Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.7 #160 (02 Aug 1851).
Within ten leagues of the curious town of Caen, where William of Normandy and his Queen lie buried, the traveller who devotes a short space of time to a search after the picturesque may, without straying too far afield, find what he desires in the clean, bright, gay town of Falaise, where the hero of the Conquest was born.
Rising suddenly from the banks of a brawling crystal stream, a huge mass of grey rocks, thrown in wild confusion one on the other, sustains on its summit the imposing remains of a feudal castle, whose high white tower, alone and in perfect preservation, looks round over an immense tract of smiling country, and tells a tale of bygone power and grandeur; adjoining this mighty donjon are walls of enormous thickness, adorned with a range of beautiful windows with circular arches of early Norman style; close to the last of those, whose pillars, with wreathed capitals, are as sharp as in the first year of their construction, is a low door leading to a small chamber in the thickness of the wall; there is a little recess in one corner, and a small window, through whose minute opening glimpses of a fine prospect can be caught. It was in this narrow room, once said to have been adorned with gold and vermilion and other gay hues, that a child was born in secrecy and mystery, and that by the imperfect light his beautiful mother looked upon the features of the future hero of Normandy. Arlette, the skinner's daughter, whose beauty had attracted the eye of her lord, tradition says, while she was bathing in the fountain which still bears her name, was here confined of William the Great, conqueror of England; and it was in this gloomy retreat that the wondrous infant, who was to decide the destinies of two nations, uttered his first shrill cry, which echo caught up and sent throughout the land . Little, perhaps, did his poor mother exult in his birth; she was of lowly lineage, had never raised her eyes to the castle but with awe, nor thought of its master but with fear; her pleasures were to dance under the shade of trees with the simple villagers, her duties to wash her linen on the stones of the silver stream which flowed past her father's cottage.
There might be one amongst the youths who admired her beauty whom she preferred to the rest--she might have dreamt of love and happiness with him--he might have imagined his asking her of her father, who gave a gracious consent; the bells of the Church of St. Gervais would ring a merry peal, her companions would strew flowers in her path; he she loved would lead her home to his humble cot amongst the heath-covered rocks of Noron. But no--such was not to be her fate; a mail-clad warrior, terrible and powerful, whose will may not be resisted, whose gold glitters in her father's eyes, or whose chains clank in his ear, has seen and coveted her beauty. Her father trembles while he feebly resists; he entreats the mighty duke to spare his child; he dares not tell her of the proposition made to him; he hopes that time and new adventures will efface Arlette from the mind of her dangerous lover; but again he is urged. How shall he turn from the heaps of gold that tempt him?--how shall be escape from the oubliette that yawns for the disobedient vassal in yonder tower? He appeals to his daughter. She has no reply but tears Men-at-arms appear in the night—they knock at his door and demand Ariette. They promise fair in the name of their master; they mount her on a steed before the gentlest of their band; his horse's hoofs clatter along the rocky way; her father hears the sobs of his child for a little space, and his heart sinks within him; he turns and counts the pieces thrown upon his threshold. Arlette returns no more to her paternal cottage: she is concealed from view in a turret of the castle. But it is not as a handmaiden of the duchess she remains there—her existence is not supposed to be known, though the childless wife of Duke Robert weeps in secret over her wrongs.
This may all be fancy, and perhaps Arlette did not weep at her distinction. She might have been ambitious, and have seen glories to come in her child—she might have been artful, and commanded the affections of her lover; and when she told him that she dreamt "a tree sprang from her bosom which overshaded all Normandy," her designs might have been deep and resolved. When her little son, placed on straw by his side, filled his strong but tiny hands with as much as he could grasp, she might have taken advantage of the circumstance to rouse his father's pride, and have dictated the saying of the midwife—"Par Dieu! this child begins early to grasp, and make all his own!" The child, at all events, was "honourably brought up," and treated as if legitimate.
Close to the natal chamber of Duke William may be seen another opening in the wall still smaller and much more dismal, to which a ruined window now gives mere light than in the days when poor young Arthur of Brittany looked vainly through its loop-hole over a wide extent of country, now all cultivation and beauty, but probably then bristling with forts and towers, all in the hands of his hard-hearted uncle, John.
After having made his nephew prisoner in Anjou, John sent him to Falaise, and had him placed in this dungeon in the custody of some severe but not cruel knights, who treated him with all the respect they dared to show. An order from their treacherous master arrived that they should put their captive to death; but they refused obedience, and indignantly exclaimed that the walls of the Castle of Felaise should not be disgraced by such a crime. Arthur was therefore removed to Rouen; and there less conscientious men were found to execute his uncle's will, if tradition, so varied on the point, speaks true.
Stephen maintained himself in this castle against the father of Henry II, and these walls have probably echoed to the lays of minstrels who tuned their harps in praise of the beautiful and haughty heiress of Aquitaine. The fair and neglected wife of Cœur de Lion had the Castle of Falaise for her dower, and for some time is said to have lived there. Philip Augustus accorded some singular privileges to Falaise, two of which deserve notice. If a woman were convicted of being fond of scandal, and known to backbite her neighbours, they were permitted to place cords under her arms, and duck her three times in the water; after this, if a man took the liberty of reproaching her with the circumstance, he was compelled to pay a fine of ten sous, or else he was plunged into the stream in a similar manner. If a man were so ungallant as to call a woman ugly, he was obliged to pay a fine; but if the women were as pretty then as they appear now in Falaise, it was not likely that such an offence would often be committed. With their neat petticoats, smart feet in sabots, high butterfly or mushroom caps, as white as snow, scarlet handkerchiefs, and bright-coloured aprons--with their round cheeks, lively eyes, and good-humoured expression, the Falaisiennes are as agreeable-looking a race as one would wish to see, and more likely to elicit compliments than reproach.
One anecdote is related of a heroine of Falaise, whose exploits are recorded with pride by our countrymen, by whom she is called La Grande Eperonnière. She had headed party of valiant citizens who defended one of their gates, and fought with such determination as to keep her position for a long time against the soldiers of Henry IV. The king, when the town was in his power, summoned her before him. She came with the same undaunted air, and before he had time to propose terms to her, demanded at once the safety of the old men, and all the women of Falaise. Henry was struck by her courage, and desired her to shut herself up in a street with all the persons she wished to save, together with all their most precious possessions. He gave her his word that no soldiers should penetrate into that retreat, and he, of course, kept his word. She called together her friends and took charge of much of the riches of the town, closed the two ends of the street in which she lived, and, while all the rest of the town was given up to pillage, no one ventured to enter the sacred precincts. The street is still pointed out, and is called Camp-ferme, in memory of the event. The heroic Eperonnière was fortunate in having a chief to deal with who gladly took advantage of every opportunity to exercise mercy.