The Carlovingian Coins; Or, The Daughters of Charlemagne

"Do you expect any guests, Morvan?" inquired Josseline, with great curiosity. "They will be welcome; they will assist us at the threshing to-night."

"My beloved Josseline," answered the Chief of the Chiefs, smiling, "the guests whom I expect eat the choicest of wheat, but never take the trouble of either sowing or harvesting. They belong to a class of people who live on the fat of the land."

"The guest's chamber is always ready," replied Noblede; "the floor is strewn with fresh leaves. Alack! No one occupied it since it was last occupied by Amael."

"Worthy grandfather!" exclaimed Vortigern with a sigh.

"He came to us only to languish a few weeks and pass away."

"May his memory be blessed, as was his life," said Josseline. "I knew him only a very short while, but I loved and venerated him like my father."

The family of Morvan, together with the rest of his tribe who cultivated his lands in common with himself, men, women and children, about thirty in all, presently sat down to a long table, placed in a large hall that served at once for kitchen, refectory and a place of assembly during the long nights of the winter. From the walls hung weapons of war and of the hunt, fishing nets, bridles and horse saddles. Although it was midsummer, such was the coolness of that region of woods and mountains, that the heat of the hearth, before which the meats for the supper were broiled, felt decidedly comfortable to the harvesters. Its flamboyant light mingled with that cast by the torches of resinous wood, that were fastened in iron clamps along the four walls. After the industrious group had finished their repast, Morvan was the first to rise.

"And now, my boys, to work! The night is clear, we shall thresh the wheat on the outside floor. Two or three torches planted between the stones on the edge of the well will give us light until the moon rises. We shall be through with our task by one o'clock in the morning, we shall sleep until daybreak, and we shall then return to the fields and finish taking in the crop."

The torches, placed at Morvan's orders around the edge of the well, cast their bright light upon a portion of the yard and buildings that were within the fortified enclosure. Several men, the women and the children, took a hand in unloading the wagons, while those who were to do the threshing, Morvan, Vortigern and the old Caswallan among them, stood waiting for the grain to be brought to them, their flails in their hands, having for the sake of comfort, stripped themselves of all their superfluous clothing and keeping only their breeches and shirts on. The first bundles of grain were placed in the center of the floor, whereupon the rapid rhythm of the flails, vigorously wielded by robust and experienced arms, resounded through the air. Apprehending a speedy war, the Bretons were hastening to take in their crops and place them under cover in order to save them from the ravages of the enemy, as well as to deprive these of food. The grains were to be concealed in underground caves covered with earth. Morvan, whose forehead began to be moistened with perspiration, said, while rapidly handling the flail:

"Caswallan, you promised us a song. Take a little rest and sing. It will inspire us in our work."

The Christian druid sang "Lez-Breiz," an old national song that ever sounded sweet on the ears of the Bretons. It began thus:

"Between a Frankish warrior and Lez-Breiz
A combat was arranged;
It was arranged with due formalities. —
May God give the victory to the Breton,
And gladsome tidings to his county. —
That day Lez-Breiz said to his young attendant:
Rise, furbish up my handsome casque; my lance and my sword;
I mean to redden them in the blood of the Franks. —
I shall make them jump this day!"

"Old Caswallan," said one of the laborers when the druid had finished the long and inspiring strain that warmed the blood of his hearers with martial ardor, "let the accursed Franks come again, and we shall say, like Lez-Breiz: 'With the aid of our two arms, let us make them jump again to-day' – "

A furious barking of the shepherd dogs, that for some little time had been emitting low and intermittent growls, interrupted at this moment the remarks of the laborers, and all turned their eyes towards the gate of the enclosure, whither the dogs had precipitated themselves furiously.

CHAPTER III.

ABBOT AND BRETON

The strangers whose approach the dogs announced were Abbot Witchaire, his two monks and his guide Karouer. Preceded by the guide, who pacified the alarm of the watchful animals, the clerical cavalcade rode into the enclosure, while Karouer informed the abbot:

"This is the house of Morvan. We have arrived at our destination. You may now dismount."

"What are those torches yonder for?" asked the prelate descending from his horse, the reins of which he threw over to one of his monks. "What is that muffled sound I hear?"

"It is the sound of the flails. Doubtlessly Morvan is threshing the grain that he has harvested. Come, I shall lead you to him."

Abbot Witchaire and his guide approached the group of laborers, upon whom the torches cast a clear light. Morvan, intently at work, and the noise of the flails deafening the sound of the steps and voices of the new arrivals, failed to hear them. Not until Karouer had tapped the Chief of the Chiefs upon the shoulder in order to draw the latter's attention to him, did Morvan turn to look. Recognizing Karouer, the Chief of the Chiefs stopped a moment and said:

"Oh! Is that you, Karouer? What tidings do you bring from our man?"

"I bring him to you in person," answered Karouer, pointing to his traveling companion. "He stands before you in flesh and bone."

"Are you the Abbot Witchaire?" asked Morvan, slightly out of breath with the heavy work that he had been performing; and crossing his robust arms over the handle of his flail, he added: "As I expected your visit, I have had supper prepared for you. Come to table."

"I prefer first to speak to you."

"Noblede," said Morvan, wiping the perspiration that inundated his forehead with the back of his hand, "a torch, my dear wife!" And turning to the abbot: "Follow me."

Taking up one of the torches that were stuck at the edge of the well, Noblede preceded her husband and Abbot Witchaire to the chamber that was reserved for guests. Two large beds stood ready, as also a big table furnished with cold meats, milk, bread and fruit. After placing the torch into one of the iron clamps fastened in the wall, Noblede was about to withdraw when Morvan said to her in a significant tone:

"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: