Runnymede and Lincoln Fair

LOUIS OF FRANCE, after being so roughly handled by William de Collingham and the sturdy patriots who followed that knight’s banner that he turned pale at the thought of the injury done to his dignity, embarked in haste and confusion, reached the French coast sea-sick, but in safety, and hastened, with visions of a coronation at Westminster, to the court of Paris. But the result was not quite satisfactory. Indeed, he found his royal father in no mood to grant the assistance which he required to complete the conquest of England. Philip Augustus naturally held the papal power in such dread, since the humiliating close of his quarrel with the pope about his marriage with the beautiful Agnes de Méranie, that he protested against being mixed up with the business so distinctly condemned by the holy see. However, he pointed out that, though his hands were tied, there was no particular reason why Blanche of Castile should not aid her husband to the utmost of her power, and hinted that he had no objection to furnish the means of hiring warriors and freighting ships. A word, says the proverb, is sufficient to the wise. Blanche took the hint, and—perhaps without even for the time neglecting her maternal duties to the young St. Louis, the eldest of what Fuller calls “that princely quaternion of brothers which exceeded each other in some quality: Louis the holiest, Alphonso the subtlest, Charles the stoutest, and Robert the proudest”—applied herself, with characteristic energy, to the task of fitting out an armament powerful enough to finish the work which with such high hopes her husband had boldly begun.

Meanwhile, Blanche of Castile was all activity and determination in promoting the objects of her absent husband, and at Calais a fleet of eighty large ships and a great number of small vessels was equipped under the eye of Eustace the Monk. The work, however, notwithstanding Blanche’s energy and Eustace’s experience, went on slowly, and it was not till the day preceding the Feast of St. Bartholomew that everything was ready, and the military force, consisting of three hundred knights and many thousands of ordinary fighting men, embarked with large anticipations. Indeed, they might, from all they heard, entertain hopes of rivalling the achievements of the Norman adventurers of a hundred and fifty years earlier, of whom it is written that “men who had crossed the sea in the quilted frock and with the dark wooden bow of foot soldiers appeared upon war horses and girded with the knightly baldric to the eyes of the new recruits who crossed the sea after them; and he who had come over a poor knight soon had his own banner and his company of men-at-arms, whose rallying cry was his name; so that the drovers of Normandy and the weavers of Flanders with a little courage and good fortune soon became in England great men, illustrious barons, and their names, base or obscure on one side of the Channel, were noble and glorious on the other.” No wonder that, with such encouraging examples before their eyes, the recruits of Blanche of Castile were enthusiastic and eager.

Next day, however, when their voyage seemed most prosperous, and all on board were rejoicing in the prospect of ere long being in London, and ready to march at the bidding of their Lord Louis, and when they were endeavouring to make the estuary of the Thames, and sail up the river, the watch stationed on the mast of Eustace’s ship suddenly shouted aloud.

“What is it?” cried Eustace, eagerly.

“I spy a ship, and it appears to me to be an Englishman,” answered the watch.

“Are there more than one?” inquired Eustace, with an air of indifference.

“Ho!” cried the watch, after a pause, “I see two, three, four, and so many, God help me, there must be twenty!”

Eustace the Monk laughed scornfully, and made a gesture which expressed lofty contempt of such foes.

“Doubtless,” observed he, “they are the mariners of the Cinque Ports; these English wretches are on their way to Calais. But they are not worthy of our thoughts, and they will find that it is of no use; for the Calesians have been forewarned against them, and forewarned is forearmed. So on to London; and Montjoie, St. Denis! for us and our good Lord Louis.”

And as Eustace spake, soldiers and sailors with one accord raised a long and deafening cheer which passed from ship to ship.

But ere that cheer died away the scene had very considerably changed, for the fleet of which the monk-pirate had spoken so contemptuously was bearing down before the wind on the French armament, as the hawk does upon the quarry.

WHILE Blanche of Castile and Eustace the Monk were fitting out the armament at Calais for completing the conquest of England, Hubert de Burgh, keeping watch from the castle of Dover, and in constant communication with the mariners of the Cinque Ports, was well informed of what was going on, and Hubert, being bold as a lion, resolved to risk everything in order to prevent the French force that had just embarked at Calais from setting foot in England.

“By the blood of Christ!” said he to the Bishop of Winchester, “if these people are allowed to come to England the kingdom is lost. Let us, therefore, go forth and encounter them with courage, for God is with us, and they are excommunicated.”

Now Hubert de Burgh had no fleet which appeared sufficiently formidable to encounter the French armament. However, he had about sixteen large ships, and twenty small vessels belonging to the Cinque Ports, his galleys being peaked with iron, and likely, therefore, to do terrible execution in the event of coming to a close conflict, with the wind in their favour. Moreover, the English were elated when they called to mind the great naval victory which the Earl of Salisbury had won over the French some years earlier at the mouth of the Seine; and in the seamanship of the mariners of the Cinque Ports, whose superiority over the sailors of France had been repeatedly proved, they had great and well-grounded confidence. It was, therefore, with something like the hope of a happy result, in spite of the odds against him, that Hubert sent for Luke, his chaplain, took the sacrament, and prepared to go on board his little fleet. Before doing so, however, he intrusted the castle of Dover to knights on whose fidelity he could depend, and charged them not on any account to surrender.

“We promise faithfully to defend it, or die in the attempt,” replied the knights; and Hubert de Burgh then went on board, with many crossbowmen and archers, and accompanied by Henry de Turville and Richard Siward, two gallant knights, as well as by Richard, one of King John’s illegitimate sons, who married Rohesia, heiress of Fulbert de Dover, and who on this day was destined to signalise at once his courage and his cruelty.

And now the mariners of the Cinque Ports—weatherbeaten men who had long fought with the winds, and the waves, and the French—having lifted their anchors and set their sails, put out to sea, and the ships went tilting over the waves, and proceeded boldly on their course, and steered as if bound for Calais. Suddenly, however, when near the French fleet, they altered their course, and, having gained the weather-gage, sailed, much to the surprise of Eustace the Monk, right among the French, and, driven by the wind, charged at the enemy’s ships with the iron beaks of their galleys, and sank several large French vessels with all on board.

This, however, was but the beginning of the battle, which speedily assumed a terrific aspect, and became sanguinary and stubborn, “for,” as Froissart remarks, “combats at sea are more destructive and obstinate than upon land, for it is not possible to retreat or fly, every one being under the necessity of abiding his fortune and exerting his prowess and valour.” Throwing out grapnels and iron hooks and chains, to be more certain of having their enemies in close fight, the English moored their ships to those of the French, and while the mariners of the Cinque Ports, with loud shouts of defiance, threw hot lime-dust into the air to blind their adversaries, which, blown by the wind, did its work well, the archers and crossbowmen made such terrible execution, that Eustace the Monk, seeing that all his calculations were baffled, stamped and roared with rage and vexation.

The combat, however, became every moment less and less doubtful. The English, accustomed to the narrow seas, fought as if on their native element, while the French, unused to naval warfare, found that they were fighting at great disadvantage, and soon lost courage and hope. Many in their despair and perplexity threw themselves into the sea, and sank to rise no more, while others, seeing that all was lost, threw down their arms and yielded themselves prisoners. But still Eustace struggled on, as if sternly resolved rather to die than yield. At length, however, Richard, son of King John, who had boarded the ship of the pirate chief, axe in hand, shouted to his men to cut away the rigging that supported the mast and yards, and “the expanding sail falling,” says the chronicler, “the French were caught like birds in a net.”

The English now raised the cry of victory, and the heart of Eustace the Monk at length failing him, he attempted to save himself by hiding in the hold. But he could not avoid any more than he could resist his fate, and being discovered he was instantly dragged on deck and surrounded by his foes. Overwhelmed by a sense of the danger in which he found himself, the pirate begged that his life might be spared, and offered to pay a large sum of money as ransom.

“No,” cried the English, who hated him for the mischief he had wrought them, and also because his brothers had seized some of the isles, and commenced a system of piracy which was ruinous to English commerce; “you are a pirate, and not entitled to the privileges of honourable warriors.”

“I will not only pay a large ransom,” urged Eustace, passionately, “but I promise faithfully in future to serve your King Henry. Only spare my life!”

“No, wicked traitor!” cried Richard, the son of King John. “Never again in this world shall you deceive any one with your false promises.” And as he spoke the bastard’s sword waved in the air, and next moment the head of Eustace the Monk rolled on the deck.

SEVEN miles to the north of Leicester, built on a steep and rugged hill, overlooking the river Soar, with a fair town and priory at its feet, the castle of Mount Sorrel, in the spring of 1217, frowned with feudal pride, and seemed to bid defiance to all comers. It was not, however, so impregnable as it looked, but had more than once changed hands during the terrible and sanguinary conflict then raging in England. However, the custody of Mount Sorrel was claimed as part of his inheritance by Sayer de Quency, Earl of Winchester, one of the twenty-five conservators of the Great Charter, and held by his deputy, Henry de Braybroke, in the interest of Prince Louis and the Anglo-Norman barons.

On hearing that Mount Sorrel was invested by Pembroke, the Earl of Winchester went to Louis, and entreated him to send an army to relieve the fortress without delay; and the prince, who deemed it politic at the time to remain in the capital, summoned the Count de Perche, and entrusted him with the command of six hundred knights and twenty thousand men in mail—a force composed of Flemings, French, and Anglo-Normans—a large proportion being cavalry. Robert Fitzwalter, the Earls of Winchester and Hereford, William de Roos, William Beauchamp, William Moubray, with many other barons, accompanied the Count of Perche on his northward expedition, and the citizens of London manifested what zeal still existed among them for the invaders by furnishing funds to pay the cost of equipping so many warriors. It was thought that the Count de Perche and the Anglo-Norman barons were certain to strike a shattering blow at the royal cause, and Louis, on parting with the leaders of the enterprise, believed that he was simply sending them forth to put his enemies under their feet.

Moving from London on the 30th of April, the French and Anglo-Normans signalised their march northward by every kind of outrage. Never had the youths and maidens of Middlesex and Hertfordshire known a May Day associated with such painful memories. The foreign invaders and their Anglo-Norman allies, indeed, celebrated the festival in a way which raised a general shout of horror, but seemed to revel in the crimes of which they were guilty. They slew men, outraged women, plundered houses, and wantonly destroyed churches and abbeys as they went, pursued everywhere by the maledictions of the English, who vowed vengeance, and prepared the means of executing it, as if admonished by instinct that the day was not very distant.

Meanwhile the Count de Perche made his way to Leicestershire, and on reaching Mount Sorrel found that Pembroke had raised the siege and gone northward. Perche and Fitzwalter, however, did not follow the foe. In fact, they resolved, without delay, to march to Lincoln, where there was still work to be done for their Lord Louis. Accordingly they marched through the vale of Belvoir, and, continuing to perpetrate every enormity as they advanced, at length reached the city which had been so long and so bravely defended by the royalists.

It was Friday, the 19th of May, the sixth day of Whitsuntide, when Pembroke, having made all his arrangements, prepared to leave Newark and put everything to the test. Before marching, however, the warriors of England took the sacrament, and received from the papal legate white crosses, to mark them as men engaged in a holy war. At the same time the legate excommunicated Prince Louis and his principal partisans by name; and, having addressed the king’s adherents in encouraging language, he sent them on their way rejoicing in the hope of a glorious victory or a brave death.

On the evening of Friday, Pembroke, too prudent to fatigue his army with long marches when about to encounter so formidable an enemy, halted at Stowe, a village with a park and a Norman church, and there the royalists passed the night. Next morning the protector entrusted the king to the care of the legate, with whom the royal boy was to remain while warriors did battle for that crown which he was destined to find so thorny, and which, after causing him half a century of trouble, would have been torn from his hoary head, had not his mighty son, breaking chains and defying difficulties, prostrated Simon de Montfort and the baronial oligarchy on the field of Evesham. Pembroke was not gifted with the genius which fifty years later guided Edward on the way to victory, nor animated, as was the greatest of the Plantagenets, by the ambition of creating a free and prosperous nation out of hostile races, and enrolling his name in the annals of fame as one of the greatest leaders in war and rulers in peace; but the good earl was guided by an instinctive sagacity which made him equal to the work he was called on to do, and albeit he coveted no reward save the ennobling consciousness of having done his duty, he was not the less anxious to perform that duty faithfully and well.

LINCOLN is situated on the summit and side of a hill that slopes with a deep descent to the margin of the river Witham, which here bends its course eastward, and, being divided into three small channels, washes the lower part of the city.

Viewed from the London road, on the south, in the month of May, the aspect of Lincoln is particularly beautiful. Before you is the Witham’s silver stream flowing on the east, the open country on the west, and in front the ancient city itself stretching from the level ground up a hill, studded with houses and embowered in trees, its eminence crowned with the keep of the dilapidated castle, and the still magnificent cathedral.

From an historical point of view, Lincoln is one of the most interesting of English cities. It still boasts monuments of its importance when England was Britain, and when Britain was in the hands of the Romans; and at the time of the Norman Conquest, when six centuries had rolled over, it was one of the richest and most populous places in the kingdom. Moreover, the citizens were chiefly men of Danish origin, and therefore to be dreaded; and the Conqueror, on taking Lincoln, resolved to build a strong castle, not only to keep the inhabitants in awe, but to guard against any attempt made by them, in concert with their kinsmen the Danish sea-kings, to throw off the Norman yoke; and having demolished about two hundred and seventy houses to make room for the edifice, the Conqueror crowned the hill with a stronghold, which frowned sullen on the city over which it looked, and awed all malcontents, whether Dane or Saxon. The Empress Maude added to the fortifications while struggling with Stephen; and Lincoln was the scene of important events and a great battle during that war which, after tearing England to pieces, resulted in the peaceful accession of Henry Plantagenet.

But Lincoln, as time passed over, was exposed to other horrors than those of war. In 1180, an earthquake shook the city to its foundations, and almost rent the cathedral in twain. But the citizens repaired their dwellings, and Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln—since celebrated in history as St. Hugh of Burgundy—rebuilt the cathedral and restored all its former splendour.

It seems that, in the reign of Richard Cœur-de-Lion, Gerard de Camville held the castle of Lincoln, “the custody whereof was known to belong to the inheritance of Nichola, the wife of the same Gerard, but under the king.” However, when Richard was absent in the East, on his way to the Holy Land, and when a feud broke out between Prince John and the Bishop of Ely, who was chancellor and regent of the kingdom, Gerard took part with John, and, in his absence, the castle of Lincoln was besieged by the chancellor-bishop. “But,” says the chronicler, “Nichola, proposing to herself nothing effeminate, defended the castle like a man.” In fact, she held out till the siege was raised.

Nichola de Camville was now a widow, and could not have been young. But neither her courage nor her energy had departed; and though Gilbert de Gant, whom Prince Louis had rewarded with an earldom before he conquered, had been exerting himself strenuously to take Lincoln, his efforts had been in vain; the royal standard still waved over the town and castle when the Count de Perche and Robert Fitzwalter brought their army to the besiegers’ aid.

The arrival of a force so formidable, however, soon changed the face of matters, and the town surrendered. But the castle showed no signs of being likely to yield; and De Perche and his Anglo-Norman allies were fain to commence a very systematic siege, bringing into play their engines of war, battering the walls with huge stones, and hurling other missiles against the garrison. However, they had great confidence in their numbers and in their warlike engines; and they were pressing the siege on the morning of Saturday, the 20th of May, with high hopes of a speedy success, when informed by their scouts that the English were approaching in hostile array with banners displayed.

“Our enemies come against us in good order,” said they to De Perche, “but we are much more numerous than they are; therefore our advice is to sally forth to the ascent of the hill and meet them, for if we do so we shall catch them like larks.”

It appears to have been sound advice, and such as the count ought to have adopted, for his superiority in cavalry would have given him a great advantage in the country; but the very fact of its coming from Fitzwalter and Winchester made it distasteful to the French.

“No,” replied De Perche, who, like all Prince Louis’s captains, treated his Anglo-Norman allies cavalierly; “you have reckoned them according to your own judgment and given your opinion; but I must go forth and count them in the French fashion. Besides, I hardly deem the English would be mad enough to attack us in a walled town.”

“No more than stags would dream of attacking lions,” added the Marshal of France, jeeringly.

“Their fate would be sealed,” said the Castellan of Arras.

However, that they might judge for themselves as to the extent of the danger to which they were exposed, the count and his French knights and the marshal and the castellan rode forth and surveyed Pembroke’s army as horsemen and footmen came dauntlessly on, the sun shining on their weapons and their armour. Indeed, the spectacle was not calculated to increase De Perche’s confidence of conquering. Mistaking the baggage and the standards carried by the men who guarded it for a second army, he formed a very erroneous notion of the numbers coming against him, and spurred back to the city a sadder if not a wiser man than he had left it.

And having in this manner decided on the course to be followed, the leaders repaired each to the post assigned to him and prepared for action—one party to guard the gates and walls, the other to direct their efforts against the castle. But scarcely had they taken their places and encouraged their men by word and gesture to do their duty boldly, when both from French and Anglo-Normans rose a loud yell, followed by a long wail, as of men in mortal agony, and ere this died away Pembroke’s trumpets were sounding and his men were thundering at the gates, and the conflict which was to render that May Saturday memorable had begun in earnest, the fate of England trembling in the balance.

IT has been before stated that William de Collingham had a very strong reason for forming his camp of refuge where he did form it—on the islet in the heart of a forest in Sussex, and near the sea-coast. His adventure at Chas-Chateil had very forcibly reminded the stout knight that connected with the ruins tenanted by the anchorite at the islet was a secret passage formed by the hand of man in the earlier days of England’s history, and leading to a precipitous little vale in the wood, at the distance of half-a-mile. This passage was not, indeed, in the best condition, the ground having in some places fallen in, so as almost to block it up; but the knight, on examining it carefully, saw that with a little labour it might be rendered passable without inconvenience, and not only give his followers a great advantage over their foes in the partisan warfare which he intended to carry on, but afford them the means of a secret retreat in case of being threatened by any overwhelming force.

Nor, in truth, did Collingham very much regret the necessity under which he was of leaving the place associated with so many daring deeds. By the time, indeed, that he was menaced by Eveille-chiens and Hornmouth in company, he had received intelligence that Pembroke was preparing to renew the war in the heart of England, and he had resolved that his raven banner should flutter in the conflicts likely to ensue. The knight was eager, indeed, to take part in the opening war, and to give his aid to the royal cause where it was likely to be of most value.

All went well with the bold yeomen and foresters, and with their leaders, who well-nigh twelve months earlier had vowed never to sleep under a roof till England was cleared of the invaders, and who rigidly kept their word. Under the May moon they reposed tranquilly till daybreak, and, having then risen and refreshed themselves with food, they awaited the approach of Pembroke and the army that was about to do battle for England.

And right glad at that crisis was the great Protector to have such an addition to his force, and infinite was the curiosity of nobles and knights and fighting men to see the rough and ragged warriors who, as “Collingham’s ravens,” had been celebrated in town and hamlet as the terror of the invaders. But none were more curious on the subject than the knights and squires of the Earl of Salisbury, who gasped and stared at the sight of Oliver Icingla—in other days, when at Salisbury, and in Spain and Flanders, the pink of youthful chivalry in his dress and equipments—with his shaggy beard, his tattered white jacket, and his battle-axe, so antique in appearance that one of Salisbury’s knights asked laughingly if it had been wielded by some of the Icinglas who were comrades of Hengist or of Cerdic.

However, the warriors who excited so much curiosity, and, it must be added, some ridicule, had a pride of their own, and felt a kind of satisfaction which few even in Pembroke’s army could know. When loyal earls and barons were submitting to the invaders, they had treated the invaders with defiance; they had attacked Prince Louis himself, and forced him to make an undignified flight to his ships—the first rough treatment he experienced in England—and, through good and evil reports, they had adhered to the cause of England and England’s king, enduring all hardships and despising all odds.

“Englishmen and freemen,” so ran the words of the heir of the Icinglas, “remember your vows as the hour of battle approaches; for a battle there will be, strong and obstinate, albeit not so bloody as some that have been fought on English soil; and that the men whom you are going to encounter are aliens and oppressors. So strike and spare not! Spare neither French count nor Norman baron! This is no day for dainty chivalry, as when a feudal sovereign takes the field against a refractory vassal about some petty dispute, to exchange a few blows, without inflicting a wound, and then feast together in the hall of the nearest castle or abbey, as if nothing had happened. This is, in truth, a very different kind of war. It is a war of Englishmen against foreign invaders—a war of true and loyal men against false men and traitors—a war for our homes which they have burned, and our hearths which they have rendered desolate. Wherefore I say to you, smite and spare not! Down with every ruffian Frank who crosses your path, and down, down with the traitors who invited the ruffian Franks hither! I myself will not fail, if opportunity serve me, to show you in this an example such as an Icingla should show to Englishmen fighting for their country, and may God and good St. Edward aid us in doing battle for our young king and our ancient rights!”

And as the boy-warrior thus spoke, on with Pembroke’s army Collingham’s band moved steadily and courageously till they reached the north gate of Lincoln, and stood, straining impatiently, like greyhounds in the leash, in their anxiety to enter and close, foot to foot and hand to hand, with foreign invaders and Anglo-Norman oppressors.

WHILE Pembroke was approaching Lincoln with his army, marching in the admirable order already described, with banners waving in the sunshine, a messenger, instructed by Dame Nichola de Camville, having left the castle by the postern door, took his way northward, and escaping the observation of the Count de Perche and his riders, who, having gone forth to reconnoitre, were then returning to the city, came to the protector, and doffing his cap with much deference, bent low to the great warrior-statesman.

“All hail, my lord earl!” said he, gaily. “My lady greets thee by me, and bids me say that never was young lover more welcome to lady’s bower than is thy coming to her in this hour of peril; likewise, if such be your good pleasure, you can enter the castle by the postern gate, which has been opened on tidings of your approach, and thence make your way into the city. But be that as you will, lord earl.”

Pembroke acknowledged in courteous phrase the greeting of Nichola de Camville, and mused for a moment over the message. However, he declined the invitation to enter by the postern, deeming a bolder course the more expedient. But he nevertheless resolved to profit by the postern, and instructed Falco to enter with his whole division and the crossbowmen, with the object of distracting the enemy, and, if possible, making a sortie and forcing open one of the gates. Without delay the necessary arrangements were made, and while the protector led his forces to the north gate, and caused his trumpets to sound an onset, Falco, with practised skill and characteristic promptitude, threw his mercenaries and the crossbowmen—mostly English yeomen—into the castle by means of the postern, and conveying them to the roofs and ramparts with a rapidity that seemed magical, gave the signal to shoot.

In fact, the effect was terrific. Horses and their riders rolled on the ground, and while yet men were struggling to rise, and chargers were kicking, mad with the pain from their wounds, and all was confusion, Falco boldly threw open the castle gate, pushed into the city, and throwing himself into the midst of the enemy, endeavoured to clear a space around the north gate, at which Pembroke’s trumpets were sounding and his men thundering for admittance.

But Falco found that here he had terrible obstacles to encounter. Recovering from their surprise, the French and Anglo-Normans came rushing to the spot like eagles to the carnage, and answered Falco’s Poictevin war-cry of “St. George for the puissant duke!” with loud shouts of “Montjoie, St. Denis!” “God aid us and our Lord Louis!” A hand-to-hand conflict then took place, and Falco and his band were surrounded by a host of foes, and while this was going on a charge of Norman cavalry rendered their predicament quite the reverse of enviable. In vain they struggled and battled valiantly against the numerous assailants who swarmed to the spot. It was of no avail. Numbers embarrassed their movements and impeded their action. Reginald, surnamed Crocus, a brave knight of Falco’s, was killed by his leader’s side; Falco himself was carried away by the crowd of foes and made prisoner; and for a brief period it seemed that the mercenaries and crossbowmen were doomed either to yield or to perish to a man.

And now the Count de Perche had reason to discover and to repent the error of which he had been guilty when he rejected the advice of Robert Fitzwalter, and refused to march out of Lincoln and give his enemies battle in the open country. Engaged in a desperate struggle in narrow streets where cavalry could not charge, the French from the beginning had so decidedly the worst of the encounter that they fought almost without hope of victory. Horses and riders alike suffered in the conflict, and while the chargers were “mown down like pigs” by the crossbowmen, the French knights, dismounted and at the mercy of their assailants, surrendered almost in a mass. Nor did the Anglo-Norman barons display any of that high spirit with which, in later civil wars, such nobles as Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, faced the danger that they had provoked and defied. On the contrary, they gave up their swords almost to a man, and resigned themselves sheepishly to their fate. Robert Fitzwalter yielded himself prisoner, so did the Earl of Winchester, so did the Earl of Hereford, and William de Roos, and William Beauchamp, and William Moubray, and Gilbert de Gant, who must have felt crestfallen indeed as he thought of the earldom which had been given to him by a man not entitled to grant it, and for a victory that was never to be won. All these magnates, who had talked so boastfully a year earlier, when they brought Prince Louis into England and did homage to him at Westminster, now stood with mortification in their faces, and perhaps remorse at their hearts, baffled, conquered, and captive, after having failed in their criminal endeavour to reduce the country, for whose laws and liberties they had professed such respect, under the rule of a French prince, who, they well knew, could only rule as a conqueror.

Still, so daunted were the French with the more immediate dangers that beset them, that they no sooner saw how the day was going than they bethought them of escaping, and began to move towards the south gate of Lincoln, with the idea of making for London, the Marshal of France and the Castellan of Arras heading the flight.

It was no easy matter, however, for the French to get out of the city which they had entered as conquerors, for the flail of the south gate had been placed transversely across, and greatly impeded their egress, especially that of the cavalry. In fact, when they rode up to escape, they were fain to dismount to open the gate; and when they passed out it immediately closed, and the flail again fell across it, so that the process of dismounting had to be gone through by every party of fugitive horsemen, and almost by every individual horseman. It was well for them that the English were that day in no sanguinary mood, for had there been any strong inclination in Pembroke’s ranks to deal summarily with the foe, few, if any, of the vanquished would have left Lincoln alive.

Moreover, the news was speedily carried by the French fugitives to Dover, where Louis was making his third attempt to take the castle, which held out so bravely under Hubert de Burgh.

“By St. Denis!” said the prince with a sneer, “it is all owing to your flight that your comrades have been taken captive. Had you acted the part of brave men you might have saved all.”

AS Pembroke was marching on Lincoln from the North, and the French and Anglo-Normans were arraying themselves for the combat, a very important arrival took place. In fact, Hugh de Moreville—attended by Sir Anthony Waledger, Ralph Hornmouth, and his young kinsman Richard—with a strong body of horse at his back, entered the city by the south gate. De Moreville’s arrival was hailed with cheers; for, however unpopular generally, his fame as a warrior made him welcome in the hour of danger; and the Count de Perche could not conceal his satisfaction as the haughty Norman presented himself.

No man was therefore more interested in the issue of the struggle going on; and having left his daughter at his house in Ludgate, under the charge of Dame Waledger, he hastened to Lincoln, which he knew was likely to be the place where the crisis of the war would come. But he did not dream of giving any hint of the motives by which he was animated; and even De Perche was so convinced of the Norman’s hearty good-will towards Louis and himself, that he ascribed the arrival to pure enthusiasm, and the count gave him so flattering a reception that De Moreville was fain to be more hypocritical than was his wont.

“Ha! my good Lord De Moreville,” exclaimed De Perche, joyfully, “welcome in the hour of danger. Our enemies are even now at the gates, and are coming in greater force than I anticipated.”

“Let them come,” said De Moreville, smiling grimly; “we have no reason to grow alarmed at their approach. William Marshal and William Albini are Norman nobles, like myself, and falcons fear not falcons.”

De Perche started and looked suspicious in De Moreville’s face; but the Norman smiled so frankly that the count blushed at the suspicion that had crossed his mind, and said, carelessly—

“O, mort Dieu! they are doubtless puissant foes.”

“However,” replied De Moreville, “I have in my day fought with braver men than they are, albeit no braggart, and I say by St. Moden I am ready to do so again, and ever shall be, while I breathe the breath of life and have strength enough to mount a steed and shake a spear.”

“Who could dream of the Lord De Moreville knowing fear?” said De Perche between jest and earnest.

“Nevertheless,” said De Perche, interrupting, “it is not less true that the path of duty is often the road to honour and glory; that is what you have found it, as you were about to say; so,” added the count, gaily, “let us forth and meet our foes, and upon them with the lance, in the name of St. Denis and our good Lord Louis.”

Accordingly, De Perche and De Moreville mounted and sallied into the streets, to take each his part in the conflict that was even then beginning. And while the count joined his knights and headed the resistance well, the Norman baron that day maintained the reputation which he enjoyed in England and on the continent as a bold knight and a terrible man-at-arms. In the midst of the confusion and the panic which prevailed throughout the baronial forces, De Moreville fought with energy and courage not exceeded by any man in either army. It was he who made the charge during which Falco was taken; it was he whose lance threw Richard, surnamed Crocus, to the ground from which he was to be raised a corpse; it was he who, when his lance was broken, drew his mace, and, sweeping all before him, cleared the causeway of Falco’s mercenaries when they were pushing on to open the north gate in order to allow Pembroke’s army to rush into the city. Moreover, even after the struggle became close, and Collingham’s band were proving how well they merited the fame they had won, and the French and Anglo-Normans, huddled together and terror-stricken, were yielding themselves like sheep to the shearer, De Moreville and his riders were still bearing themselves valiantly in the mêlée, and still breaking into the ranks of the conquering foe and riding triumphantly through Collingham’s men with the well-known battle-cry of “St. Moden for De Moreville! Strike! strike! and spare not!”

In the midst of one of his fiery courses, however, the Norman baron reined up at a short distance from the north gate, on a spot which was literally surrounded by the carcases of the horses that had been slain; and he ground his teeth in bitter wrath as he surveyed the scene before him, and listened to the shouts of the victors as they pressed on in a mass towards the spot where, around De Perche, fighting bravely against odds, the war still centred.

“My lord,” said Sir Anthony Waledger, nervously, “it seems to me that we had better save ourselves.”

De Moreville, in spite of the serious position in which he was, laughed at the drunken knight’s suggestion.

“On my faith, Sir Anthony,” replied he, as he exchanged a smile with his young nephew Richard at the knight’s expense, “methinks, for once, you are in the right in thinking rather of safety than renown, for, if we escape not, we either yield or die. But whither are we to go?”

“To Chas-Chateil,” suggested Hornmouth, in a significant tone. “No safer stronghold in all England, if matters come to the worst.”

“True,” said De Moreville, thoughtfully. “But,” added he, slowly, “after this day’s work, no fortress in England, however strong, will long hold out against King Henry. Therefore it is expedient to hold our course northward, and take refuge at Mount Moreville. But my daughter, left to her fate in London, and London certain to be surrendered!”

“She will be safe under the wing of Dame Waledger,” replied Hornmouth, “and all the more for your absence, seeing that she is a kinswoman of my Lord of Salisbury, and can easily, therefore, secure protection. Come, my good lord, time flies; let us ride. This day fortune is against you, but you may live to conquer again. Our enemies have broken near the north gate as they entered; let us charge towards it, and fly while there is yet time.”

“Ay,” said De Moreville, fiercely, “let us charge, but slaughtering the rascally rabble as we go. See how they swarm. On! on! St. Moden for De Moreville! Strike! strike! and spare not!”

And, setting spurs to his steed, the Norman baron, at the head of his riders, charged towards the north gate.

It was not without an unwonted thrill that De Moreville beheld that brave phalanx as he spurred forward; but he was not a man to be easily daunted. Bravely and resolutely he charged on that wall of shields; as bravely and resolutely his charge was resisted. He might as well have ridden lance in rest against the ramparts of the castle. De Moreville’s rage knew no bounds. His heart beat wildly; his eyes rolled in flames; his nostrils snorted fire; violent exclamations burst from his lips; his whole frame quivered with his angry passions. Furious at his own repulse, he again, and this time more fiercely, led on his riders to the assault, and with a charge so vehement that he all but penetrated into the midst. But as he came face to face and hand to hand with Collingham, he was hurled back with such force that his horse was thrown on its haunches, and his band of cavalry was broken on the rampart of shields as a hammer on the anvil, young Richard de Moreville falling, bruised and senseless, by the axe of the Icingla, and Sir Anthony remaining Collingham’s prisoner.

And laying his lance at rest, and spurring his horse, De Moreville loudly shouted his battle-cry, and led on his riders with such ferocity that Collingham’s phalanx gave way, and the men went whirling hither and thither, like leaves blown about by the November blasts. At that moment Philip de Albini and John Marshal, attracted by the fray, rode hastily up to take part in it, and De Moreville, dashing side by side with Ralph Hornmouth to the north gate, darted rapidly through it, and spurred fast away on the first stage of his long journey.

And now Collingham hasted to where Oliver stood, and said, “The Count de Perche has retreated to the churchyard of the cathedral.”

Immediately the Icingla threw his battle-axe over his shoulder, and rushed off with the speed of the wind, muttering the word “Revenge!”

THE Count de Perche found himself in a woeful plight. He was on foot, for his charger had been killed under him, and he was almost alone in the midst of the foes whom he had ever treated with such contempt. His friends and allies had fled or yielded, but he neither thought of flying nor yielding. At that moment, life, as life, had no charms for him; but, unfortunately, the prospect of death was bitter and horrible; for being, like his lord, an excommunicated man, he knew that he was not even entitled to Christian burial.

De Perche’s foes formed themselves in front of him in a semi-circle, and the Earl of Pembroke, who could not but admire the count’s dauntless bearing in the hour of defeat and despair, invited him to surrender.

“Yield, sir count,” said the earl in accents which he meant to be persuasive. “You have done all that a brave man could. Therefore yield and live. Life has its sweets.”

“No; not with glory gone,” replied De Perche with energy. “Never shall it be told in Christendom, to my dispraise, that sweet France fell into contempt through me. Let those yield who love life better than honour. Never by me shall such evil example be set. But before I die I will sell myself dear.”

“Yield, yield!” cried Pembroke, and Salisbury, and others of the English, impatiently. “Yield, sir count.”

“Never!” exclaimed De Perche, irritated by the impatience of their tone. “By the bones of St. John the Baptist, never shall any but liars have it in their power to tell that I yielded to a pack of tailed English, who are traitors to their lawful sovereign, Lord Louis.”

The victors, who stood before De Perche in a semi-circle, still hesitated; for, in spite of the count’s insulting language, the courage he displayed in the presence of such manifest peril excited their admiration. But one English knight lost temper and sprang forward.

“By the mass,” exclaimed he, setting his teeth on edge, “such pride and petulance merit sharp punishment: and if this scornful Frank will not yield to Englishmen, he must die by an Englishman’s hand.”

A keen combat ensued, but it was brief as keen. The knight aimed a blow at De Perche; the count warded off the blow, and returned it with such force that sparks of fire flew from the knight’s helmet, and he was almost beaten to his knee. But quick as thought the English knight recovered himself, and making a fierce thrust at De Perche’s eye, pierced him to the brain. Without uttering a word, the count rolled lifeless on the ground.

It was Oliver Icingla; and he came to execute the vengeance he had, weeks earlier, sworn to take on the head of the Count de Perche, whenever and wherever he might meet the man whom he regarded as his mother’s murderer.

“You are too late, Master Icingla,” said the Earl of Salisbury to his former squire and fellow-captive. “De Perche has fallen by the hand of another.”

“I grieve to hear it,” said Oliver.

“The noble count, pierced through brain and eye, has already gone to his account.”

“So perish all England’s enemies!” exclaimed Oliver, glancing at the fallen Frenchman.

“But we war not with the dead,” said Salisbury, solemnly; “and in the hour of victory it grieves me to call to mind that the body of a warrior who died so bravely cannot be laid in a Christian grave. But,” added the earl in a whisper, “may his soul be admitted within the gates of Paradise, and may it repose in holy flowers!”