The Carlovingian Coins; Or, The Daughters of Charlemagne

In the year 818, seven years after Amael and his grandson Vortigern left the court of Charles, the Emperor of the Franks, to return to their home in Brittany, three riders, accompanied by a footman, were one evening painfully climbing one of the steep hills of the ridge of the Black Mountains, that raise their rugged ribs to the southwest of Armorica. When, having reached the top of the rocky pile over which the path wound its way, the travelers looked below, they saw at their feet a long chain of plains and hillocks, some covered with rye and wheat ready for the harvesters, others running northward like vast carpets of heather. Here and yonder, vast moors also were perceived stretching out as far as the eye could follow. A few straggling villages, reached by an avenue of trees, raised the roofs of their houses in the midst of impassible bogs that served for natural defences. The panorama was enlivened by herds of black sheep that browsed over the ruddy heath or the green valleys, watered by innumerable running streams. Among the green were also seen steers and cows, and especially a large number of horses of the Breton stock, strong for the plow, fiery in war.

The three riders, preceded by the footman, now proceeded to descend the further slope of the rugged hill. One of the three, clad in ecclesiastical robes, was Witchaire, considered one of the richest abbots of Gaul. The vast lands of his almost royal abbey bordered on the frontiers of Armorica. His two companions, on horseback like himself, were monks belonging to his dependency, and both wore the garb of the religious Order of St. Benoit. The two monks rode behind the abbot at a little distance, leading between them a packsaddle mule loaded with the baggage of their superior, a man of short stature, sharp eye, and a smile that was at times pious, at other times cunning. The mountain guide, a robust, thick-set man in the vigor of life, wore the antique costume of the Breton Gauls – wide breeches of cloth held at the waist by a leather belt, a jacket of wool, and, hanging from his shoulders on the same side with his wallet, a cloak of goat-skin, although the season was summer. His hair, only partly covered with a woolen cap, fell over his shoulders. From time to time he leaned upon his pen-bas, a long staff made of holly and terminating in a crook.

The burning August sun, now at its hottest, darted its rays upon the guide, the two monks and Abbot Witchaire. Reining in his horse, the latter said to the guide:

"The heat is suffocating; these granite rocks radiate it upon us as hot as if they issued from a furnace; our mounts are exhausted. I decry yonder, at our feet, a thick forest; could you not lead us to it? We could then take rest in the shade."

Karouer, the guide, shook his head, and answered, pointing with his pen-bas in the direction of the dense woods: "To reach them we would have to make a leap of two hundred feet, or a circuit of nearly three leagues over the mountains. Which shall it be?"

"Let us, then, pursue our route, my trusty guide. But tell us how long will it take us to arrive in the valley of Lokfern?"

"Look yonder, below, away below, close to the horizon. Do you see the last of those bluish crests? That is the Menez-c'Hom, the highest peak of the Black Mountains. The other peak towards the west, and lying somewhat nearer, is Lach-Renan. It is between those two peaks that lies the valley of Lokfern, where Morvan, the husbandman and Chief of Brittany lives."

"Are you certain that he will be at his farm-house?"

"A husbandman always returns to his farm-house after sunset. We shall find him there."

"Do you know Morvan personally?"

"I am of his tribe. I fought under him at the time of our last struggles against the Franks, when Charles, the Emperor, lived."

"Is this Morvan married, do you know?"

"His wife Noblede is the worthy spouse of Morvan. She is of the stock of Joel. That says everything. We honor and venerate her."

"Who is that Joel, whom you mentioned?"

"One of the worthiest men, whose memory Armorica has preserved green. His daughter, Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, offered her own life in sacrifice for the safety of Gaul when the Romans invaded these parts."

"I have been told that your people apprehend an invasion of the Franks in Brittany, and that you are making ready for a declaration of war from Louis the Pious, son of the great Charles."

"Have you seen any preparations for war since you crossed our frontier?"

"I have seen the husbandmen in the fields, the shepherds leading their flocks, the cities open and tranquil. But it is known that in your country, woodmen, husbandmen, shepherds and town folks transform themselves into soldiers at a moment's notice."

"Yes, when our country is threatened with invasion."

"And do you apprehend such an invasion?"

Karouer looked at the abbot fixedly, smiled sarcastically, made no answer, whistled, and presently broke out into a Breton song, mechanically whirling his pen-bas as he strode rapidly forward in the lead of the three monks.

Night drew on. Karouer and the dignitaries whom he guided, having been all day on the march, were now approaching one of the highest points on the mountain path that they had been following, when, struck by an unexpected spectacle, Witchaire suddenly reined in his horse.

The sight that took the abbot by surprise was, indeed, startling. A flame, hardly distinguishable by reason of its great distance, and yet perceptible on the horizon, whose outlines the dusk had not yet wholly blotted out, had barely arrested his attention, when, almost instantaneously, similar tongues of fire gradually shot up from the distant tops of the long chain of the Black Mountains. The fires gained in brilliancy and size in the measure that they broke out nearer and nearer to the spot where the abbot stood. Suddenly, only twenty paces away from him, the startled prelate perceived a bluish gleam through a dense smoke. The gleam speedily changed into a brilliant flame, that, shooting upwards toward the starry sky, spread a light so bright that the abbot, his monks, his guide, the rocks round about and a good portion of the crag of the mountain stood illumined as if at noon. A few minutes later similar bonfires continued to be kindled from hill to hill, tracing back, as it seemed, the route that the travelers had left behind, and losing themselves in the distance in the evening haze. The abbot remained mute with stupefaction. Karouer emitted three times a gutteral and loud cry resembling that of a night bird. A similar cry, proceeding from behind the plateau of rocks where the nearest bonfire was burning, responded to the signal from Karouer.

"What fires are these that are springing up from hill-top to hill-top?" the abbot inquired with intense curiosity the moment he recovered from his astonishment. "It must be some signal."

"At this moment," answered Karouer, "similar fires are burning from all the hill-tops of Armorica, from the mountains of Arres to the Black Mountains and the ocean."

"But to what purpose?"

As was his wont, Karouer made no answer to such pointed interrogatories, but striking up some Breton song, quickened his steps, while he whirled his pen-bas in the air.

CHAPTER II.

THE BRETON CHIEF

The home of Morvan, the husbandman, who was chosen Chief of the Chiefs of Brittany, was located about the middle of the valley of Lokfern, and nestled among the last spurs of the Black Mountains. A strong system of palisades, constructed of tough trunks of oak fastened together by means of stout cross-beams, and raised on the near side of deep ditches, defended the approaches of the farm-house. Outside of the fortified enclosure, a forest of centenarian oaks extended to the north and east; to the south, green meadows sloped gently towards the windings of a swift running river that was bordered with beeches and alders.

The house of Morvan, its contiguous barns, kennels and stables, had the rough exterior of the Gallic structures of olden days. A sort of rustic porch shaded the main entrance to the house. Under this porch, and enjoying the close of the delightful summer day, were Noblede, the spouse of Morvan, and Josseline, the young wife of Vortigern. The latter, a radiant woman of smiling beauty, was suckling her latest born, with her other two children, Ewrag and Rosneven, respectively four and five years of age, at her side. Caswallan, a Christian druid, an aged man of venerable appearance, whose beard vied in whiteness with his long robe, smiled tenderly upon little Ewrag, whom he held on his knees. Noblede, Morvan's wife and sister of Vortigern, now about thirty years of age, was a woman of rare comeliness, although her features bore the stamp of a rooted sadness. Ten years a wife, Noblede had not yet tasted the sweets of motherhood. Her grave aspect and her high stature recalled those matrons, who, in the days of Gaul's independence, sat loyally by the side of their husbands at the supreme councils of the nation.[3 - "The Gallic woman equalled her husband in courage and strength. She sat in his councils of war with him. Her eyes were more furious when she was angered, and she swung her arms, as white as snow, and dealt blows as heavy as if they came from an engine of war." – Ammienus Marcellinus, Notes of the Martyrs, vol. XVIII, book IX.] Noblede and Josseline were spinning, while the other women and daughters of Morvan's household busied themselves with the preparations for the evening meal, or in the other domestic occupations, such as replenishing with forage the stalls that the cattle were to find ready upon their return from the fields. The Christian druid Caswallan, with Ewrag, the second child of the blonde Josseline, on his knees, had just finished making the boy recite his lesson in religion under the following symbolic forms:

"White child of the druid, answer me, what shall I tell you?"

"Tell me the parts of the number three," the child would answer, "make them known to me, that I may learn them to-day."

"There are three parts of the world – three beginnings and three ends to man as to the oak – three celestial kingdoms, fruits of gold, brilliant flowers and little children who laugh. These three kingdoms, where the fruits of gold, the brilliant flowers and the children who laugh are found, my little Ewrag, are the worlds in which those, who in this world have performed pure and celestial acts, will be successively born again and will continue to live with ever increasing happiness. Now, what must we be in order to perform such acts?"

"We must be wise, good and just," the child would reply. "Furthermore death must not be feared, because we are born again and again, from world to world with an ever renewed body. We must love Brittany like a tender mother – and bravely defend her against her enemies."

"Yes, my child," broke in Noblede, drawing her brother's child to herself. "Always remember those sacred words: 'To love and defend Brittany';" and Morvan's wife tenderly embraced Ewrag.

"Mother! mother!" cried up little Rosneven, joyfully clapping his hands and rushing out of the porch followed by his brother Ewrag: "Here is father!"

Caswallan, Noblede and Josseline rose at the gladsome cries of the child and walked out towards two large wagons heavily laden with golden sheaves, and drawn by a yoke of oxen.

Morvan and Vortigern were seated in front of one of the wagons surrounded by a considerable number of men and lads belonging to the household, or to the tribe of the Chief of the Chiefs, carrying in their hands the sickles, the forks and the rakes used by the harvesters. At a little distance behind them came the shepherds with their flocks whose bells were heard clinking from the distance. Morvan, in the vigor of life, robust and thick-set, like most of the inhabitants of the Black Mountains, wore their rustic garb – wide breeches of coarse white material, and a linen shirt that exposed his sunburnt chest and neck. His long hair, auburn like his thick beard, framed his manly face. His forehead was high; his eyes intrepid and piercing. As to Vortigern, the maturer gravity of manhood, of husband and father, had succeeded the flower of youth. His looks were expressive of sweet delight at the sight of the two boys who had ran out to meet him. He jumped down from the wagon and embraced them affectionately while he looked for his wife and sister, who, accompanied by Caswallan, were not long in joining him.

"Dear wife, the harvest will be plentiful," said Morvan to Noblede, and pointing to the overloaded wagons, he added: "Have you ever seen more beautiful wheat, or more golden sheaves? Look at them and wonder!"

"Morvan," put in Josseline, "you are this year harvesting earlier than customary. We, of the region of Karnak would leave our wheat to ripen on the stalk fully two weeks longer. Not so, Vortigern?"

"No, my sweet Josseline," answered her husband, "I shall follow Morvan's example. We shall return home to-morrow, so as to start taking in the harvest as soon as possible."

"I am going to furnish you with still more matter for astonishment," Morvan proceeded. "Instead of leaving the sheaves in the barn that the grain may ripen, this wheat that you see there, and that was cropped only to-day, will be threshed this very night. Vortigern and myself will not be the only ones to ply the flails on the threshing-floor of the barn. So, then, Noblede, let us have supper early, and then to work!"

"What, Morvan!" exclaimed Josseline, "after this tiring day's work, spent in gathering in the crop, do you and Vortigern mean to spend the night at work, and threshing, at that?"

"It will be a cheerful night, my Josseline," put in Vortigern. "While we shall be threshing the wheat, you will sing us some songs, Caswallan will recite to us some old legend, and we shall stave in a barrel of hydromel to cheer the laborers who have come to join us. Work goes hand in hand with pleasure."

"Vortigern," the Christian druid said, smiling, "do you, perchance, think that my arms are so much enfeebled by old age that I could no longer wield a flail? I mean to help you at work."

"And we?" put in Josseline, laughing merrily, "we, the daughters and wives of the field-laborers, did we, perchance, lose the skill of carrying the wheat to the threshing-floor, or of bagging the grain?"

"And we?" Ewrag and his brother Rosneven cried in turn, "could not we also carry a stalk, six stalks, twenty stalks?"

"Oh! you are brave boys, my little ones," exclaimed Vortigern, embracing his children, while Morvan said to his wife:

"Noblede, do not forget to have the guest's chamber in order and supplied with food."