[There may be some who doubt whether the following story is in all respects perfectly true.  It is taken, however, from a history book, the ‘Chronicle of Jean Froissart,’ who wrote about the wars of the Black Prince.]

GREAT marvel it is to think and consider of a thing that I will tell you, and that was told to me in the house of the Comte de Foix at Orthez, by him who gave me to know concerning the battle of Juberot.  And I will tell you of this matter, what it was, for since the Squire told me this tale, whereof you shall presently have knowledge, certes I have thought over it a hundred times, and shall think as long as I live.

‘Certain it is,’ quoth the Squire, ’that the day after the fight at Juberot the Comte de Foix knew of it, whereat men marvelled much how this might be.  And all day, on the Sunday and the Monday and the Tuesday following, he made in his castle of Orthez such dull and simple cheer that none could drag a word out of him.  All these three days he would not leave his chamber, nor speak to knight or squire, howsoever near him they might be.  And when it came to Tuesday at evening, he called his brother, Sir Ernault Guillaume, and said to him in a low voice: 

’"Our men have fought, whereat I am grieved; for that has befallen them of their journey which I told them before they set out.”

’Sir Ernault, who is a right wise knight and of good counsel, knowing well the manner and ways of his brother the Count, held his peace for a little while.  Then the Count, willing to show his heart, and weary of his long sadness, spoke again, and louder than before, saying: 

’"By God, Sir Ernault, it is as I tell you, and shortly we shall have news; for never did the land of Béarn lose so much in one day ­no, not these hundred years ­as it has lost this time in Portugal.”

’Many knights and squires standing round who heard the Count noted these words, and in ten days learned the truth from them who had been in the fight, and who brought tidings, first to the Court, and afterwards to all who would hear them, of what befell at Juberot.  Thereby was the Count’s grief renewed, and that of all in the country who had lost brothers and fathers, sons and friends, in the fray.’

‘Marry!’ said I to the Squire, who was telling me his tale, ’and how could the Count know or guess what befell?  Gladly would I learn this.’

‘By my faith,’ said the Squire, ‘he knew it well, as appeared.’

’Is he a prophet, or has he messengers who ride at night with the wind?  Some art he must have.’

Then the Squire began to laugh.

’Truly he must learn by some way of necromancy; we know not here truly how he does it, save by phantasies.’

’Ah, good sir, of these fancies prithee tell me, and I will be grateful.  If it is a matter to keep silent, silent will I keep it, and never, while I am in this country, will I open my mouth thereon.’

’I pray you do not, for I would not that any should know I had spoken.  Yet others talk of it quietly when they are among their friends.’

Thereon he drew me apart into a corner of the castle chapel, and then began his tale, and spoke thus: 

’It may be twenty years since there reigned here a baron named Raymond, lord of Corasse, a town and castle seven leagues from Orthez.  Now, the lord of Corasse, at the time of which I speak, held a plea at Avignon before the Pope against a clerk of Catalonia who laid claim to the tithes of his town, the said clerk belonging to a powerful order, and claiming the right of the tithes of Corasse, which, indeed, amounted to a yearly sum of one hundred florins.  This right he set forth and proved before all men, for in his judgment, given in the Consistory General, Pope Urban V. declared that the clerk had won his case, and that the Chevalier had no ground for his claim.  The sentence once delivered, letters were given to the clerk enabling him to take possession, and he rode so hard that in a very short time he reached Béarn, and by virtue of the papal bull appropriated the tithes.  The Sieur de Corasse was right wroth with the clerk and his doings, and came to him and said: 

’"Master Martin, or Master Pierre, or whatever your name may be, do you think that I am going to give up my rights just because of those letters of yours?  I scarce fancy you are bold enough to lay hands on property of mine, for you will risk your life in the doing.  Go elsewhere to seek a benefice, for of my rights you shall have none, and this I tell you, once and for all.”

’The mind of the clerk misgave him, for he knew that the Chevalier cared not for men’s lives, and he dared not persevere.  So he dropped his claims, and betook himself to his own country or to Avignon.  And when the moment had come that he was to depart, he entered into the presence of the Sieur de Corasse, and said: 

’"Sir, it is by force and not by right that you lay hands on the property of the Church, of which you make such ill-use.  In this land you are stronger than I, but know that as soon as I may I will send you a champion whom you will fear more than you fear me.”

’The Sieur de Corasse, who did not heed his words, replied: 

’"Go, do as you will; I fear you as little alive as dead.  For all your talk, I will never give up my rights.”

’Thus parted the clerk and the Sieur de Corasse, and the clerk returned to his own country, but whether that was Avignon or Catalonia I know not.  But he did not forget what he had told the Sieur de Corasse when he bade him farewell; for three months after, when he expected it least, there came to the castle of Corasse, while the Chevalier was quietly sleeping, certain invisible messengers, who began to throw about all that was in the castle, till it seemed as if, truly, nothing would be left standing.  The Chevalier heard it all, but he said nought, for he would not be thought a coward, and indeed he had courage enough for any adventure that might befall.

’These sounds of falling weights continued for a long space, then ceased suddenly.

’When the morning came, the servants all assembled, and their lord having arisen from bed they came to him and said, “Sir, have you also heard that which we have heard this night?” And the Sieur de Corasse hid it in his heart and answered, “No; what have you heard?” And they told him how that all the furniture was thrown down, and all the kitchen pots had been broken.  But he began to laugh, and said it was a dream, and that the wind had caused it.  “Ah no,” sighed his wife; “I also have heard.”

’When the next night arrived, the noise-makers arrived too, and made more disturbance than before, and gave great knocks at the doors, and likewise at the windows of the Sieur de Corasse.  And the Chevalier leaped out of his bed and demanded, “Who is it that rocks my bed at this hour of the night?”.

’And answer was made him, “That which I am, I am.”

’Then asked the Chevalier, “By whom are you sent here?”

’"By the clerk of Catalonia, to whom you have done great wrong, for you have taken from him his rights and his heritage.  Hence you will never be suffered to dwell in peace till you have given him what is his due, and he is content.”

’"And you, who are so faithful a messenger,” inquired the Chevalier, “what is your name?”

’"They call me Orthon.”

’"Orthon,” said the knight, “the service of a clerk is worth nothing, and if you trust him, he will work you ill.  Leave me in peace, I pray you, and take service with me, and I shall be grateful.”

’Now, the knight was pleasing to Orthon, so he answered, “Is this truly your will?”

’"Yes,” replied the Sieur de Corasse.  “Do no ill unto those that dwell here, and I will cherish you, and we shall be as one.”

’"No,” spoke Orthon.  “I have no power save to wake you and others, and to disturb you when you fain would sleep.”

’"Do as I say,” said the Chevalier; “we shall agree well, if only you will abandon this wicked clerk.  With him there is nothing but pain, and if you serve me ­”

’"Since it is your will,” replied Orthon, “it is mine also.”

’The Sieur de Corasse pleased Orthon so much that he came often to see him in his sleep, and pulled away his pillow or gave great knocks against the window of the room where he lay.  And when the Chevalier was awakened he would exclaim, “Let me sleep, I pray you, Orthon!”

’"Not so,” said Orthon; “I have news to give you.”

“And what news will you give me?  Whence come you?”

’Then said Orthon, “I come from England, or Germany, or Hungary, or some other country, which I left, yesterday, and such-and-such things have happened.”

’Thus it was that the Sieur de Corasse knew so much when he went into the world; and this trick he kept up for five or six years.  But in the end he could not keep silence, and made it known to the Comte de Foix in the way I shall tell you.

’The first year, whenever the Sieur de Corasse came into the presence of the Count at Ortais or elsewhere, he would say to him:  “Monseigneur, such-and-such a thing has happened in England, or in Scotland, or in Germany, or in Flanders, or in Brabant, or in some other country,” and the Comte de Foix marvelled greatly at these things.  But one day he pressed the Sieur de Corasse so hard that the knight told him how it was he knew all that passed in the world and who told him.  When the Comte de Foix knew the truth of the matter, his heart leapt with joy, and he said:  “Sieur de Corasse, bind him to you in love.  I would I had such a messenger.  He costs you nothing, and knows all that passes throughout the world.”

’"Monseigneur,” said the Chevalier, “thus will I do.”

’Thus the Sieur de Corasse was served by Orthon, and that for long.  I know not if Orthon had more than one master, but certain it is that every week he came, twice or thrice during the night, to tell to the Sieur de Corasse the news of all the countries that he had visited, which the Sieur wrote at once to the Comte de Foix, who was of all men most joyed in news from other lands.  One day when the Sieur de Corasse was with the Comte de Foix, the talk fell upon Orthon, and suddenly the Count inquired, “Sieur de Corasse, have you never seen your messenger?”

’He answered, “No, by my faith, Monseigneur, and I have never even asked to.”

’"Well,” he replied, “it is very strange.  If he had been as friendly to me as he is to you, I should long ago have begged him to show me who and what he is.  And I pray that you will do all you can, so that I may know of what fashion he may be.  You tell me that his speech is Gascon, such as yours or mine.”

’"By my faith,” said the Sieur de Corasse, “it is only the truth.  His Gascon is as good as the best; and, since you advise it, I will spare myself no trouble to see what he is like.”

’Two or three nights after came Orthon, and finding the Sieur de Corasse sleeping soundly, he pulled the pillow, so as to wake him.  So the Sieur de Corasse awoke with a start and inquired, “Who is there?”

’He answered, “I am Orthon.”

’"And whence do you come?”

’"From Prague in Bohemia.  The Emperor of Rome is dead.”

’"And when did he die?”

’"The day before yesterday.”

’"And how far is it from Prague to this?”

‘"How far?” he answered.  “Why, it is sixty days’ journey.”

’"And you have come so quickly?”

’"But, by my faith, I travel more quickly than the wind.”

’"And have you wings?”

’"By my faith, no.”

’"How, then, do you fly so fast?”

’Said Orthon, “That does not concern you.”

’"No,” he replied; “but I would gladly see of what form you are.”

’Said Orthon, “My form does not concern you.  Content you with what I tell you and that my news is true.”

’"Now, as I live,” cried the Sieur de Corasse, “I should love you better if I had but seen you.”

’Said Orthon, “Since you have such burning desire to see me, the first thing you behold to-morrow morning on getting out of bed will be I.”

’"It is enough,” answered the Sieur de Corasse.  “Go.  I take leave of you for this night.”

’When the day dawned, the Sieur de Corasse arose from his bed, but his wife was filled with such dread of meeting Orthon that she feigned to be ill, and protested she would lie abed all day; for she said, “Suppose I were to see him?”

’"Now,” cried the Sieur de Corasse, “see what I do,” and he jumped from his bed and sat upon the edge, and looked about for Orthon; but he saw nothing.  Then he threw back the windows so that he could note more clearly all that was in the room, but again he saw nought of which he could say, “That is Orthon.”

’The day passed and night came.  Hardly had the Sieur de Corasse climbed up into his bed than Orthon arrived, and began to talk to him, as his custom was.

’"Go to, go to,” said the Sieur de Corasse; “you are but a bungler.  You promised to show yourself to me yesterday, and you never appeared.”

’"Never appeared,” said he.  “But I did, by my faith.”

’"You did not.”

’"And did you see nothing,” said Orthon, “when you leapt from your bed?”

’The Sieur de Corasse thought for a little; then he answered.  “Yes,” he replied; “as I was sitting on my bed and thinking of you, I noticed two long straws on the floor twisting about and playing together.”

’"That was I,” said Orthon.  “That was the form I had taken upon me.”

’Said the Sieur de Corasse:  “That is not enough.  You must take another form, so that I may see you and know you.”

’"You ask so much that I shall become weary of you and you will lose me,” replied Orthon.

’"You will never become weary of me and I shall never lose you,” answered the Sieur de Corasse; “if only I see you once, I shall be content.”

’"So be it,” said Orthon; “to-morrow you shall see me, and take notice that the first thing you see as you leave your room will be I.”

’"It is enough,” spoke the Sieur de Corasse; “and now go, for I fain would sleep.”

’So Orthon went; and when it was the third hour next morning the Sieur de Corasse rose and dressed as was his custom, and, leaving his chamber, came out into a gallery that looked into the central court of the castle.  He glanced down, and the first thing he saw was a sow, larger than any he had ever beheld, but so thin that it seemed nothing but skin and bone.  The Sieur de Corasse was troubled at the sight of the pig, and said to his servants:  “Set on the dogs, and let them chase out that sow.”

’The varlets departed and loosened the dogs, and urged them to attack the sow, which uttered a great cry and looked at the Sieur de Corasse, who stood leaning against one of the posts of his chamber.  They saw her no more, for she vanished, and no man could tell whither she had gone.

’Then the Sieur de Corasse entered into his room, pondering deeply, for he remembered the words of Orthon and said to himself:  “I fear me that I have seen my messenger.  I repent me that I have set my dogs upon him, and the more that perhaps he will never visit me again, for he has told me, not once but many times, that if I angered him he would depart from me.”

’And in this he said well; for Orthon came no more to the castle of Corasse, and in less than a year its lord himself was dead.’