CHAPTER X
WILLIAM DE COLLINGHAM
THE name of William de Collingham was of high account in his day and generation. Moreover, his name occupies a conspicuous place in the history of the great contest which desolated England in the second decade of the thirteenth century.
It is difficult to decide whether the Collinghams were of Saxon or Danish origin. Most probably they were originally Danes, who landed with King Sweyn when he came, in 1004, to avenge the cruel massacre of his countrymen, and who, under the rule of Canute the Great, settled quietly in Yorkshire. However, Collingham himself was neither a Saxon nor a Dane, but an Englishman; and the armorial figure on his shield and white banner was a raven of fierce aspect in full flight, which, about the year 1216, became very terrible indeed to the enemies of England.
William de Collingham was chief of a family that had risen to baronial rank in England during the stirring reigns of Henry and Richard; and the two earliest of our Plantagenets had profited by their loyal services. Moreover, ten years before our story opens, William had been in favour with King John; and, being then a young and handsome chevalier of twenty-five who had proved his valour and prowess in the tilt-yard and in the wars carried on against Philip Augustus, he was held in much esteem in England. But William had since experienced, to his cost, the caprice of fortune. About 1205 he had the misfortune to be so far led astray by his imagination as to aspire to the affections of Eleanor, “the fair damsel of Brittany,” sister of the ill-fated Arthur, and, in consequence, involved himself in serious trouble. Men jealous of his renown, and eager to seize his possessions, represented the affair in such a light that John,—to whom the existence of a daughter of his elder brother caused much anxiety, seeing that, according to the laws of succession, she had a legal claim to the crown which he wore—was frightened out of his propriety; and Collingham atoned for his too-romantic aspiration by banishment from the realm. One of his bitterest enemies was the queen.
Years, however, had passed; great changes had taken place; and William de Collingham’s existence was almost forgotten even by John himself, when, on that spring day, the banished man rescued him from so terrible a danger. But the king was by no means sorry that Collingham was yet “in the flesh.” Indeed, his presence was most welcome, for John’s affairs had reached such a stage that every partisan was of consequence; and he did not think lightly of a follower so stout and so capable as Collingham of rendering loyal service, as his father had done before him. So Collingham exchanged his life in the forest for the king’s court; and having, in the first place, saved Oliver Icingla by a word, began to exercise much influence over the warlike preparations which John was making with the object of defending himself and his crown against attack.
And, indeed, it was now clear that the barons were ready to go all lengths. In vain the king had taken the cross; in vain he sent to Rome and invoked the mediation of the Pope. Nothing daunted them. On Easter week they gathered from various quarters in Lincolnshire, assembled at Stamford, and from Stamford removed to Brackley with two thousand knights, who, with squires and men-at-arms, made up a formidable feudal army. At Brackley they halted to deliberate before laying siege to Northampton, which is situated about fifteen miles from Brackley.
Naturally enough, John felt much alarm when he learned that his enemies were at the head of such a force as he could not cope with; but at this crisis he was not deserted. Not only the Nevilles, but the great Earls of Pembroke and Salisbury and Warren remained faithful in the day of adversity; and faithful also remained many chevaliers and gentlemen, who, without any personal liking for John, and without any of the young Icingla’s hereditary veneration for the memory of St. Edward, were yet determined to stand by the king and fight for the Confessor’s crown. However, it was necessary to take some steps to avert civil war if possible; and John, having summoned Archbishop Langton, sent him, in company with Pembroke and Warren, to hold a conference with the barons at Brackley, and offer to refer their dispute to arbitration. But they found the insurgents in no compromising mood. Producing the petition which, on the day of Epiphany, had been presented to the king in the house of the Templars, they recited the chief articles.
“These are our claims,” said the barons, sternly, as they handed the petition to Langton; “and, if we do not receive full satisfaction, we appeal to the God of Battles.”
The primate and the two earls returned to the king, and Langton, with the petition in his hand, explained its contents, and related what the barons had said.
“By God’s teeth!” exclaimed John, losing his temper, when calmness was so necessary, “I will not grant these men liberties which would make me their slave. Why do they not likewise demand my crown?”
Without delay Langton carried the king’s answer to Brackley; and the barons, fortified by the counsels and support of the primate, resolved to hesitate no longer. Calling themselves “the army of God and the Church,” they chose Robert Fitzwalter as their general-in-chief, and, raising the standard of revolt, advanced to Northampton in feudal array.
But Northampton did not, as they probably anticipated, open its gates to admit them. Defended by a strong castle, and walls built after the Conquest by Simon St. Litz, and strongly garrisoned with Royalists, the town held out gallantly, and for a whole fortnight defied all their assaults so successfully that they lost patience.
“We are wasting our strength here,” said some, “and giving the king time to take measures for our destruction.”
“Yes,” said others, “let us on to Bedford, to which William Beauchamp will admit us without a blow.”
Accordingly the barons raised the siege of Northampton, and marching to Bedford, of which William Beauchamp, one of their party, was governor, they took possession of the town. But John did not despair. A considerable body of mercenaries were now at his beck and call. William de Collingham was rallying archers to the royal standard; Pembroke, Warren, and Salisbury were mustering the fighting men of the districts subject to their sway; Lord Neville had hurried to his castle of Raby to summon the men of the North to the war. So long as London held out—and so far the Londoners seemed to look quietly on—there was still hope for the royal cause. Such was the state of affairs when an event occurred which changed the face of matters, and baffled all calculations.
It was Sunday, the 17th of May, 1215; and the king, having just heard morning mass, and summoned Oliver Icingla and other hostages, was informing them that their lives were forfeited by the rebellion of their kinsmen, and that they could only save themselves by taking an oath to serve him faithfully in the war, when William de Collingham presented himself, pale and agitated, but endeavouring to be calm.
“Sire, sire,” said he, “all is lost!”
“What mean you?” asked John, in a voice tremulous with emotion, and dismay on every feature.
“Simply this, sire,” answered William; “the Londoners have proved traitors, and Robert Fitzwalter and his army are now in possession of the city.”
John rose, tottered, reseated himself, tore his hair, and uttered some wild words, as if cursing the hour in which he was born.
“By God’s teeth!” cried he, stamping violently, “I have never prospered since the day I was reconciled to the Pope.”
But fury and regret could avail the king nothing. Every gate was already in the custody of the insurgents; and from the castles of Baynard and Montfichet waved the standard of revolt.
CHAPTER XI
ANCIENT LONDON
AT the opening of the thirteenth century, London, as I have already mentioned, was a little city, containing some forty thousand inhabitants, and surrounded by an old Roman wall, with seven double gates—the fortifications—being in parts much decayed. It was in the form of a bow and string, being much more extensive from east to west than from north to south, and narrower at both ends than at the middle; and the wall on the south side, along the bank of the Thames, was straight as a line, and fortified with towers, or bulwarks, in due distance from each other.
At that time London was considered one of the murkiest capitals in Europe. For the most part, the houses were mean, the lower stories built of plaster, and the upper, which were of timber, projecting over the lower; and, as has been observed, many of the streets were so narrow that the inhabitants, when they ascended to the roofs to breathe the fresh air, and look forth on the country, could converse with ease, and sometimes even shake hands.
Nevertheless, London was renowned for its wealth, and ever and anon the eye of a visitor was struck with some edifice rising with lofty dignity from among the dingy houses that lined the long narrow streets—the Tower Palatine, the Hospital of St. Katherine, the castles of Baynard and Montfichet, reared by Norman conquerors; the half-fortified mansions, inhabited by prelates and nobles when they were summoned to the king’s court; the residences of the richer citizens, who derived from their trade incomes that enabled them to rival the nobles in splendour; and the thirteen conventual, and the hundred and twenty-six parish churches, which studded the city, and kept alive the flames of learning and religion.
Moreover, within and without the walls, there were chapelries, and gardens, and places pleasant to the gazer’s eye. Orchards blossomed and apples grew where now are Paternoster Row and Ivy Lane, and to the north of Holborn, where, somewhat later, John de Kirkby built the palace for the Bishop of Ely; associated with the memory of John of Gaunt. Outside of Ludgate, and beyond the bridge that spanned the Fleet, and beyond the house of the Templars and Lincoln’s Inn, the town residence of the Lacies, was the Strand, overgrown with bushes and intersected with rivulets, having on one side the river, where barges floated and salmon leaped and swans glided; and on the other, gardens and fields, dotted with suburban villas, and stretching away in one direction to the chase and palace of Marylebone, and the hills of Highgate and Hampstead; and in another by Clerkenwell and Islington to the great forest of Middlesex, which was not, however, disforested till 1218, when the citizens had an opportunity of purchasing land and building houses and greatly extending the suburbs.
Many and various were the sports and recreations in which the ancient Londoners indulged on high days and holidays. It is to be feared that they did yield in some measure to the temptations of the maypole, the tavern, the cockpit, the bull-ring, and the gaming-house, and even found their way at times to “the vaulted room of gramarye,” in which the wizard exercised his art. But generally their recreations were of a manly and invigorating kind. They played football in the fields near the Holy Well, wrestled for the ram near Matilda’s Hospital, in St. Giles’s Fields, had horse-races and matches at quintain in Smithfield; and, when the Thames was frozen over, they tied sheep-bones to their feet—skates not having then come into fashion—and tilted against each other with staves in full career. Nor did they, at other times, neglect such aquatic exercises as were likely to train them to skill and hardihood. “A pole,” says the chronicler, “is set up in the middle of the river, and a shield made fast thereto. Then a young man, standing in a boat, which, being rowed by oars and driven by the tide, glides swiftly on, while he with his lance hits the target as the boat passes by, when if he breaks his lance without losing his own footing he performeth well; but if, on the contrary, the lance remains unbroken, he will be tumbled into the water, and the boat passes on. Nevertheless, there are always two boats ready to succour him.”
Around the walls of London were houses, and churches, and hospitals; and Fitzstephen, writing with the scene before his eye, tells us that “on all sides, without the suburbs, are the citizens’ gardens or orchards.” But of all the suburbs, Clerkenwell, where stood the Priory of the Knights of St. John, and the great mansion of the De Clares, was the fairest. In fact, Clerkenwell, then a village some distance from London, was one of the most picturesque places in England, having on every side but that towards the city the prospect of wooded hills and uplands, mingled with luxuriant verdure; while the river Holborn, its banks clothed with vines, wound among romantic steeps and secluded dells; and there, among glittering pebbles, was the fountain called “Fons Clericorum,” from which the village took its name, because the youths and students of the city—and the schools of London were frequented by diligent scholars—were in the habit of strolling out, on summer evenings, to take the air and taste the water.
It was at Clerkenwell, in a pleasant garden, which, however, was evidently intended more for use than ornament, and flanked by an orchard, where fruit trees grew thick, and afforded shady walks for its musing and meditative owner, that the suburban villa of Constantine Fitzarnulph was situated; and it was there that, in the spring of 1215, the season of Lent being over, the young citizen gave a supper to some of the Londoners whose wealth and influence were greatest, such as the Hardels, the Basings, and the Fitz-Peters, the kind of men of whom, thirty years later, Henry III., when advised to sell his crown jewels, and told that, if no other purchaser could be found rich enough to buy them, the citizens of London could, exclaimed, “Yes, by God’s head, I suppose that if the treasures of Augustus Cæsar were in the market, these clownish citizens, who call themselves barons, could lay down money enough to buy them.” But in one respect Henry was wrong. The citizens of London were not “clowns;” their hospitality was proverbial, and intercourse with foreigners refined their manners and enlarged their minds. Neither in point of breeding or intelligence were the guests of Fitzarnulph at all inferior to the Bigods and Bohuns who set kings at defiance, and wedded kings’ daughters.
Nor did the villa of the Fitzarnulphs lack any of the luxuries which at that period could be found in the castle of prince or feudal noble. In the hall where the guests were assembled appeared the enamelled work of Limoges, the linen of Ipres, then celebrated for its manufacture—hence “diaper”—and the products of Spain and Italy, and the spoils of Constantinople, recently seized and plundered by the crusaders under Baldwin of Flanders and Dandolo, the blind Doge of Venice. On the table, around which they sat on chairs curiously carved, were saltcellars of rare workmanship, and copper candlesticks, engraved and gilt, with enamel of seven colours let into the metal, and displaying figures of animals, and dishes, cups, and boxes ornamented like the candlesticks. The walls and wainscot were painted with subjects from history or fable; and more than one image and more than one picture recalled to memory the recent sack of that rich city on the Bosphorus to which the eye of Norman and Frank had for centuries been longingly turned.
The supper was not placed on the board, but, according to the fashion of the day, served to the guests on spits. At first the company appeared under constraint and silent; but when supper was over, and the attendants were ordered to leave the apartments, and the doors were closed, so that the conversation might be strictly private, and when Fitzarnulph had pointed significantly to the rose on the roof-tree, surrounded with the legend—
Beneath my roof shall never live;”
and when the wine, which had neither been produced on the banks of the Holborn nor in the vineyards of Gloucester, flowed freely, their tongues were loosened, and they expressed themselves without hesitation as to the crisis which public affairs had reached, not by any means sparing King John, whose character they evidently viewed in the very worst light. Two of the party, however, preserved their discretion. One was Joseph Basing, a cautious man, who had been Sheriff of London in the previous year; the other a youth of patrician aspect, in a half-martial dress, with handsome features, and a keen eye which kindled with enthusiasm when noble words were spoken, and a proud lip which curled with scorn when a mean sentiment was expressed.
“Sirs,” said Joseph Basing, after listening silently and with an air of alarm to remarks which, if repeated, might have cost ten lives, “I will not take upon me to dispute that there is some truth in much that has been said, and especially that, in the matter of taxes and imposts, the Londoners have of late had burdens laid on their shoulders which men cannot and ought not to bear with patience. Nevertheless, we must look before we leap, lest we should meet the fate of William Fitzozbert, who was hanged at the Nine Elms, in Richard’s time, for calling himself King of the Poor, and speaking ill of the powers that be. For myself, I care not to place myself in jeopardy, even for the weal of my fellow-citizens, unless I see a way of getting safely out again; and, for the king, I believe it is said in Holy Writ, ‘Curse not the king, no, not in thy thoughts, for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.’ My masters, let us be cautious. King John may be less wise and less merciful than he might be; but a king’s name is a tower of strength. He is still a king, and as yet lacks neither the will nor the power to punish those who rebel against him. Therefore, I say again, let us be cautious, and set not our lives rashly on the cast of the die.”
A murmur, in which all present joined, intimated to Joseph Basing the dissatisfaction which his speech had excited. But, however timid as to his life, he was evidently not a man to surrender his judgment to his comrades merely to please them.
“Besides,” continued he, speaking in a resolute tone, “who are these barons, that peaceful citizens should cry them ‘God speed?’ How and why did they cease to eat the bread of wickedness and drink the wine of violence? Who does not know that, up to the day when King Henry came to the throne, they taxed their ingenuity to invent instruments of torture to wring gold from their unoffending neighbours? and the Earl of Essex, who was rather better than his fellow-barons, used to send about spies to beg from door to door, that he might learn in what house there was any wealth to plunder. Verily, my masters, we ought to be careful lest we bring back such evil days, and find ourselves at the mercy of such ruthless men.”
“Sir citizen,” said the young noble, speaking for the first time, “these are old stories, and such crimes as you impute to the Earl of Essex cannot be laid to the charge of the barons forming the army of God and the Church.”
Joseph Basing was about to answer sharply, but Constantine Fitzarnulph indicated by a gesture his desire to be heard, and there was silence.
“My friends,” said Fitzarnulph, in a tone which he hoped would prevent any argument, “it seems to me that this discourse is unprofitable, and that it would be more to the purpose to come to a decision on the point we are met to decide. The barons calling themselves the army of God and the Church are at Bedford, ready to march to London, if assured of a favourable reception in the city. Such reception we here assembled have influence sufficient to secure, if we so will it; and there is here present a young Norman noble—Walter de Merley by name—who is ready to carry your decision to them as rapidly as horse can carry him. Is it your desire—yea or nay—that the army now at Bedford should march to London?”
Joseph Basing was silent: all the others with one accord shouted “Yea;” and, almost as the sound ceased, Walter de Merley, having exchanged signals with Fitzarnulph, vanished from the hall.
“By our Lady of Newminster,” said the young warrior, as he mounted his steed and set its face towards Bedford, “it was no more than prudent to make these citizens pledge themselves to secrecy by an oath which they cannot break without risking eternal perdition. Not one of them but will waken up at sunrise to-morrow, repenting of and trembling at the recollection of the scene that has just been enacted.”
And while he rode on, congratulating himself on the success of Fitzarnulph’s attempts to induce the leading citizens of London to make the cause of the barons their own, the doors of Fitzarnulph’s hall were thrown open; and wine and spices were served to the guests; and each departed to his own home to seek repose, and probably to dream of the danger in which he might be involved should the secret ooze out before the arrival of “the army of God and the Church.”
CHAPTER XII
THE BARONS IN LONDON
FITZARNULPH’S project prospered.
Everything was managed with secrecy and success. On being assured that they might count on a hearty welcome from the Londoners, the barons left Bedford, and advanced to Ware, in Hertfordshire; and, while the royalists knew nothing of their movements, save from vague and uncertain rumours, they, on Saturday, the 16th of May, left Ware after sunset, and, marching all night, found themselves in the neighbourhood of the capital without a foe having appeared to notice their approach.
It was early on Sunday when the baronial warriors reached the walls of London, and Aldgate stood open to admit them. At the time, the inhabitants were for the most part at morning mass, and the nobles and their fighting men entered the city, and took possession of the gates, at each of which they posted parties of guards, almost ere their presence was suspected by the royalists, and long before their arrival was announced at the Tower. No sooner did they find themselves in undisputed possession of the capital, and assured of the support of the chief citizens, than they gratified the prejudices of the populace by falling upon a race who from their position always suffered early in civil commotions.
At that time the Jews were odious to Christendom, and doubtless did much to deserve hatred. But to no people in Europe was the Jew, with his sensual lip, his hook nose, his peculiar features, his high square yellow cap, and his russet gabardine, an object of so much dislike and distrust as to the English. For all this antipathy there were various reasons.
Almost every Jew was understood openly or secretly to revile and insult Christianity, and scarcely a year passed without some terrible charge being made against the race in this respect. One year it was said that a Jew had stabbed the Host; in the next that a Jew had defaced an image of the Virgin; in the third that a Jew had crucified a boy, in mockery of the Saviour. At the time of the Crusades such charges became more frequent than ever; for the Jews were believed to sympathise strongly with the Saracens, and to show their sympathy by furnishing arms to carry on the war, poisoning the wells and fountains at which the armed pilgrims were likely to quench their thirst, and sneering at the zeal which prompted Christians to “take the staff and sandal in superstitious penance, and walk afoot to visit the graves of dead men.”
No doubt these circumstances would of themselves have rendered the Jew an object of hatred wherever he appeared; but there were other and very strong reasons for the detestation with which men of the Hebrew race were regarded by the multitude. Almost every Jew was rich, and a money-lender, and a usurer, and was in the habit of using his advantages in such a way as to grind the faces of men of all ranks who were under the necessity of coming to him for aid. Abbots and barons were his debtors; but it was not merely the inmate of the monastery and the castle who experienced his rapacity and atrocities. While the abbot pledged his plate, and the baron his armour and horses, the craftsman pledged his tools, the trader his wares, and the husbandman his ploughshare. Of course, all these men were frequently at the Jew’s mercy, and most of them found, to their severe experience, that the mercy of a Jew was worse than the cruelty of a Christian.
No sooner, therefore, did the barons forming “the army of God and the Church” find themselves in London, and in a position to do whatever they pleased with the city, than they proceeded to pay off some of their debts to the Jews after a fashion which was little to the taste of the Israelites. Proceeding with such intent to the Jewry—the quarter set apart for and inhabited by the Jews, and remarkable as concerned the construction of the houses, which were of a peculiar style, with a chimney over the door, a mode of building to which the persecuted race were compelled to adhere, in order that their dwellings might be distinguished from those of Christians—they stopped at one of them, over which was inscribed in Hebrew characters, “This is the station or ward of Rabbi Moses, son of the honourable Rabbi Isaac,” and, to the terror of the inmates, began to tear down the building, not forgetting in the meantime to look out for plunder, and to lay their hands on all that was not too hot or too heavy to carry away. Proceeding with the work of destruction, which some were foolish enough to mistake for doing God service, the baronial insurgents pulled down the houses of all the principal Hebrews, and had the stones carried away to repair the gates of London, especially Ludgate and Aldgate—which had so easily admitted them, but which they were determined should not admit any other armed force, save at their pleasure—rebuilding them after the Norman fashion, with small bricks and Flanders tiles. Nearly four centuries later, when Ludgate was pulled down, and when, to borrow the words of the poet,
And their swords were rust—”
when their names were forgotten, and the places that had once known them knew them no more, and their lands had become the prey of the grooms and minions who pandered to the passions and obeyed the behests of the Tudor sovereigns, the stone which had been taken from the house of the Rabbi Moses was discovered, and the inscription interpreted—an interesting memorial of other days, and one which might have suggested salutary reflections.
Having dealt with the Jews, the Anglo-Norman barons, resolute in their plan of going all lengths till their demands were complied with, took two important steps. First, they wrote to all the lords and knights throughout England demanding aid, and declaring plainly their intention to regard as enemies and punish as traitors all who did not support “the army of God and the Church;” next, they boldly quashed all scruples as to assailing a feudal superior, and prepared to besiege the king in the Tower, and got ready their engines of war to commence operations. But by this time John’s alarm had got the better of his rashness; and, changing his tactics, he, instead of bidding defiance to the confederates as before, determined on an attempt to delude them.
Fortunately for the king, the Earl of Pembroke, on learning that a crisis was imminent, had hastened to London; and the earl, being a man of such high character and unquestionable patriotism that he either had no personal enemies or only such as were ashamed to confess their enmity, was in a position to exercise great influence with both parties. He was quite firm in his support of the crown, and was one of those men who would have stood by it, even if it had hung on a bush; but at the same time he was zealous for liberty, and as anxious as any of the confederate barons to have full securities for the liberty of Englishmen. When, therefore, Pembroke was summoned to John’s presence, along with William de Hartarad, the king’s cup-bearer, and Robert of London, a clerk of the Chapel Royal, he went with the intention of suggesting some such compromise as might prevent war and bloodshed.
“I now perceive,” said John, more calmly than he was in the habit of speaking, “that my crown is at stake.”
“Sire,” replied Pembroke, with much more deference that he was wont to speak in the king’s prosperity, “I grieve with all my heart that affairs have reached such a stage. But all is not yet lost; nor is there any reason to despair of getting over all difficulties, if God aids you. All may yet be saved by reasonable concessions.”
“It is vain,” replied John, “to speak of reasonable concessions now. When my foes are in the capital with arms and horses, and when they beleaguer my fortress with fighting men and engines of war, I know full well that neither Robert Fitzwalter nor any of his friends will listen to reason. Their answer, were you to address them in such a strain, would be ‘Sit pro ratione voluntas.’ It is no time to hesitate. In another week the handwriting would be on the wall, and in a month my crown and sceptre would pass away. I have well considered the matter, and have not been unmindful of the duty I owe to my son. Wherefore I beseech thee to go to Fitzwalter and his confederates, and tell them that, if they will forbear from their attempt to take this place, I will be prepared to grant all their demands. Let them appoint the time and place for a conference. Go forthwith, my lord earl, and promise them every satisfaction. William de Hartarad and Robert of London will bear thee company; and may God speed you in your errand!”
And so the Earl of Pembroke, attended by the cup-bearer and the clerk, left the Tower, and was admitted to an interview with Fitzwalter and the barons; and the earl delivered the king’s message, and added,—
“My lords, it remains for you to fix the time when and place where the conference is to be held.”
And Robert Fitzwalter, after consulting his confederates, turned to Pembroke, and replied briefly and somewhat sternly—
“My lord earl, for the day of our conference with the king, we appoint the 15th of June, and, for the place, we name Runnymede.”
CHAPTER XIII
EVACUATION OF THE TOWER
IT was agreed between the Earl of Pembroke and Robert Fitzwalter that John should evacuate the Tower of London, without, however, handing it over to the barons. In fact, it was to remain in the custody of Stephen Langton till the king granted the demands of the confederate nobles; and, seeing that the Archbishop of Canterbury was a personage in whose good faith both parties might have confidence, no objections were openly made to this arrangement, though some of the royalists shook their heads and muttered discontent over their cups.
Without delay, however, John prepared to leave London for Windsor; and, forthwith, the neighbourhood of the Tower was the scene of such confusion as generally in that age prevailed when kings were about to remove from one residence to another. “When the king sets out in the morning,” says Peter of Blois, “you see multitudes of people running up and down as if they were distracted—horses rushing against horses, carriages overturning carriages, players, cooks, confectioners, mimics, dancers, barbers, all making a great noise, and an intolerable jumble of horse and foot.”
It was in the midst of this excitement and disorder that Oliver Icingla, while making ready to mount and accompany the king to Windsor, was summoned to the royal presence, and went in no joyous mood, being uncertain whether or not he might be handed over, without ceremony, to the executioner. The countenance of John, however, reassured him; and he began to hope that at length the king had been convinced that the royal cause was not likely to derive much benefit from the execution of a squire capable of wielding his sword against foes with courage and dexterity.
“Master Icingla,” began John, apparently forgetting that he had once been on the point of sending the youth to the gallows, “you know, doubtless, in what peril you have been placed by the treachery of your kinsman, Hugh de Moreville?”
Oliver bent his head to indicate that he did, and, in spite of the position in which he stood, refrained, with no small difficulty, from denouncing De Moreville as the worst of humankind for having knowingly led him into a snare.
“Nevertheless,” continued John, “I have, at the instance of the Lord Neville and William de Collingham, resolved to overlook your kinsman’s treachery, so far as you are concerned; and I expect that you will show your sense of my clemency by your zeal and activity in my service. Nay, answer not. I comprehend what you would say; but listen. William de Collingham is about to ride for Savernake to conduct my lady the queen thence to Gloucester, and you will accompany him. He has a safe-conduct, and the errand is likely to entail no danger. But he does not return, and I would fain be assured that the journey has been accomplished in safety. Wherefore my command is this, that you hasten back without delay, and bring thy report to me at Windsor. And hark you, youth,” added John, speaking in a low tone, “you, as I learn, know something of the country through which you are to pass, and have, likewise, as I hear, seen something of war in Spain and Flanders, and can guess by appearances what is going on—as regards preparations—in a country which war threatens with battles and sieges. Make the best use of your eyes wherever you pass, or wherever you halt, or wherever you lodge, and come not to me as if you had ridden blindfold through the land. Now away. Bear in mind what I have told you for your guidance, and, moreover, that a silent tongue makes a wise head.”
Much relieved by the information that his life was no longer in danger, and elated at the prospect of such an adventure as escorting a queen, even as the companion of a man who, a few weeks earlier, had been a forest outlaw, Oliver Icingla hastened to array himself for the journey, and to mount his black steed, Ayoub; and when the king, and his knights, and squires, and standard-bearers, and multitudinous attendants, rode from the Tower and emerged from the gates of London, which John was not destined again to enter, William de Collingham, mounted and armed as became a knight, but still carrying with him the iron club which had distinguished him as a man of the forest, with the young English squire riding at his right hand and a band of stout horsemen at his back, preceded the royal array and took the nearest way to Wiltshire, with the object of reaching Savernake.
“By the mass!” exclaimed Collingham, suddenly breaking the silence he had hitherto maintained since leaving London; “I much marvel that the king, old and experienced as he is, and so much accustomed to deal with men—both priests and laymen—can credit the possibility of Stephen Langton restoring the Tower.”
“And wherefore not?” asked Oliver, but with less surprise than might have been expected under the circumstances. “Is not my lord archbishop a man of honour and probity?”
“Tush!” replied Collingham, impatiently. “Stephen Langton is, no doubt, a good and honest man, as times go, and eager enough for the public weal. But he is heart and soul with Fitzwalter and De Vesci, and is either dictating their measures or doing their bidding. In neither case, credit me, will he ever again admit the king to London, save as the slave or tool of the confederates; and I see clearly that John has pride enough left never to come on such terms. By the mass, we are only at the beginning of this struggle; for I know that the king—albeit he seems now in their toils—will yet lead the confederates a dance on which they are far from counting; and, frankly, so far as they are concerned, I should not grieve on that account; for I sadly doubt their sincerity, albeit they bawl so loudly upon justice and righteousness.”
“What, sir knight,” asked Oliver, “deem you so lightly of their sincerity?”
“By my faith, I do,” replied Collingham, bluntly; “and only give them credit for having a very sharp eye after their own interest. Never a word should we have heard from them of old charters and ancient laws but for the question of the scutages, with which the king was, doubtless, inclined to deal more severely than was prudent or politic.”
“Explain more fully,” said Oliver, who was interested in such conversation, and anxious to comprehend the merits of the controversy.
“By my faith, it is simple enough,” resumed Collingham, who, however, it ought to be remembered, regarded several of the oligarchy as personal enemies, and was by no means likely to do full justice to their motives. “In the reign of King Henry the barons commuted their personal services for money, and, as they at first relished the system, and the scutages were moderate, they paid without trouble. But when John came to the throne the barons found that the scutages were vastly enhanced, and, what was still more, they had either to pay them, or found their estates seized in default thereof; and so now they want so to manage matters as neither to render the personal services nor to pay the scutages, and every one of them to be king in his own territory. Hence all this cry about righteousness and freedom, with which they have bribed the clergy and fooled the citizens.”
“But you hardly deem the struggle likely to end to their advantage?”
“No, by rood and mass! but, nevertheless, it may end to the advantage of the country, as many such contests have done before. But here, as my memory recalls to me, is the path which we have to pursue; and, as we part from the king for the time being, I take leave to thank the saints that you are safe and at liberty, and neither on gallows nor in dungeon; for, by the bones of Becket, you, Master Icingla, have had a narrow escape.”
“And so hath King John,” observed Oliver, quietly.
“The king!” exclaimed Collingham, starting with surprise. “How, sir squire, has the king had a narrow escape?”
“Even in this wise,” answered Oliver, calmly. “If he had sent an Icingla to the gallows for the treachery of a Norman lord, not ten men of English race would have drawn their swords in defence of his crown.”
Collingham smiled as if amused; and they rode on.
CHAPTER XIV
A HEROINE IN DANGER
IT must not be supposed that the England of King John bore much more resemblance to the England of Queen Victoria than the London of Constantine Fitzarnulph to the London of our own day. It was a country with much waste land, immense and widely-extending forests, chiefly of beech and oak trees, in whose branches the hawk built, and from whose branches dropped acorns, on which herds of swine daily fed; and the forests were frequented by the bear, the wild boar, the wolf, and the wild bull, and not seldom tenanted by men without the pale of the law, and at war with society. Of course the aspect of the country was picturesque. Here was a Norman castle, there a Saxon hall; here a flourishing walled town, there a poor hamlet; here a rich monastery, there the cell of some hermit—the entire population not exceeding two millions. In fact, the eastern counties, from Lincoln to Sussex, were dreary swamps, almost undrained: and the whole of that once wealthy and great province beyond the Humber, known as “Northumbria,” though gradually recovering, still bore terrible traces of the devastation wrought by the Conqueror.
It was, however, through the more fertile and less rugged part of England that William de Collingham and Oliver Icingla took their way, and for days rode on through bridle-roads which are now railways, and through forests which are now corn-fields, and past castle-protected hamlets which are now considerable towns. Nor were there many signs either in the appearance of the country or in the manner of the inhabitants to indicate that national affairs had reached a crisis which made civil war too probable. The herdsman drove out his cattle, the shepherd his sheep, and the swineherd his grunting herd; the charcoal-burner his cart, the waggoner his team of oxen; and the peasantry, in their smock-frocks, girt round the loins, and barely reaching to the knee, and their heads covered with a kind of hood—some of them with shoes and stockings, others with bare feet—went about their usual occupations as if peace had smiled on the land. Once the knight and squire met a pilgrim from the Holy Land carrying a palm-branch to deposit on the altar of his parish church, and other wayfarers whose errands, to judge by their looks, were equally peaceful.
An abbot on an ambling pad;
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad.”
But it seemed as if the mandate sent throughout the land to lords and warriors to join the baronial standard had not been readily responded to, for hardly one band of armed men crossed their path. In fact, most people, except those who were very nearly concerned with the dispute between the king and the barons, were little disposed to involve themselves in a contest which was so problematical in its issue, and were rather inclined, so long as the contending parties left them at peace, to look quietly on, and await the result of a struggle which, they felt strongly, was too serious for them to take part in unless as a matter of necessity.
It was a warm day in the month of June, and the sun shone bright on woodland and plain, when Collingham and Oliver approached the royal palace in the forest of Savernake, where the wife of King John was then residing, and suddenly found themselves in the vicinity of a merry party of ladies, with hounds and hawks, and attended by falconers, huntsmen, and pages, and several men-at-arms to guard them from any danger that might present itself. The knight and the squire halted to survey the party and watch the sport; and, in truth, the temptation was well-nigh irresistible; for what with their rich dresses, their mettled palfreys, and their equestrian grace, the dames and demoiselles, whoever they might be, were somewhat fascinating to the eye of chevaliers. But one among them arrested Collingham’s whole attention, and also, though a moment later, that of Oliver. She was a woman of thirty or thereabouts, with a fair and delicate complexion, an oval face, features of singular regularity and majesty, and a figure which, for grace and symmetry, might have compared to advantage with the finest creations of the sculptor. She wore a green habit which much became her, and a bonnet decked with plumes; and she rode, not a palfrey but a steed which, so far as spirit was concerned, seemed much fitter to have carried a warrior to battle-field than to amble with the fair being who was now restraining its fiery ardour with some difficulty, though evidently without trepidation.
“By the mass!” exclaimed Collingham, gazing very intently on this interesting personage, “I should know that face and figure. What if she were Queen Isabel?” asked he, laughing.
“On my faith!” exclaimed Oliver with enthusiasm, “she is fair and fascinating enough to be the Queen of Elfland. What if we approach nearer?”
“Nay, by no means,” replied Collingham in a jocular tone; “now that you take her for a being of another world, I have no heart to intrude into her presence, lest the fate of Young Tamlane or of Actæon should befall me for a lighter fault.”
“Actæon?” said Oliver, inquiringly. “I remember the story of Young Tamlane being carried away by the Queen of Faerie and her ladies into Elfland, and of his having a narrow escape of being devoured when the foul fiend visited that region to claim his tithe of the inhabitants. But,” continued Oliver, musingly, “the name of the other dwells not in my memory. I pray you, sir knight, to inform me what manner of man he was, and what wondrous adventure befell him as you hint. Name you him Actæon?” added he, inquiringly.
“Yes. Heard you never of Actæon, of whom ancient writers tell a marvellous adventure, which I lately heard my Lord Neville relate when at the Tower? Well, be it known to you that this Actæon was a brave and accomplished knight, who loved dogs and the chase above all things; and one day, being eager in pursuing a stag, he came to a large meadow, surrounded, like this before us, with high trees, in which was a fountain where the goddess of chastity, whom they call Diana, was bathing with her nymphs, and that so suddenly that he was too far to retreat ere they were aware of his approach; and the goddess, to punish him for what was his misfortune and not his fault, cried out, ‘Actæon, whoever sent thee here has no great love for thee; and for the outrage thou hast committed I will make thee perform a penance. I therefore change thee into the form of the stag thou hast this day hunted.’ And,” added Collingham, “he was instantly transformed into a stag.”
“Ah,” said Oliver, gravely, “I now remember me of having, in the days when I was being taught grammar and letters in the company of Constantine Fitzarnulph, heard or read something of this Actæon of whom you speak, and also how other goddesses besides Diana were wont to change men whom they disliked into beasts, and women into birds; and I know full well that many believe that such things may have taken place when the world was full of pagans and idolaters; but, for my part, I hold such stories as mere fables, and such as ought not to weigh with a brave man who holds the Christian faith; and as touching the dame before us—be she goddess or Queen of Elfland—I must own she is parlous handsome, and bewitching to look upon.”
“I gainsay not that,” said Collingham, gazing at the person alluded to; “but,” added he, “methinks that anyhow the fair lady has mistaken her strength of wrist and hand when she mounted a steed which peradventure Cœur de Lion had found less uneasy under him than he relished.”
“In good faith,” observed Oliver, gravely, “I cannot but deem that she is in more peril than she fancies.”
At that moment, however, the hounds gave tongue, and the eyes both of knight and squire were attracted by a heron which arose from a sedgy pool. Immediately the lady whom they had been so attentively observing let loose her falcon, and, followed by the party, went off in pursuit, every eye directed towards the soaring heron and the wheeling falcon. Sharing the excitement, Collingham and Oliver Icingla set spurs to their horses and followed, but at such a distance as not to attract the observation of the party; and, while the ladies slackened their pace and reined in their steeds in a broad, grassy plain to watch the sport, the knight and squire halted at a spot where the plain was bounded by a rivulet, with steep and precipitous banks, haunted by the eagle, and the beaver, and the otter. And exciting was the spectacle which met their eye. Ascending in circles till they became mere specks, and almost disappeared in the sky, the heron and falcon excited the interest of the spectators to the highest degree, till, locked in a death struggle, they dropped screaming, leaving a track of plumes in the sky, and came down struggling almost on the head of the fair horsewoman, the falcon striking his claws into the heron’s neck, almost under the feet of her horse. It was enough. The steed instantly became more refractory than before, bounded, plunged, and, wheeling round, broke away in spite of her efforts, and rushed wildly, with outstretched neck and tail erect, towards the most precipitous part of the bank on which Collingham and Oliver had taken their station. Both uttered a cry of horror. But the idea of rendering aid appeared so hopeless that Oliver could only mutter a prayer for Heaven to interpose. Collingham’s presence of mind, however, did not desert him. Leaping from his charger at a bound, he placed himself at the root of a tree that grew near the verge of the precipice, and the steed came on, snorting fire. One chance only intervened between the lady and destruction. It was an awful moment for all concerned. But, even in this emergency, such was Collingham’s nerve that his heart was steady and his hand firm. One bound, one grasp, one tremendous effort such as might have torn an oak-tree from the ground, and the steed, arrested in its headlong and terrible course, was thrown back on its haunches, and next moment the lady, saved from the danger which threatened her, was lifted by Oliver Icingla from its struggling limbs and laid gently on the grass, unhurt, but fainting from agitation and terror.
At this moment the pages, falconers, and demoiselles who formed the hunting party came gradually up; and, as means were taken to restore the fainting fair one to consciousness, Oliver, with much curiosity, asked a falconer—
“Who may she be?”
“Why, young gentleman,” replied the falconer, looking rather suspiciously at his questioner, “I could have sworn that was a question which thou hadst no occasion to ask. Marry, I’ll scarce credit but that thy comrade knew better when he put his life so freely in peril to save hers. Would he have done as much to save a milkmaid, thinkest thou?”
“Mayhap the knight would, and mayhap he does know somewhat of the lady he has rescued,” remarked Oliver, not without exhibiting impatience that he, albeit a young warrior who had fought in Castile and Flanders, should thus be played with. “I can answer only for myself and my own knowledge, sir falconer; and I tell thee, on my faith, that I, on my part, am ignorant who the lady is.”
“Why, then, I will tell thee, sir squire,” said the falconer, eyeing Oliver with an air of good-humoured superiority; “she is no less a person than our Lady the Queen.”
CHAPTER XV
ISABEL OF ANGOULÊME
IT was not, as has been mentioned, under the very happiest auspices that King John, in the autumn of 1200, celebrated his marriage with Isabel of Angoulême, at Bordeaux, when he was rather more than double her age, and with a reputation and temper decidedly the worse for the wear.
Isabel, however, had just the kind of imagination to be dazzled by the brilliancy of her position as wife of a man on whose head had been placed, not only the crown of England, but the coronal of golden roses which formed the ducal diadem of Normandy, and who, moreover, was heir to the provinces over which the old Counts of Anjou and the old Dukes of Guienne had reigned with power and authority. At first, therefore, she was highly gratified with the fortunate accident which had thrown her in King John’s way, and substituted him, as a husband, in the place of the Count de la Marche; and, after the royal pair came to England, matters went pleasantly enough for years, so far as could be judged by appearances, and Isabel became the mother of two sons and three daughters—Henry, the eldest of her children, being a native of Winchester, where he first saw the light in 1207, while his father was pursued by the enmity of the Pope, and threatened by the hostility of the French king and the Anglo-Norman barons.
So far life went smoothly enough, to all appearance, with the King and Queen of England. But ere long their domestic affairs assumed a much less satisfactory aspect. In fact, Isabel did not find her position quite the bed of roses she had probably anticipated when she consented, for the sake of a crown, to give the Count de la Marche the slip. With a temper which became worse under the influence of trials and reverses, John not only proved a very disagreeable companion to the young lady whom he had carried off, so much to the mortification of the Continental magnate to whom she was betrothed, but he involved himself with women of various ranks, whose memories are still preserved in chronicle or tradition—from Constance, Countess of Chester, to the miller’s wife of Charlton, whose frailty is annually commemorated by the Horn Fair, at the Feast of St. Luke—in a series of vagrant amours, which, besides being of a scandalous kind, could not fail to wound the queen’s vanity and alienate her regard. Moreover, the splendour which had tempted her was fast disappearing. The coronal of Normandy was gone; the crown of England was in great danger of following. It really must have seemed that the glory was departing from the House of Plantagenet; and, after many musings and reflections, Isabel, doubtless, began to think very pensively of the sacrifice she had made to unite her fate with one who showed so little respect for her feelings. Unfortunately, she was not a woman to act with much discretion and dignity in very trying circumstances; and the serious domestic quarrels of John and Isabel gave rise to rumours and stories which were far from raising the king’s character for humanity, or the queen’s reputation as a wife, in the opinion of the world. “His queen,” says the chronicler, speaking of John, “hates him, and is hated by him, she being an evil-minded woman, often found guilty of crimes, upon which the king seized her paramours, and had them strangled with a rope on her bed.”
It is to be hoped, for Isabel’s sake, that this story was merely the invention of an enemy. But little doubt can be entertained that the domestic quarrels were serious. Indeed, during the year when John submitted to Rome, matters reached such a stage between the royal pair, that the queen, then twenty-seven years of age, was consigned to the castle of Gloucester, and there kept, by command of her husband, in safe custody as a captive. A reconciliation, however, did take place, and there was some prospect of a better state of feeling in future. But when the scandal about John and Maude, the daughter of Robert Fitzwalter, reached the queen’s ears, the matrimonial feud was renewed; and Isabel, almost frantic with jealous rage, declined to see her husband’s face. Subsequently, however, a second reconciliation was brought about; and, after some correspondence, a meeting between the king and queen had been appointed to take place, when the sudden seizure of London by the confederate barons threw all John’s plans into confusion, and forced him not only to postpone his visit to Isabel till a more convenient season, but to take measures for her security, lest she and her son, Prince Henry, should fall into the hands of the barons, and be used as instruments to complete his ruin.
It was at Savernake that Isabel was residing while the barons assembled at Stamford, and marched, by Brackley, and Northampton, and Bedford, to London. Only vague and indistinct intelligence as to their movements reached her in her retreat; and, buoyed up by the king’s confident assurance that he would crush any attempts at insurrection, she delighted her soul with visions of reigning as a queen in reality, and occupied her time with repairing the palace of Savernake, and appears to have meditated housekeeping on a very extensive scale, since she added kitchens with fires for roasting oxen whole. It was not pleasant to be disturbed in the midst of such projects by news that her husband’s crown was at stake; and, when Isabel had been conveyed home after her fright and her escape, and sufficiently restored to be informed that a knight and squire sent by the king were awaiting an audience to deliver a message, she felt instinctively that something was wrong; she wrung her hands, and exclaimed to her ladies—
“My heart misgives me; I fear me they bring tidings of woe.”
But, at the same time, her impatience to know all made her anxious to receive them without delay; and, having arrayed herself so as to appear to the best advantage—for her vanity as woman was quite as strong as her ambition as queen—she ordered them to be conducted to her presence.
It was in a spacious chamber, royally adorned after the fashion of the age, and magnificent, according to the ideas of that generation, that Isabel of Angoulême, seated on an elevated chair resembling a throne, with two of her ladies behind her, received the knight and the squire. Her taste was displayed in her dress, which was such as to set off her natural charms. She wore a green robe, lined with sarcenet, and girdled round the waist with a belt sparkling with precious stones, and a collar of gold round her neck, which was graceful as the swan’s, and her hair, not concealed, as that of ladies then usually was, with kerchief or veil, but inclosed in a caul of golden network, and ornamented with an elegant chaplet. Her bearing was majestic in the extreme, and as she sat formally waiting their coming, she looked every inch a queen. But no sooner did Collingham approach, and bend his knee, than she stared as if she had seen a ghost, and fluttered perceptibly.
“William de Collingham!” said she, after a pause, during which she seemed to examine her boots, which were curiously embroidered in circles round the ankles, “I deem that you were in exile or——”
“Or dead, you would have added, madam,” said Collingham, smiling. “However, I am alive and in England, as you perceive, and, let me add, wholly at your service.”
Isabel’s colour went and came so as to make Oliver Icingla look and wonder; but the knight took no notice of her agitation. As if to relieve her from the embarrassment which she appeared to feel, he drew forth the king’s letter, and, with great respect, presented it on bended knee. Isabel took it, tore it open, ran her eye over the contents, and uttered a cry of disappointment.
“Alas! alas!” exclaimed she, looking the picture of distress, “I have been deluding myself with the hope of receiving a far different message. It was but yesterday, as it seems to me, that my lord the king wrote these words:—‘I have now made peace with Philip of France, and I have the means of putting mine enemies under my feet, and making myself both king and lord in England;’” and, as Isabel repeated the words used by the king, she wept, and looked so lovely in tears that both the knight and squire were deeply moved.
“Madam,” said Collingham in a voice expressive of sympathy, “be not cast down by adversity, but take comfort. Fortune is much given to change. To-day she favours the king’s enemies; to-morrow she may declare for the king. But anyhow, royal lady, it is best to meet the future with a brave heart; and, for the present, the king deems it expedient that your safety and the safety of your son should be insured by a removal to Gloucester, which is a strong and loyal city, and to which I have orders to conduct you; so that, tide what may, you may feel that you and the prince are secure against the king’s enemies and your own.”
“Gloucester is a place associated in my mind with no pleasant memories,” said the queen with a sigh; “but it is vain to strive against fate, and I submit. I will be prepared to set out on the morrow, sir knight. Oh, vanity of vanities!” exclaimed she, sighing more deeply; “all is vanity and vexation of spirit.”
And, sinking back in her chair, Isabel of Angoulême looked the picture of disappointment.
Next day Isabel of Angoulême and her son, Prince Henry, left Savernake under the escort of William de Collingham and Oliver Icingla, and journeyed by rapid stages to Gloucester, a city so strongly fortified and garrisoned that the queen might, within its walls, congratulate herself on the fact that there at least she was, in some degree, secure against any attempts on the part of the baronial party to interfere with her personal liberty, or any attempt on their part to get possession of her son.
CHAPTER XVI
TAKEN BY SURPRISE
IT was neither the duty nor the inclination of William de Collingham and Oliver Icingla to linger in Gloucester. The city, indeed, was not without its attractions; and, with its castle and cathedral, and picturesque houses, from the balconies of which dames and demoiselles, the wives and daughters of the citizens, gazed with curiosity, and criticised the procession as Queen Isabel rode along the streets to the castle which had once been her prison, the place was sufficiently interesting and lively to have been agreeable under ordinary circumstances to such warriors as the knight and the squire. But both had orders to enact their parts elsewhere in the drama that was being played by the king and barons, and were animated, as was natural with persons of adventurous spirits, by a strong desire to hasten where their services were most likely to be appreciated. So, without losing a day, they mounted and rode out of the gate of Gloucester to go in different directions—Collingham to Lincoln, to join the garrison which, under Nicola de Camville, a noble dame of surpassing courage, held that city for the king; Icingla to make for Windsor, with a letter of importance which Isabel had intrusted to him, and intelligence that the queen and the prince had reached their destination, and that they were in safety behind the walls of Gloucester. For a short distance, however, their road lay in the same direction; and, riding side by side, they beguiled the way with conversation on the topics of the day, mingled with digressions on adventures in war and love.
At length they reached the point where their roads separated; and Collingham, as the elder and more experienced of the two, seemed to consider it his duty to favour his comrade with some wholesome advice for his guidance.
“Farewell, boy,” said the knight, in kindly accents; “I would that you were to accompany me northward. But I know that you share not my regret, and mayhap it is better as it is, and the king’s court will be more to your liking than the northern city, where Dame Nicola lords it so bravely over fighting men; for I perceive clearly that you have not only a keen eye and a ready tongue, but that, under your gay and light demeanour, you have a scheming brain, and ambitious resolves which you would fain gratify at all hazards.”
“And wherefore not, sir knight?” asked Oliver, looking in Collingham’s face with a smile which indicated considerable confidence in his destiny, if not in himself.
“Oh, by the mass!” replied Collingham, quickly, “I see no cause why you should not aspire as well as another; only bear this in mind, that Fortune, like other dames, often disdains the suit of those who are too ardent in wooing her; and be not in too much haste to climb the ladder of life; I, for one, have, in that endeavour, realised the truth of the homely proverb, ‘The more hurry the less speed.’”
“On my faith,” observed Oliver, thoughtfully, “I believe that most men do, in this life, learn the truth of that proverb when it is too late.”
“Marry, that they do, sir squire,” said Collingham, sadly. “But forewarned is forearmed. Fall not you into the common error, nor dream that you can scale lofty walls without long ladders; nor despise that discretion without which you will never sit, as lord, in the halls of the castles of which Hugh de Moreville has taken so firm a grip; nor what I have told you of yore of a certain fair demoiselle who stands to him in the relation of daughter and heiress.”
Oliver smiled and shook his head, and played with the rein of his bridle.
“But farewell,” continued Collingham, now speaking in a half-jocular tone. “May you prosper in war and love, and so act as never to merit the reproaches of the valiant, and as you grow in years may you grow in wisdom; for, as Solomon, that wise king of Israel, has told us, ‘the merchandise thereof is better than the merchandise of silver, and the gain thereof than fine gold.’”
“And yet,” remarked Oliver, “beshrew me if wisdom is not ever less lightly regarded than wealth in this world we inhabit.”
“Not by all men,” exclaimed Collingham. “For my part, I often envy the wise, but I never covet wealth save when I feel the pressure of poverty.”
Oliver laughed.
“But as regards yourself, Master Icingla,” added the knight, tightening his rein, and preparing to give his horse the spur, “again I say, be not over-ardent in your pursuits, and bear in mind that, in the struggle of life, battle is not to the strong, nor the race always to the swift. Marry, he was a wise old fellow who stood on the bridge built by Queen Maude at Stratford-le-Bow, and told the youngster who asked him about the way to a certain place that he would get there in time if he did not ride too fast. So now farewell.”
And they parted; and Oliver Icingla rode on, and summoned all his intelligence to aid him in reaching Windsor, and bearing the queen’s letter to her lord with as little hazard of interruption as possible.
Now Oliver had very little doubt of accomplishing his object with success; and for hours he rode on, availing himself of the trees to shade himself and his steed from the heat of the sun, and musing over the conversation he had held with Collingham at parting, not without visions of the kinswoman on whose charms the knight had taken several opportunities to expatiate. In fact, the youth became so absorbed in his own reminiscences and reflections, that he thought only vaguely of the circumstances under which his black steed Ayoub was carrying him from Gloucester, and even neglected to keep that strict watch around him which was so necessary, considering the state of the country—not even paying attention to the wild animals which ever and anon sprang up from the brushwood that bounded his path, and scampered away into the thicket, nor the maiden who filled her pitcher at the brook, nor the old woman who looked out from the solitary cottage as he rode past.
Suddenly, however, Ayoub pricked up his ears, and Oliver roused himself from his reverie, and, looking back, he perceived a small band of horsemen—they might be half a dozen in number—riding at a rapid pace, and, as he shrewdly conjectured, in eager pursuit of some object, and that object he instinctively felt was himself. Of course he could not divine their motive, but, whatsoever it might be, he expected it was not friendly; and, feeling still more certain on a second inspection that he was the game of which they were in pursuit, he resolved to lose no time in giving them the slip. Not hesitating longer, for the distance between himself and the horsemen was now trifling, and their manœuvres and gestures threatening, he turned suddenly into a by-path, plunged into the forest, rode cautiously on, making the best use of his eyes and ears, and succeeded so well that, ere long, he flattered himself that he had evaded pursuit; and, after halting for a brief period at the hut of a forester to refresh his horse, he resumed his journey, and pursued his way in the firm belief that he had, at least, baffled one danger.
It was necessary, however, to think of rest and repose for the night; and, as evening fell, Oliver reined up at a substantial and flourishing wayside inn, which had three cranes for its sign, and was frequented by chapmen and other travellers between London and the West, and which was favourably known among wayfarers as an hostelry where good entertainment was furnished by Robert Goodwin to men with money, and wholesome provender to beasts of burden. Having secured quarters for the night, and having carefully looked to the comfort of his black steed, which was weary with its day’s work, Oliver proceeded to the kitchen of the inn, and, while a fowl was being roasted for his supper, listened to the conversation of the chapmen who lounged about. At first, their conversation was merely about markets and the price of wool and wares, and had little interest for the boy-squire; but he had scarcely seated himself at supper, and begun to satisfy the cravings of hunger, which after his long day’s ride were pretty keen, when the landlord entered with portly dignity, and the chapmen, who appeared to regard mine host as a political oracle, put some questions on public affairs which made Oliver prick up his ears.
“And so, Robin, lad,” said one chapman, with curiosity, “thou deemest that England is not done with these broils, of which her heart is already so sick?”
“Ay, ay, Robin,” chimed in the other, “thou hast a long head; are we not to have peace now, thinkest thou?”
“In truth, my masters,” replied the host, shaking his head sapiently, “I see no more chance of peace for the present than I do of being Soldan of Babylon; and if I saw any chance I should value it but lightly. Appearances are nought when the passions of the great men are roused and their hands on the hilt of their swords. No later than Friday the barons deemed everything settled fair and square, and beguiled themselves with the notion that henceforth the king would comport himself in accord with their wishes. But mark, my masters, what happens: King John goes back to Windsor, takes a second thought, and leaves under night, doubtless to take thought as to the means to get the upper hand. ‘Where has he gone?’ askest thou. As well ask where the flaming star that threatened to burn the world up last year. When the news was carried to London, Constantine Fitzarnulph says, ‘Let him go!’ ‘By Our Lady the Virgin!’ exclaims the Lord Fitzwalter, ‘he has gone for our destruction.’ ‘If we take not the better heed,’ says the Lord de Vesci, ‘we are dead men; but let us seize the queen and the prince and keep them as hostages.’ So the Lord Hugh de Moreville, just returned from the North, and, albeit, somewhat ailing, hastens with a band of armed men to Savernake. But it was too late; the ladybird had flown off to Gloucester, and the Lord de Moreville rode by here, on his way home, no later than noon, with a frowning brow and an angry countenance. Credit me, my masters, they will never make up this quarrel till they have torn the land to pieces between them.”
And, having hazarded this political prophecy, mine host, with a shrug of his shoulders, lounged leisurely from the apartment.
“I fear me, neighbour, that Robin Goodman speaks nothing but the truth,” said one of the chapmen, gravely.
“In good sooth,” said the other, “his words are but too like to come true. It is known full well that of late things have happened which portend calamities to the country. In some parts there have been showers of hail, with hailstones as big as goose-eggs; and at the mouth of the Thames they have caught fishes of strange shape, armed with helmet and shield like knights. If such be not signs of woe and war, I want to know, neighbour, what kind of signs this generation would have?”
The chapmen now sank into silence, and Oliver continued to sup, and to muse over the gossip he had just heard, when his ear caught the tread of horses and the ringing of bridles. Presently voices were heard, and an armed man presented himself at the door of the apartment, and, as the chapmen rose to make way—for, being men of peace, they cared not for too close a contact with those who were in the habit of carrying matters with the strong hand—Oliver, much to his dismay, recognised Ralph Hornmouth, a rough Northern squire who had accompanied Hugh de Moreville on the occasion of his visit to Oakmede on Christmas Eve. Events soon proved that the recognition was mutual.
“Sir squire,” said Hornmouth, advancing to the place which Oliver occupied, “methinks you can call to mind my having seen your face before.”
“It is possible,” replied Oliver, coldly; “I have been much among fighting men, and many of them have seen my face.”
“And I think I could even tell the name you bear and the errand on which you are riding,” said Hornmouth, significantly.
“Mayhap,” replied Oliver, haughtily; “but I have yet to learn what business you have either with my name or mine errand.”
“So much,” said the other, quickly, “that, knowing you to be Master Icingla, on your way with messages from Queen Isabel to the king, I am empowered by the Lord de Moreville to conduct you, in the first place, to his presence.”
“To Hugh de Moreville’s presence!” exclaimed Oliver, starting up. “I will be cut to pieces first.”
“Resistance is vain,” said Hornmouth, persuasively, “and it is better for all concerned that you yield to fate. You have already given us trouble sufficient in tracking you through field and forest this day since you gave us the slip so cunningly. By the Holy Rood, no man balks me twice in one day, either by cunning or force of arms!”
And as he spoke he stepped backward and made a signal, at which five others rushed in.
Oliver drew his sword, placed his back to the wall, and stood on his defence, while the chapmen hurried out, to avoid the risk of being mixed up in the fray or wounded by accident, and Oliver’s adversaries advanced on him in a body. A brief struggle ensued, and the English squire’s sword struck fire from more than one steel cap. But the odds against him were too unequal to be contended with, and the conflict lasted but a few moments. When it was over, Oliver, wounded, but still breathing defiance, lay prostrate on the floor, while two of the men bound his hands with cords; and within half an hour he was placed on his own horse, and, in bitter mood, found himself riding with a soldier on either hand, who had orders to despatch him on the spot in case he made any desperate effort to escape.