by Eugène Sue
At that supreme moment, some of the Councilmen, they later admitted it themselves, after having first triumphed over a transitory feeling of faintness, felt their resolution waver. To enter into a struggle with a King of the French was, for the city of Laon, an act of almost insane foolhardiness. It was to expose the inhabitants to almost certain deeds of retribution. Moreover, these magistrates — all of them husbands and most of them fathers, men of peaceful habits — were not versed in war. Undoubtedly, to submit to bear the yoke of the bishop and of the nobility meant abysmal degradation; it meant to submit for all future time themselves and their descendants to indignities and incessant exploitation. Life, it is true, would be safe, and by virtue of tame submission to the bishop some concessions might be obtained to render life less miserable. Fortunately, the instances where such unworthy wavering in the face of peril was experienced, had the advantage of unrolling before the shaken hearts the abysmal infamy that fear might drive them to. Promptly returning to their senses, these men realized that the fatal choice was between degradation and servitude on the one side, and, on the other, the dangers of a resistance sacred as justice itself; that they had to choose between shame or a glorious death. Their self-respect soon regained the upper hand, and they blushed at their own weakness. When the envoy of Louis the Lusty had finished reading the royal message, none of the Councilmen who had just been a prey to cruel perplexities raised the voice to advise the relinquishment of the franchises of the Commune.
The reading of the King’s rescript being ended, John Molrain said to the envoy in a solemn voice: “Are you authorized to listen to our objections?”
“There is no room for objections to an act of the sovereign will of our seigneur the King, signed by his own hand and sealed with his own seal,” answered the messenger. “The King commands in the fullness of his power; his subjects obey with humility. Bend your knees, bow down your foreheads!”
“Is the will of Louis the Lusty irrevocable?” resumed the Mayor.
“Irrevocable!” answered the envoy. “And as a first proof of your obedience to his orders, the King herein orders you, Councilmen, to hand over to me the keys, the seal and the banner of the city. I have orders to take them to the bishop, in token of submission to the abolition of the Commune.”
These words of the messenger carried the exasperation of the Councilmen to its pitch. Some bounded from their seats or raised to heaven their threatening fists; others covered their faces in their hands. Threats, imprecations, moans, escaped from all lips. Dominating the tumult, John Molrain ordered silence. All the Councilmen resumed their seats. Then, rising full of dignity, calmness and firmness, the Mayor turned to the banner of the Commune, that stood behind his seat, pointed towards it with his hand and said to the messenger of the King: “On this banner, that the King commands us to give up like cowards, are traced two towers and a sword: The towers are the emblem of the city of Laon, the sword is the emblem of the Commune. Our duty is inscribed upon that banner — to defend with arms the franchises of our city. That seal, which the King demands as a token of relinquishment of our liberties,” John Molrain proceeded, taking up from the table a silver medal, “this seal represents a man raising his right hand to heaven in witness of the sacredness of his oath; in his left hand he holds a sword, with the point over his heart. This man is the Mayor of the Commune of Laon. This magistrate is swearing by heaven to rather die than betray his oath. Now, then, I, Mayor of the Commune of Laon, freely elected by my fellow townsmen, I swear to maintain and to defend our rights and our franchises unto death!”
“To that oath we shall all be faithful!” cried the Councilmen with frantic enthusiasm. “We swear sooner to die than to renounce our franchises!”
“You have heard the answer of the Mayor and Councilmen of Laon,” said John Molrain to the King’s man when the tumult was appeased. “Our charter has been sworn to and signed by the King and by Bishop Gaudry in the year 1109. We shall defend that charter with the sword. The King of the French is all-powerful in Gaul, the Commune of Laon is strong only in its rights and in the bravery of its inhabitants. It has done everything to avoid an impious war. It now awaits its enemies.”
Hardly had John Molrain pronounced these last words when a deafening uproar rose outside the Town Hall. Colombaik had joined his father to accompany the royal messenger to the council hall. But after hearing the rescript of the King, he was not able longer to restrain his indignation. Hastily descending to the street, packed with a dense mass, he announced that the King abolished the Commune and re-established the bishop in the sovereignty of his so justly abhorred rights. While the news spread like wild-fire from mouth to mouth through the whole city, the crowd, massed upon the square, began to make the air resound with imprecations. The more exasperated communiers invaded the hall, where the council was gathered, and cried, inflamed with fury: “To arms! To arms! Down with the King, the bishop and the episcopals!”
Sufficiently uneasy before now, the royal messenger grew pale with fear, and ran for protection behind the Mayor and Councilmen, saying to them in a trembling voice: “I have only obeyed orders; protect me!”
“Fear nothing!” called Fergan. “I have answered for you with my head. I shall see you safe to the gates of the city.”
“To arms!” cried John Molrain, addressing himself to the inhabitants who had invaded the hall. “Ring the belfry bell to convoke the people to the market-place. From there we shall march to the ramparts! To arms, communiers! To arms!”
These words of John Molrain caused the King’s messenger to be forgotten. While several inhabitants climbed to the tower of the belfry to set the big bell ringing, others descended quickly to the street and spread themselves over the city crying: “To arms!” “Commune!” “Commune!” And these cries, taken up by the crowds, were soon joined by the clangor from the belfry.
“Molrain,” Fergan said to the Mayor, “I shall accompany the envoy of Louis the Lusty to the city’s gate that opens opposite the episcopal palace, and I shall remain on guard at that postern, one of the most important posts.”
“Go,” answered the Mayor; “we of the Council shall remain here in permanence to the end of deciding upon the measures to be taken.”
Fergan and Colombaik descended from the council hall. The King’s man walked between them. The people, running home for their arms, had cleared the square; only a few groups were left behind. Little Robin the Crumb-cracker, who had been charged with the care of the messenger’s palfrey, had hastened to profit by the opportunity of straddling a horse for the first time in his life, and was carrying himself triumphantly in the saddle. At sight of the quarryman, he quickly came down again and said, while placing the reins into his hands: “Master Fergan, here is the horse; I prefer the infantry to the cavalry. I shall now run for my pike. Let the little episcopals look out. If I meet any, I’ll massacre them.”
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 mom
ent, 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 t
o 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!”