by Eugène Sue
“Dear wife, come and kiss me good night when the threshing is done.”
A look from Noblede informed her husband that he was understood, and she stepped out of the guest’s chamber where Morvan remained alone with Abbot Witchaire. The abbot immediately addressed the Chief of the Chiefs:
“Morvan, I greet you. I am the bearer to you of a message from the King of the Franks, Louis the Pious, son of Charles the Great.”
“And what is that message?”
“It is couched in but few words: — The Bretons occupy a province of the Empire of the King of the Franks, and refuse to pay him tribute in homage to his sovereignty. Besides, the Breton clergy, generally infected with a leaven of old druidic idolatry, denies the supremacy of the Archbishop of Tours. Such are the consequences of that regrettable heresy, of which Lambert, Count of Nantes, wrote to King Louis the Pious as follows: ‘The Breton nation is proud and indomitable; all that there is Christian about them is the name; as to the Christian faith, its cult and works, they would be searched for in vain in Brittany.’ Wishing to put an end to a rebellion so outrageous both to the Catholic Church and the royal authority, King Louis the Pious orders the Breton people to pay the tribute that they owe to the sovereignty of the Frankish Empire, and to submit themselves to the apostolic decisions of the Archbishop of Tours. In case of failure to comply, King Louis the Pious will, by means of his invincible arms, ruin the country and compel the obedience of the Breton people.”
“Abbot Witchaire,” Morvan answered after a few moments’ reflection, “Amael, the grandfather of Vortigern, my wife’s brother, entered into an agreement with the Emperor Charles to the effect that, provided we held ourselves within our own borders, there never would be any war between us and the Franks. We kept our promise, so did Charles. His son, whom you call ‘The Pious,’ has not troubled us until now. If to-day he demands tribute from us, he violates the provisions of the compact.”
“Louis the Pious is King by divine right, sovereign master of Gaul. Brittany is part of Gaul, consequently Brittany belongs to him and must pay him tribute.”
“We will pay tribute to no king. As to what regards the clergy, I have this to say to you: Before their arrival in Brittany the country never was invaded. Since a century ago, all that has changed. It was to be expected. Whoever sees the black robe of a priest, soon sees the glint of a Frank’s sword.”
“You speak truly. The Catholic priest is everywhere the precursor of royalty.”
“We now have but too many of these precursors. Despite their continuous quarrels with the Archbishop of Tours, the good priests are rare, the bad ones numerous. At the time of the last war, several of your churchmen acted as guides to the Franks, while others seduced some of our tribes into treason by making them believe that to resist your kings was to incur the anger of heaven. Despite such acts of treason, we defended our liberty then; we will defend it again both against the machinations of the clergy and the swords of the Franks.”
“Morvan, you look like a sensible man. Is it proposed to enslave you? No! To dispossess you of your lands? No! What is it that Louis the Pious demands? Merely that you pay him tribute in homage to his sovereignty. Nothing more!”
“That is too much — and it is iniquitous!”
“Consider the frightful misfortunes to which Brittany will expose herself if she refuses to acknowledge the sovereignty of Louis the Pious. Can you prefer to see your fields laid waste, your crops destroyed, your cattle led away, your own house torn down, your fellows reduced to slavery — can you prefer that to the voluntary payment of a few gold sous contributed by you into the treasury of the King of the Franks?”
“I certainly would prefer to pay even twenty gold sous, rather than be ruined.”
“It is not merely your own earthly possessions that are at stake. You have a wife, a family, friends. Would you, out of vain pride, expose so many beings, dear to your heart, to the horrible dangers of war, of a war of extermination, of a war without mercy, all the more when, as you must admit, you can no longer find in the Breton people the indomitable spirit that once was its distinctive feature?”
“No,” answered Morvan with a somber and pensive mien, his elbows resting on his knees and his forehead hidden in his hands; “no, the Breton people are no longer what they once were.”
“To my mind, the change is one of the triumphs of the Catholic Church. In your eyes it is an evil. But, if evil it be, it is a fact, and you are bound to recognize it. Brittany, once invincible, has been several times invaded by the Franks during the last century. What has happened before will happen again. And yet, notwithstanding the mistrust that you entertain of your own powers of resistance, notwithstanding the certainty of succumbing, could you still wish to engage in the struggle in lieu of paying a tribute that curtails in nothing, either your own liberty or that of your people?”
Shaken by the insidious arguments of the priest, Morvan remained silent for a moment; after a short struggle with himself, he asked: “How high will be the tribute that your King demands?”
Witchaire thrilled with joy at Morvan’s question. He concluded the Breton had decided in favor of base submission. At that juncture Noblede entered the apartment to give her husband the good-night kiss. At sight of her the Breton blushed. He allowed his wife to approach him without affectionately advancing to meet her, as was his wont. The Breton woman almost guessed the cause of the embarrassed manner of Morvan, and of the triumphant looks of the Frankish abbot. Concealing her grief, the woman walked to her husband, who remained seated, and kissed his hand. A tremor shook the Breton chief’s frame; his will, shaken for a moment, regained its own command; he leaped up and passionately clasped his wife to his breast. Happy and proud at feeling the throbbing of her own heart answered by her husband’s, the Gallic woman cried, casting a look of contempt at the priest:
“Whence comes this stranger? What does he want? Is he a messenger of peace or of war? Race of priests, race of vipers.”
“This monk is sent by the King of the Franks,” answered the Breton chief; “I do not yet know whether he brings peace or war.”
Noblede looked at her husband with increasing astonishment, when the abbot, considering the moment favorable to obtain the desired answer from Morvan, said:
“I am to return immediately. What answer shall I carry to Louis the Pious?”
“You cannot resume your journey without taking some rest,” Noblede hastened to observe, while, with her eyes, she interrogated her husband, who seemed to have relapsed into incertitude. “It will be time enough to depart early in the morning. Remain here over night to recover your strength.”
“No, no!” exclaimed the abbot with impatience, fearing the influence of the Gallic woman upon her husband. “I return immediately. Shall I take to Louis the Pious words of peace or of war? I must have a categoric answer.”
The Breton chief, however, rose from his seat, and walking towards the door of the apartment answered Witchaire:
“I shall use the few remaining hours of the night to think the matter over; to-morrow you will have my answer.” Saying this, and despite the insistence of the abbot upon an immediate answer, Morvan left the guest’s room, accompanied by Noblede.
A few minutes later, Morvan, his wife, Vortigern and Caswallan, assembled at a secluded spot, under the spreading branches of a tall oak tree not far from the house, to consider the subject of Abbot Witchaire’s errand to Brittany.
“What does this messenger of the King of the Franks want?” asked Vortigern of Morvan.
“If we consent to pay tribute to Louis the Pious and to recognize him as our sovereign, we shall escape an implacable war. I know not what answer to make. I hesitate before the prospect of the disasters that will attend a new struggle — the massacres, the fires.”
“Hesitate! Yield to threats!”
“Brother,” answered Morvan with deep sadness, “the Breton people are no longer what they once were.”
“You are right!” put in
Caswallan. “The breath of the Catholic Church, so deadly to the freedom of the people, has passed over this unhappy country also. The patriotism of a large number of our tribes has cooled. But, on the other hand, should you consent to submit to a shameful peace, then Brittany will be peopled with slaves before a century shall have rolled away.”
“Brother,” added Vortigern, “would you yield to threats, instead of reviving the spirit of Brittany in a sacred war against the foreigner? That would be to debase ourselves forever! To-day we would pay tribute to the king of the Franks, in order to avoid a war; to-morrow we would have to yield to him one-half of our patrimony, in order that he may allow us to retain the rest; after that we would have to submit to slavery with all its degradation and wretchedness, in order to be allowed to preserve our lives. The chain will have been riveted to our limbs, and our children will have to drag it during all the centuries to come!”
“Unhappy Brittany!” exclaimed Noblede. “Have we fallen so low as to begin to measure the length of our chains? Look at these three brave, wise and tried men, wasting their time in discussing the insolence of a Frankish king! There is but one word you can answer with — WAR! Oh, degenerate Gauls! Eight centuries ago, Caesar, the greatest captain of the world, and at the head of a formidable army, also sent messengers to summon Brittany to pay him tribute. The Roman messengers were answered with a beating, and chased with contempt out of the city of Vannes. That same evening, Hena, our ancestress, offered her blood to Hesus for the deliverance of Gaul, and the cry of war resounded from one end of the country to the other! Albinik the sailor, together with his wife Meroë, performed a journey of more than twenty leagues across the most fertile regions of Gaul, but then burnt down by a conflagration that the people themselves had kindled. Caesar saw before him only a waste of smouldering ruins, and on the day of the battle of Vannes our whole family — women and young girls, children and old men — fought or died like heroes! Oh! These ancestors of ours worried their heads little about the ‘dangers of battle’! To live free or die — such was their simple faith, and they sealed it with their blood, and winged their flight to those unknown worlds where they continue to live!”
Noblede was addressing Morvan, Vortigern and Caswallan in these terms, when the abbot, who had left his apartment and inquired after Morvan from the people about the house, approached the oak under which the Breton family was in council. Although the moon was shining in all her splendor, the first glimmerings of the dawn, always early in the end of August, already began to crimson the horizon.
“Morvan,” said Abbot Witchaire, “day is about to dawn. I can wait no longer. What is your answer to the messenger of Louis the Pious?”
“Priest, my answer will not burden your memory: Return and tell the king that we will pay him tribute — in iron.”
“You want war! Very well, you shall have it without mercy or pity!” cried the abbot furiously, and leaping on his horse which the monks held ready for him he added, turning again to the Chief of the Chiefs: “Brittany will be laid waste with fire and sword! Not a house will be left standing! The last day of this people has arrived!”
As the priest uttered these words, his gestures seemed to call down curses and anathemas upon the Breton chief. Angrily putting the spurs to his horse and followed by the two monks, the prelate rode rapidly away.
The abbot had hardly been a quarter of an hour on the road, when he heard the gallop of an approaching horse behind him. Turning, he saw a rider coming towards him at full speed. It was Vortigern. The abbot drew in his reins, yielding to a last ray of hope. “May your coming be propitious. Morvan regrets, I hope, the insensate resolution that he took?”
“Morvan regrets that in your hurry you and your two monks should have departed without a guide. You might easily lose your way in our mountains. I am to accompany you as far as the city of Guenhek. There I shall furnish you with a safe guide for the rest of the journey; he will take you to our frontiers.”
“Young man, you are, I am told, the brother of Morvan’s wife. I conjure you, in the name of the safety of Brittany, to endeavor to change the insensate and fatal resolution of this man who happens to be the chief of your nation.”
“Monk, the fires lighted last night on our mountains, and which, no doubt, you must have seen, were the signals of alarm, given to our tribes to prepare for war. Your King wants war — let his will be done. But, now, answer me a question. You come from the court at Aix-la-Chapelle. Could you tell me what has become of the daughters of the Emperor Charles?”
The abbot cast a look of surprise at Vortigern: “What is it to you what may have become of the Emperor’s daughters?”
“It is now about eight years ago that I accompanied my grandfather to Aix-la-Chapelle. I there saw the daughters of Charles. That is the reason for my curiosity concerning them.”
“The daughters of Charles have been consigned to nunneries by order of their brother, Louis the Pious,”[D] was the sententious answer of Witchaire. “May they, by dint of repentance, merit the pardon of heaven for their past and abominable libertinage.”
“And Thetralde, the youngest of Charles’ daughters, did she share the fate of her sisters?”
“Thetralde died long ago.”
“She died!” exclaimed Vortigern, unable to conceal his emotion. “Poor child! So beautiful — and to die so young!”
“She, at least, never gave Charles cause to blush.”
“And what was the cause of the death of that child? Could you tell me?”
“It is not known. Up to her fifteenth year she enjoyed a nourishing health. Suddenly she began to languish, grew ill, and barely in her sixteenth year, her light went out, in the arms of her father, who never ceased weeping for her. But this is quite enough about the daughters of Charles the Great. Once more, will you or will you not, endeavor to cause Morvan to abandon a resolution that can have for its only effect the ruin of this country? You are silent — do you refuse?”
Absorbed in the thoughts that the fate of the ill-starred Thetralde had started in his mind, Vortigern remained mute and melancholy. His thoughts flew to the young girl who died so young, and the touching remembrance of whom had long remained alive with him. Impatient at the prolonged silence of the Breton, the abbot put his hand on Vortigern’s shoulder, and repeated his question:
“I ask you, yes or no, will you endeavor to cause Morvan to renounce his insensate resolution?”
“Your King wants war; he shall have war.”
And Vortigern, relapsing into his own meditations, rode silently beside Witchaire until the two reached the city of Guenhek. There Vortigern entrusted the guidance of the abbot to an experienced guide, and while the messenger of Louis the Pious proceeded towards the frontier of Brittany, the brother of Noblede hastened back and rejoined his wife Josseline at the house of Morvan.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DEFILE OF GLEN-CLAN.
THE DEFILE OF Glen-Clan is the only practicable passage across the last links of the Black Mountains — a mountain chain that constitutes a veritable girdle of granite as a natural protection to the heart of Brittany. The defile of Glen-Clan is so narrow that a wagon can barely thread it; it is so steep that six yoke of oxen are barely able to drag a wagon up its craggy incline, from the top of which a stone of considerable size would roll rapidly down to the bottom of the pass — a pass cut, like the bed of a mountain torrent, at the feet of immense rocks that rise on either side perpendicular over a hundred feet in the air.
A distant rumbling noise, confused at first, and becoming more and more distinct as it draws nearer and nearer, disturbs one day, shortly after the angry departure of Abbot Witchaire from Brittany, the otherwise profound silence of the solitude. By little and little the dull tramp of cavalry is distinguished; presently also the clanking of iron arms upon iron armor, and finally the rythmic tread of large troops of foot soldiers, the lumbering of wagon wheels jolting upon the stony ground, the neighing of horses and the bellowing of yoke-oxen. All these
various sounds draw nearer, grow louder, and are finally blended into one steady roar. They announce the approach of an army corps of considerable proportions. Suddenly the mournful and prolonged cry of a night bird is heard from the crest of the rocks that overhang the defile. Other similar, but more distant cries answer the first signal, like an echo that loses itself in the distance. Silence ensues thereupon — except for the tumultuous din of the advancing army corps. A small troop appears at the entrance of the tortuous passage; a monk on horseback guides the scouting party. At the monk’s side rides a warrior of tall stature, clad in rich armor. His white buckler, on which three eagle’s talons are designed, hangs to one side from the pommel of his saddle, while an iron mace dangles from the other. Behind the Frankish chief ride several cavalrymen accompanied by about a score of Saxon archers, distinguishable by their long quivers.
“Hugh,” says the chief of the warriors to one of his men, “take with you two horsemen, and let five or six archers precede you to make certain that there is no ambush to fear. At the slightest sign of an attack fall back upon us and give the alarm. I do not wish to entangle the gross of my troop in this defile without the necessary precautions.”
Hugh obeys his chief. The little vanguard quickens its step and soon disappears beyond one of the windings of the pass.
“Neroweg, the measure is wise,” observes the monk. “One could not advance with too much precaution into this accursed country of Brittany, where I have lived long enough to know that it is extremely dangerous.”
“At the end of this defile, I am told, we enter upon even ground.”
“Yes, but before that we shall have to cross the marsh of Peulven and the forest of Cardik; we then arrive at the vast moor of Kennor, the rendezvous of the two other armed bodies of Louis the Pious, who are marching to that point across the river Vilaine and over the defile of Mount Orock, as we are to penetrate through this one. Morvan will be attacked from three sides, and will not be able to resist our forces.”