The falconers bore each his bird on portable perches. Hawks of all kinds were there, gerfalcons and tercels gentle, hobbies and sparrowhawks; every one with a red hood set with bells on its head and light leathern cases on its legs. Besides these, the falconers had their decoys, false birds with movable wings, by means of which the hawk was lured back from her flight.
The cavalcade once clear of the castle, the way soon grew wider, and the knights mingled promiscuously, without distinction of rank. Each sought out his own friend or comrade, and the time passed merrily in jests and joyous talk; even several of the ladies had found places among the knights.
Count Guy and Charles de Valois were still in front; no one had ventured to take the lead of those two. Robert de Bethune, however, and his brother William were now riding on the one side of their father; and, in like manner, Raoul de Nesle and De Chatillon had taken place alongside of their prince, who, at this moment, with eyes fixed in deep commiseration on the white hairs of the old Count and the depressed air of his son William, was thus speaking:
"I pray you, noble Count, to believe that your hard lot is a subject of real grief and pity to me. I feel indeed your sorrows as though they were my own. Nevertheless, be still of good heart; all hope is not lost, and my royal brother will, I doubt not, upon my intercession, forgive and forget the past."
"Messire de Valois," answered Guy, "you deceive yourself greatly. Your king has been heard to say, that to see the last day of Flanders is his dearest wish. Is it not he that has stirred up my subjects against me? Is it not he, moreover, that has cruelly torn my daughter Philippa from my arms to shut her up in a dungeon? And think you that he will again build up the edifice which he has, at the cost of so much blood, cast down? Of a truth you deceive yourself. Philip the Fair, your king and brother, will never give me back the land he has taken from me. Your generosity, noble sir, will remain recorded in my heart to the last hour of my life; but I am too old to flatter myself now with deceitful hopes. My reign is over—so God has willed it!"
"You know not my royal brother Philip," resumed De Valois; "true it is, that his deeds seem to witness against him; but I assure you his heart is as feeling and noble as that of a true knight ever should be."
But here Robert de Bethune impatiently broke in—"What say you? Noble? Noble as that of a true knight should be? Does a true knight break his pledged word and plighted faith? When we, fearing no evil, came with our poor sister Philippa to Corvay, did not your king violate every law of hospitality, and make prisoners of us all? Was this the deed of a true knight or of a traitor? Say yourself I"
"Messire de Bethune!" replied De Valois, stung by the reproach, "I do not believe you intend to affront or annoy me."
"Oh, no!" rejoined Robert, in a tone which bespoke sincerity; "by my faith and honor, that I did not. Your generosity has made you dear to me; but for all that, you can not with good conscience uphold that your king is a true knight."
"Listen to me," answered De Valois. "I tell you, nay, I swear it to you, that there is not a better heart in the world than that of Philip the Fair; but he is surrounded by a troop of miserable flatterers, and unhappily lends his ear to them. Enguerrand de Marigny is a devil incarnate, who instigates him to all evil; and, then, there is another person who often leads the king astray, whose name respect forbids my uttering, but who is, in very truth, answerable for all you have had to suffer."
"Who may that be?" asked De Chatillon, not without design.
"You ask what every one knows, Messire de Chatillon," cried Robert de Bethune; "listen to me, and I will tell you. It is your niece, Joanna of Navarre, that holds my unhappy sister in captivity; it is your niece, Joanna of Navarre, that debases the coin in France; it is your niece too, Joanna of Navarre, that has sworn the destruction of the Flemish freedom."
De Chatillon's rage at this retort knew no bounds. Furiously wheeling round his horse in front of Robert, he cried out in his face:
*'You lie! false traitor that you are!"
Touched in his honor's tenderest point, Robert backed his horse a few steps, and drew his crooked sword from its scabbard; but in the very moment of making his onset upon De Chatillon, he remarked that his foe was unarmed. With manifest disappointment, he ,put his sword back into the sheath, and, approaching De Chatillon, said in a smothered voice:
"I do not suppose I need throw you down my gauntlet; you know that your words have cast a blot upon me that can only be washed out with blood; before this sun goes down I will demand an account from you of this insult."
"It is well," replied De Chatillon; "I am ready to maintain my royal niece's honor against all opposers."
The two knights resumed their former places in silence. During this short episode, the bystanders had been variously affected by Robert de Bethune's bold outbreak. Many of the French knights had felt inclined to take his words amiss; but the laws of honor did not allow their interfering in the quarrel. Charles de Valois shook his head with an air of annoyance; and it was easy to see
