Thus the French commenced their expedition. In the midst of their ferocious course, no fear or apprehension of defeat occurred to them, so confidently did they rely on their overwhelming numbers. Flanders was doomed to a memorable destruction; they had sworn it. On the same morning on which Guy had bestowed on Deconinck and Breydel the meed of their loyal good service, the French general had invited his most illustrious knights to a sumptuous banquet. The tent of the Count d'Artois was of unusual length and breadth, and divided into many compartments; there were rooms for the knights of his suite, rooms for the squires and standard-bearers, rooms for culinary purposes, rooms for all the various personages of his train. In the middle was a spacious saloon, capable of containing a large number of knights, and used alternately for revelry and for the deliberations of the council of war. The silk with which the tent was covered was powdered with fleurs-de-lis; at the entrance hung the shield of the house of Artois, and outside, on a small eminence, waved the royal standard of France. The saloon was hung with rich tapestry, and rivaled a palace in magnificence.
At the upper end of the table sat Count Robert d'Artois. He was still in the flower and full vigor of life, and a scar which traversed his right cheek at once gave evidence of his bravery and imparted to his countenance a more forbidding expression. Although his face was disfigured by deep wrinkles and stained with dark spots, yet his eyes gleamed like a fire from under his dark eyelashes with manly ardor and energy. His manner was harsh, and denoted the fierce and unrelenting man of war.
Close to him, on his right hand, sat Sigis, King of Melinde; age had silvered his hair and bowed his head, yet was he eager for the combat. In that company he felt his martial ardor return, and boasted that he would yet perform glorious feats of arms. The countenance of the old man inspired respect; it bore the impress of goodness and gentleness. Certainly the good Sigis would never have taken arms against the Flemings had he known the real state of the case; but he had been persuaded, as many others had been, that they were bad Christians, and worse than Saracens, and that it was a good work in the sight of God to chastise and exterminate them.
On the left hand of the Count sat Balthasar, King of Majorca, an impetuous and daring warrior, the gaze of whose dark eyes it was scarcely possible to endure. A wild gladness lighted up his features; for he hoped now to reconquer his kingdom, which had been seized by the Moors. Near him sat De Chatillon, the late governor-general of Flanders, the man who, as the tool of Queen Joanna, was the cause of all this disturbance. His was the guilt that so many Frenchmen had been put to death in Bruges and in Ghent; and on his tyrant head lay the blood of all that were slain in this quarrel. He remembered how disgracefully he had been expelled from Bruges; he craved no petty revenge; and he sat with joy in his heart and smiles on his face, for he held it impossible that the Flemings could oppose the combined might of so many kings, princes, and counts. Next to him, and, like him, eagerly thirsting for revenge, was his brother, Guy de St. Pol. There might be distinguished also Thibaud, Duke of Lorraine, between Messires John de Barlas and Renauld de Trie; he had come to the aid of the French with six hundred horse and two thousand archers. On the left side of the table, next to Messire Henry de Ligny, sat Raoul de Nesle, a brave and noble-hearted knight; on his face were depicted displeasure and sorrow; it was evident that the ferocious threats which the knights were uttering against Flanders were not to his taste. About the middle of the right side, between Louis de Clermont and Count John d'Aumale, sat Godfrey of Brabant, who had brought the French five hundred horse. Near him sat one whose gigantic form might well strike the beholder with astonishment; it was the Zeelander, Hugo van Arckel; he raised his head proudly above the surrounding knights, and his powerful frame sufficiently indicated how terrible an adversary he must be on the battle-field. For many years he had had no other abode than the camp. Everywhere known and renowned for his feats of arms, he had gathered around him a troop of eight hundred intrepid men, well accustomed to war; and with them he roved from place to place wherever there was fighting to be done. Many a time had he decided a battle in favor of the prince whom he was aiding; and he and his men were liberally covered with wounds and scars. War was his element and his life; peace and repose were unendurable to him. Now he had joined the French host, because many of his old companions in arms were there; impelled only by love of fighting, he recked little for whom or in what cause he did battle.
Besides these were present, among others, Simon de Piedmont, Louis de
