprentices laughing, "as to that, these handles will be less smooth to the touch than the fine doe skins that we tan for the embroidered gloves of the n.o.ble dames and their elegant young ladies."

"The ornament of a pike is its iron head," rejoined Colombaik; "but little Robin the Crumb-cracker, the apprentice of the blacksmith, is long in fetching us those ornaments. However, with him it will not be as with the little apprentice of our friend the baker. There is no fear of Robin's nibbling at his goods on the way." The lads laughed at the joke of Colombaik. But accidentally turning his eyes in the direction of Joan and Martine, he was struck by the increasing uneasiness of their looks.

"Good mother," said he to Joan in a tender and beseeching voice, "pardon me if I have saddened you with jokes that may be out of season at this time."

"Oh, my child," answered Joan, "if I look sad, it is not on account of your jokes, but the result of thoughts suggested by the sight of men shaping weapons, and women preparing lint for the wounded."

"And when we consider," put in Martine, unable to keep back her tears, "that a father, a son, a husband may happen to be among the wounded!

Confound the people who brought war upon the city! Confound this clergy of the devil and their train of churchmen!"

"Dear Martine, and you, good mother," Colombaik rejoined, seeking to calm the two women, "to prepare for war is not to wage it. It is prudent to be on one's guard, just in order to secure peace, honorable peace."

"Your father!... Here is your father!" Joan cried out abruptly, hearing a rap at the street door. She rose, together with Martine, while one of the apprentices ran to open the door. But the expectation of the two women was not verified. They heard a childish voice cry out gleefully: "It burns!... It burns!... Who wants buns.... It burns!" And Robin the Crumb-cracker, the blacksmith's apprentice, a lad about twelve years of age, wide awake, but all black with the smoke of the forge, stepped in, holding in his little leather ap.r.o.n about twenty pike-heads which he dropped on the floor. "Who wants fire-buns!... They are hot!... They just come from the furnace!..."

"Master Colombaik feared you had been nibbling the goods on the way,"

one of the young tanners observed with a laugh. "We hold you quite capable of doing so, little Robin!"

"You are right. I took my bite on the way!" laughingly answered the urchin. "But in order to chew my pretty piece of pointed iron, I need one of your fine ash branches. Let me have one."

"What the devil would you do with a pike?" asked Colombaik, smiling upon him. "You are barely twelve years old. That is no toy for urchins."

"I want to use it, if there be blows coming. My master, Paynen-Oste-Loup, will tap the backs of the great episcopals; so will I!

I shall roll over the little n.o.blemen in my best style. Those scamps have hurt my feelings quite often, pointing their finger at me and calling out: 'Look at the little villain with the black face! He looks like a blackamoor!'"

"Hold, my bold lad," said Colombaik to Robin; "here is a good oak handle for you. Give us the news. What is doing in the city?"

"They are rejoicing as on Christmas eve. Light is seen at all the windows. The forges are shooting up flame. The anvils ringing. They are making an infernal racket. One would think that the blacksmiths, locksmiths and armorers were all working at their master-pieces; and one would think all the shops are smithies."

"This time it is your father!" Joan cried out to her son, hearing a second rapping at the door. Fergan soon appeared. He entered at the moment when Robin was leaving, brandishing his oak branch and shouting: "Commune! Commune! Death to the episcopals!"

"Oh!" said the quarryman, following the blacksmith's apprentice with his eye. "How could we fear for our cause when even the children--"; and interrupting himself to address his wife, who ran with Martine to meet him: "Come, now, dear bundles of timidity! The news makes for peace."