Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HEROIC RESISTANCE OF THE CITY OF BEAUVAIS, by PAUL FORT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HEROIC RESISTANCE OF THE CITY OF BEAUVAIS, by                    
First Line: It seemed that master tristan l'ermite was not deceived. Burgundy
Last Line: And performers.
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Death; France; Heroism; War; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens; Dead, The; Heroes; Heroines


It seemed that Master Tristan L'Ermite was not deceived. Burgundy judged herself
considerably aggrieved, what do I say? dreamed only of vengeance, and lusted
after war. To be just, when I speak of Burgundy one must substitute therefor
Monseigneur Charles, those honest carles, the Burgundians, if interviewed, I
know full well would have made reply, "Better it is one's phiz to dye with ruddy
wine than with blood." What would you have? They are men of sense who naught of
frontiers know save of the rustic sort that fence the fields where their
harvests grow.

The cities of the Somme regained beneath his caressing mittens, and the wealth
he drew from Guyenne close-snuggled against his slippered feet, our clever King
Louis found himself more powerful than ever. His royal soul could bask in
happiness complete.

Charles did not hesitate, but mustered up his rage, and, as one rends a garment
weakened with wear and age, with a great and sudden blow he tore the truce
asunder. The Flemish gold had aided him new armies to prepare. With these once
more he invaded France, led by the lure of plunder.
Simultaneously he published a haughty proclamation bidding all peers and gentle-
folk throughout the Gallic nation to unite for the overthrow of that villainous
fratricide, -- puffed up with spleen and pride 'twas thus that his monarch he
maligned, that good King who had crossed himself from his brow to the earth
beneath when he heard the heavy tidings of his younger brother's death -- to
unite in avenging that most unnatural murder whose piteous parallel you could
not find in the annals of Christian Europe for all of thirty years.
Proclamation and spleen well sewed with fair white thread.
Apparently the Duke of Burgundy within this specious snare was netted, but it
was not he who had invented the thread to cut the ambrosial butter minted in his
fair domain. From his side he waited Fortune's chances, keeping his lances
whetted.
Charles, from the other, took and pillaged Nesle, which city, formerly his
appurtenance, but ravished from him by King Louis of France some time since, in
the alien interim had yielded to King Louis of France twice the love that it
owed to him. For that grim countenance gave fear to all the world.
Citizens, garrison, bowmen, burghers, wives, and babes were the object of a
wholesale massacre, paying the price of defeat beneath the knives of their
foemen till each street was softly paved with piles of slain. The blood above
their bodies flowed in a current several inches deep. -- When the Duke rode into
the city great was his satisfaction. The tail of his horse was trailing in the
blood.
His face was lit by a wide and savage smile.
"Behold the fruit," he cried, "that grows on the tree of war. A goodly sight, in
sooth! By the rood, I have good butchers in my employ."
Then he spurred full tilt through the midst of the corpses. weeping with joy the
while.

King Louis, being a man experienced, swift and wise, upon that crimson card let
fall a trump with speed. He had just concocted a plan of campaign, a simple
strategy whereby to neutralize his enemy at need.
Around the armies of Duke Charles, which gaped thereat in great amaze, the
light-armed archers of the King, under the conduct of Dammartin, ravaged the
country, set ablaze the crops, and drove away the cattle. -- Yet scrupulously
avoided battle. -- These skirmishers the swallow aped. If at the verge of the
far horizon, uplifted 'gainst the heaven's blue, they for an instant clapped
their eyes on a standard with a lion, pfuitt! at topmost speed away they flew,
leaving around Duke Charles a barren plain bereft of harvests, villages and
foes.
Yet forward, none the less, he goes.
He marches with close-clenched teeth, while his gut with hunger grapples.
He marches to join with Brittany, his ally, persisting ever in the fond belief
that his brother-duke, having conquered in Normandy, with toothsome spoils is
sated, being stayed with foaming milk and comforted with apples.
More weak, more thin, with every step he needs must stop some day. He stopped
before Beauvais, which grimly awaited him.
* * * * * * *
Antoine Canard, whose surname was de Latre, equerry in the stable of the King,
precipitately left the royal court, on the morning of July the twelfth, to bring
a missive to the inhabitants of Beauvais under the seal of their most gracious
King, Louis Eleventh, wherein he did convey "to his most deer and well-luved
subjects" thanks for their vigorous, their leonine, resistance to Duke Charles
of Burgundy, whose stubborn ranks besieged them with unshakable persistence.
Though naught redounded to Duke Charles thereby save increments of shame and
infamy. Always springing to the assault, always hurled back again. But if the
point of his warlike lance was somewhat worn away, the edge of his robust
appetite grew keener day by day.
Alas! the victuals were in Beauvais.
When with his warriors true he strove their walls to scale, Beauvais' bold
burghers threw, what, think you? roasted quail? No. Butter, radishes? Pray try
another guess. Lambs? Oxen? Well, not often. Fresh strawberries with cream?
Canteloupe? Salsifies? Fie! You either mock or dream. Molten lead on their eye-
balls dropped. 'Gainst their noses flaming torches fell, (full-blown roses, good
to smell), and o'er all their bodies a joyous pell-mell, hurtled down from the
rampart's brink, comprised of furniture, paving stones, roofing-slates, bullets,
half-gnawed bones, excrements of various sorts, sledges, anvils, nails, both big
and little, wooden casks and steel retorts, casseroles, kitchen dishes, spittle,
spoons, forks, frying-pans, urine, ink, hot grease and lots of boiling oil that
sudden conflagration spreads, tomb-stones, well-curbs, gutters, walls, the
belfry with the bell that calls a last alarm, and small bells, too, which
graciously tintinnabulate rained down on those devoted heads.
What did they throw besides, naught but the truth to state?
Ah, many objects, sharp, contusing, slitting, cutting, smashing, bruising,
rough, protuberant, horned and jointed, toothed like a saw, like a plough-share
pointed. Earth, sheet-metal, iron, steel, and chiselled stone were taken,
humped, bristling, twisted, ragged, confused, irregular, misshapen, coated with
rust and moss, in shreds, in strips, in wedges, pocked, riddled, shaped like a
cross, like a jack, like a hook, with slashing, jagged edges, crashing, roaring,
whistling, snoring, going humph, ouf, louf, pouf, pang, srang, trangl, balaam,
bottom, bettang, batar, arara, raraboum, bul, bul, breloc, relic, relaps, mil,
bomb, marl, broug, batocl, mirobol, pec, poc, quett, strict, pac, dyex, mec,
pitt, sec, seef, swahf, fleek, fang, breec, brrrrr . . . that crushed the
skulls, enlarged the noses, knit the ears, slit the mouths, sent in jumbled
rout, teeth, chins, cheek-bones, elbows, arms, legs, toes, as, scorning one for
an omelet no doubt, they wedded eye to eye, denuded the shoulder-blades, caved
the thorax and chest in, chilled hearts past the pit of the paunch protruded,
through the right buttock, then through the left one went prying, spinning them
into a false intestine, bashed to a jelly the testacles, made knee-pans into
billiard-balls, ravelled the feet into strange abortions, in an instant's span
deftly cleft a man into five, six, seven quivering portions.
Yes, indeed, and now once more, what was it that they flung?
Taunts, dead bodies, arrows, dung?
Still better! (tremble with me) -- dwellings. And had aught increased the
martial ire that swelled their bosoms, I suppose they'd have pitched the town
entire on the helmets of their foes!
Happily Dammartin, anticipating this crisis, privily entered into Beauvais with
his nimble bands of bowmen and bade the burghers stay these glorious
disbursements. Estimating, wise warrior that he was, that 'twould embarrass his
monarch such expenses to defray, he quickly brought the city to its senses, from
that time forth conducting the defenses on lines conforming to the accepted
mode. For from every side a vast array of troops each day towards the postern
port press, eager to raise the siege of that valiant civic fortress. Duke
Charles, a Caesar every inch, in his haste to ease his hunger-pinch with a
crusty loaf, and his thirst to quench were it but with a firkin of unfermented
wine, while with air-drawn dainties his mind made free, had omitted to
militarily invest Beauvais on the side of Paris. And troops, troops, troops
continuously through that open pathway flowed.
On this side, as on the other, one might suppose a joyous truce would soon
protrude its nose. -- The King, then, gave his valorous subjects thanks and by
the missive Master Antoine Canard, chief equerry of his stable, did consign into
their hands this fourteenth of July, exempted them from villein-tax and gabel,
restored the ancient privileges bestowed upon Beauvais in the days of Philip the
Fair, called them, to crown their honors' shining load, the worthy progeny of
Charlemagne, saviours of the proud empire of the Franks, promising they should
be perpetually objects of his especial love and care. Then, in conclusion,
begged, nay commanded them, to lay his royal hommage at the feet of a certain
Dame Laisne, thenceforward known to fame as Jeanne Hachette.
A glorious and an almost national fete was held in Beauvais that fourteenth of
July. In default of chiming bells, that had gone to coif the climbing
Burgundian, the martial trumpets blared their loud acclaim. Banners brilliant
with sunlight around the ramparts wound, the great procession of Saint
Angedresme; and, to disgruntle Charles, with his faithful bastion-stormers, who,
foiled and furious, watched them from the plain, tartlets were munched by public
and performers.





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