Runnymede and Lincoln Fair

NO sooner did intelligence that the day was going against the Count de Perche and the Anglo-Norman barons spread through Lincoln than consternation prevailed among the women whose kinsmen were connected with the army doomed to defeat. Many of them, indeed, left their houses to avoid insult, and, embarking on the Witham in boats, endeavoured to escape with their children and servants, and such valuable property as they could carry. Events proved that their fears were not unfounded.

In fact, notwithstanding the discipline maintained by Pembroke, and the desire which he naturally felt to save the country from violence and spoliation, he could not, in the hour of triumph, save Lincoln from the horrors of war. Flushed with victory and eager for spoil, the royalists, after having assured themselves that their foes were utterly beaten, assumed all the airs of conquerors, and acted as if they had a right to everything in the shape of plunder on which they could lay hands.

At first the victors contented themselves with rifling the waggons and sumpter-mules containing the baggage of the French and the barons, and found much booty in the shape of silver vessels and rich furniture of various kinds. But this merely whetted their appetites for booty, and, spreading rapidly over the city, they began to pillage the houses, rushing from place to place with axes and hammers, and breaking open store-rooms and chests, and seizing upon gold and silver goblets, and jewels, and gold rings, and women’s ornaments, and rich garments.

Meantime the women who had embarked on the Witham with their children and domestics had not been fortunate in their efforts to escape. Much too eager to leave the scene of carnage to be cautious in the mode of doing so, they overloaded the boats to a dangerous degree, and when fairly afloat they neither knew how to row nor steer. As a consequence, serious evil befel them through the boats getting foul of one another, and by various causes, and many of the fair fugitives went to the bottom of the river with the property which they had been anxious to save, “so that,” says the chronicler, “there were afterwards found in the river by searchers goblets of silver and many other articles of value, for the boats had been overloaded, and the women, not knowing how to manage them, all perished.”

At length the riot and pillage came to an end, and the king’s peace having been proclaimed through the city, the conquerors ate and drank merrily in celebrating the victory they had so easily gained against great odds. Ere this, however, everything having been settled, Pembroke prepared to carry to the king tidings of the great triumph which had crowned the efforts of his adherents. Having, therefore, instructed the barons and knights to return to the fortresses of which they were castellans, and to carry their prisoners with them, and to keep them safely in custody till the king’s pleasure was known, the protector, without even dining or taking food, rode off to Stowe to inform young Henry of the great victory, which made him in reality sovereign of England.

Even next day the consequences began to appear. Early on Sunday morning couriers reached Stowe with intelligence that Henry de Braybroke and his garrison had abandoned Mount Sorrel, and the king sent orders to the Sheriff of Nottingham to raze the castle to the ground.

And so ended the battle of Lincoln in a victory of which Pembroke might well and justly be proud. It not only overthrew the army on which Louis relied for success in his enterprise, but it utterly undid all the work which he had been doing in England since that June day when he rode into London amidst the cheers of an unreasoning multitude.

As for the feudal magnates who had offered him a crown which was not theirs to give, and who had done him homage as their sovereign, they were no longer in a position to aid him, even if they had been so inclined, but captives at the mercy of a king whose father they had hunted to death, and whose inheritance they had attempted to give to a stranger. Besides Robert Fitzwalter and the Anglo-Norman earls and barons, three hundred knights and a multitude of men holding inferior rank were prisoners.

Moreover, the spoil was regarded as something marvellous, and the English, remembering the multitudinous articles of value that fell into their hands that day as booty, and the ease with which they had obtained it, though so much the weaker party, were long in the habit of talking jocularly of that very memorable Saturday in the Whitsuntide of the year 1217, and with grim humour describing the battle as “Lincoln Fair.”

On hearing of the catastrophe of Lincoln, Louis immediately abandoned the siege of Dover, and made for London, perhaps still hoping against hope. But even in the capital, which had been his stronghold, he soon discovered that he was the reverse of secure. Plots and conspiracies to drive out the French were almost every week brought to light, and countenanced by many who had once shouted most loudly, “All hail, Lord Louis!” Constantine Fitzarnulph, indeed, continued true to the end; but, as a body, the rich citizens were most anxious to get out of the scrape into which they had been beguiled by the confederate barons who at Lincoln had surrendered like so many sheep.

Such being the state of affairs, Louis never knew what a day might bring forth; and he became somewhat apprehensive of consequences, as he informed Philip Augustus by letter, saying, at the same time, “Our losses are brought on by God more than by man.”

The King of France, somewhat alarmed, summoned the messengers of Louis to his presence.

“Does William Marshal still live?” asked he.

“Yes, sire,” answered they.

“Then,” said Philip, much relieved, “I have no fears for my son.”

The 11th of September was appointed for this important conference; and on that day, Henry, attended by the protector, and Louis by such of his nobles as had survived the war, met near Kingston, on an islet of the Thames. Everything went smoothly, for Louis was all eagerness to shake himself clear of his perplexities; and Pembroke, so far from being inclined to bear hard on vanquished foes, was sincerely anxious to convert them into friends. Accordingly, such terms were agreed to as enabled the French prince to leave England without dishonour, and gave the captive barons an opportunity of recovering their liberty and returning to their allegiance.

“It was concluded,” says the chronicler, “that Prince Louis should have fifteen thousand marks for the charges he had been at, and abjure his claim to any interest in the kingdom; and withal to work his father for restitution of such provinces in France as appertained to the English crown, and that when he himself should be king he should resign them in a peaceable manner. On the other hand, King Henry takes his oath, and after him the legate and the protector, to restore unto the barons of the realm, and others his subjects, all their rights and privileges, for which the discord began between the late king and his people. After this, Prince Louis is honourably attended to Dover, and departs out of England about Michaelmas.”

Almost ere the ships which carried the French prince and his surviving comrades from the land which they had hoped to make their own had reached France, affairs in England assumed their wonted aspect, and Englishmen most devoutly thanked Heaven that peace was restored to the suffering country. Nor did Pembroke leave his work half done. The Great Charter having been carefully revised, and so modified as not to interfere with “the king’s government being carried on,” was solemnly confirmed, to the satisfaction of all parties; and young Henry, when he entered London, on the occasion of going to be crowned with the golden crown of the Confessor in Westminster Abbey, “was received with great joy by the people.”

And as the cavalcade reached Ludgate, on the way westward, the gate presented a slight impediment and there was a brief halt in the procession, and as Oliver raised his eyes to that balcony where De Moreville’s daughter was under the wing of Dame Waledger, they encountered that marvellously fair face, with eyes like the violet and hair like the raven’s wing, which had haunted him in all his adventures, and, as he gallantly raised his cap, his heart for a moment leaped with the emotion of a young lover suddenly face to face with her he adores. But it was only for a moment. Quick as the lightning’s flash his memory recalled that terrible dream, the recollection of which he had in vain endeavoured to banish, and so powerful was the impression which it had left, that he almost involuntarily breathed a prayer to be delivered from temptation. As he did so the procession resumed its course towards Westminster, and Oliver rode on, musing silently, and all that day and all that night his thoughts were gloomy, and he was still in melancholy mood next morning when, having been roused at sunrise, he mounted to accompany William de Collingham to take possession of Chas-Chateil in King Henry’s name.

Such being her position, and being endowed with all the sensitive delicacy of a flower reared in a forest, De Moreville’s daughter, finding herself abandoned by her sire, shut up in that great house in Ludgate, worried daily by Dame Waledger, pestered by Sir Anthony, and with no one of her own age, and rank, and sex to sympathise with her woes, brooded pensively as she recalled the past, with all its romance, and sighed heavily as she thought of the future, with all its hazards.

It was, in truth, a woeful termination to the sweet and fanciful musings of which Oliver’s captivity at Chas-Chateil had been the origin. Why, O why, did the heir of the Icinglas dream that frightful dream in the Sussex forest?

Meanwhile the protector laboured earnestly to execute the treaty to which the king had sworn, and on all points scrupulously maintained faith with those who had been his adversaries. Having restored castles and manors to the barons who had returned to their allegiance, he took measures for securing the observance of the Great Charter, as revised, and modified, and confirmed. Not content with issuing orders to all the sheriffs to do their duty as regarded the Charter, he no sooner found that these orders had not the effects he intended than he intrusted the business to justices-itinerant, and sent them into the various counties of England, with instructions and power to hear complaints and redress grievances. His determination to redeem all his pledges was evident, and nobody capable of forming an opinion could entertain any doubt of his sincerity.

In fact, the conciliatory spirit, good faith, and moderation displayed by Pembroke wrought marvels; and the course of policy he pursued did so much to popularise the monarchy which he had rescued from destruction that ere long young Henry reigned over a loyal people, “the evil will borne to King John seeming to die with him, and to be buried with him in the same grave,” and there was every prospect of England enjoying a long season of peace and prosperity. But unfortunately a change was at hand, and a change for the worse. Almost as Henry’s throne appeared to be firmly established, there occurred an event which opened up a new scene, and which was destined to lead to fresh troubles.

Naturally the great protector’s death was much bewailed by the nation, and patriotic Englishmen mourned as if each of them had lost a near and dear friend. Nor was it possible for reflecting men to speculate on the future without feeling uneasy as to what might be the consequences of the sudden removal of a ruler of patriotic spirit, and firm heart, and strong hand. For a time, however, the inspiration of his example was strong enough to influence his successors in the government, Peter, Bishop of Winchester, enacting the part of regent, and Hubert de Burgh, who had won so high a reputation by his defence of Dover and his naval victory over Eustace the Monk, holding the high office of justiciary. Moreover, peace was rendered more sure on the side of Scotland by the marriage of Alexander, King of Scots, with Joan, Henry’s sister, and by the marriage of Hubert de Burgh and Margaret, one of the sisters of the Scottish monarch, and at first matters went on satisfactorily. As time passed over, however, a reaction in public opinion took place, and the voice of discontent was again heard; and, to make matters worse, the Bishop of Winchester and Hubert de Burgh, at a crisis when union was so necessary, began to quarrel, and to struggle desperately for the mastery.

Most unfortunate for the king and country was this contention under the circumstances, and the evil effects soon became visible. Men who were at daggers drawn were not likely to be very happy in their efforts at governing a nation of all others most difficult to govern, and the Londoners began to show their old spirit of insubordination, and to shout loudly against everything bearing the semblance of a grievance. As usually happens in such circumstances, persons of restless spirit and violent ambition were not wanting to fan the flame; and in the city of London there was one person, at least, who was too vigilant not to recognise the opportunity for mischief, and too earnest in his discontent not to seize the occasion and turn it to account. This man was Constantine Fitzarnulph.

IT was the 25th of July, and King Henry was keeping the festival of St. James at the Palace of Westminster, and laying the foundation-stone of the magnificent addition which he was about to make to the abbey built by the Holy Confessor, whom he regarded as his tutelary saint.

And on St. James’s Day, after the king had gone through this ceremony, there was a great wrestling match between the Londoners on one side and the inhabitants of Westminster and the adjacent villages on the other. The match had been got up by the Londoners, and was presided over by Constantine Fitzarnulph, and the scene of athletic strife was a broad, level space hard by Matilda’s Hospital, afterwards St. Giles’s-in-the-Fields, which for the most part were overgrown with bushes and so secluded that even a century and a half later the Lollards, having secrecy in view, deemed them the fittest place to hold the midnight meetings which were so disagreeably interrupted by the tramp of the fifth Henry’s cavalry.

Robert Serle, a mercer, who was Mayor of London, being a wise and prudent person and suspecting ulterior objects, refrained from being present at this wrestling match. In fact, the mayor had a secret dread of Fitzarnulph, who was now regarded by the rich and reputable citizens as “a great favourer of the French,” and one who had dealings with sorcerers—who was much given to playing on the passions of the populace and cherishing projects unworthy of a peaceful citizen. In fact, he had lost nearly all influence with his equals, and, though treated with respect as “a man eminent for his birth and property,” he was avoided by them as a dangerous man.

And therefore Fitzarnulph was popular, and great was the crowd around the spot railed off for the sport over which he was to preside as patron. Thither came many grave and sober citizens to enjoy the spectacle; thither the London ’prentices, whose notion of enjoyment centred in mischief and brawls; thither many of the sons of toil to spend their holiday; and thither also the riff-raff of the capital in the shape of gamblers, parasites, and desperadoes, who never appeared anywhere without causing quiet and orderly people a good deal of apprehension. Loud was the shouting, great the excitement, keen the curiosity; and the feeling of jealousy and rivalry was sharpened by the circumstance of the steward of the Abbot of Westminster appearing to lend his countenance to the wrestlers of Westminster and other villages.

At the time appointed the contest began by two striplings, who, each mounted on the back of a comrade, encountered like knights on horseback, each endeavouring to throw his antagonist to the ground. This served as a prelude to the more serious struggle. The spectators, however, soon wearied of this species of sport, which they looked upon as “boys’ play,” and manifested their impatience for the more real and manly encounter.

Now on this occasion, though the wrestlers from Westminster contended keenly and made every exertion, the Londoners were triumphant in almost every encounter; and when the contest was at an end, Martin Girder, of Eastcheap, a young man of twenty-five or thereabout, of tall stature and immense strength, stood in the arena the undefeated victor of the day, having thrown to the ground adversary after adversary, and so dealt with the Westminster men that they were thoroughly humbled for the time being, and that the steward of the abbot was much crestfallen.

Nor did the Londoners bear their triumph meekly. Mingled with shouts of “Hurrah for London town!” “Hurrah for Martin Girder!” “Hurrah for the bold ’prentices of London!” and “Long live Constantine Fitzarnulph!” arose mocking laughter and railleries directed against the vanquished foes, and now and then bitter denunciations of the men of Westminster, not even excepting the abbot and his steward.

“By St. George!” exclaimed the steward angrily, “the insolence of these Londoners is intolerable. My lord’s honour and mine own are concerned in humbling their pride.”

“Sir seneschal,” said Fitzarnulph, with a sneer that was at once significant and provoking, “you see that the Londoners can hold their own when occasion presents itself.”

The steward’s brow darkened, but he curbed his rising wrath, and spoke calmly and a little contemptuously.

“Seneschal,” replied Fitzarnulph, with a mock smile and an air of very lofty superiority, “I accept the challenge, and hold myself surety for Martin Girder’s appearance at the time and place you have named. For the rest, I wish you joy of such a champion as you have described, when you find him; but I cannot help deeming that you might as well attempt the quest of the Sangreal; and sure I am that you will have to search carefully from Kent to Northumberland before you find a champion who will not get the worst of it in any encounter with Martin Girder.”

“Good citizen,” replied the steward, scornfully, “leave the search to me, and trouble not thy head as to the difficulties thereof. Credit me,” added he, with a peculiar emphasis, “I will use no sorcery in the business, nor will it be necessary to go out of Middlesex to find a young fellow with strength and skill enough to lay this hero of Eastcheap on his back with as little trouble as it has taken him to do the least skilful and strong whom he has wrestled with this day.”

And so saying, the steward caused a proclamation to be made that a wrestling match was to be held at Westminster at noon on the 1st of August, which was Lammas Day, and having then nodded coldly to Fitzarnulph, he turned his horse’s head and rode towards Westminster, while the Londoners, conspicuous among whom were the ’prentices, were escorting the victor in triumph from the arena.

This ceremony over, the eyes of the spectators were gratified with no less exciting a spectacle than the sword-dance of the Anglo-Saxons, which was a sort of war-dance performed by two men in martial attire, armed with shield and sword, who plied their weapons to the sound of music—a man playing on the horn and a woman dancing round the performers as they fought.

The more reputable citizens then took their way homewards, criticising the combats that had taken place, and lauding the athletic prowess of Martin Girder, not failing, at the same time, to speculate on the event that was to come off the following week at Westminster, and to hazard predictions very much the reverse of favourable to the steward’s chances of making good his boast.

And Fitzarnulph’s head was so turned with the popular applause and flattery, that he overlooked the probability of any such trifling contingency as his neck being ere long in danger.

Already he was, at least, a viceroy in imagination, and far too elate with the visions of power and authority with which he delighted his soul to allow his fancy to conjure up, even for a moment, the gloomy spectacle of gallows and hangman, so likely to figure at the end of such a career as that on which he was rushing.

AMONG the wonders of London at the opening of the thirteenth century, when Constantine Fitzarnulph ranked as “one of the noblest citizens,” was a restaurant on the banks of the Thames, which satisfied every want of the stranger or traveller, and seemed to old Fitzstephen to realise Plato’s dreams.

“In case a friend should arrive at a citizen’s house much wearied with his journey, and chooses not to wait, an hungered as he is, for the buying and cooking of meats, recourse is had to the bank before mentioned, where everything desirable is instantly procured. No number of knights and strangers can enter the city at any hour of the day or night but all may be supplied with provisions; so that those have no occasion to fast too long, nor these to depart the city without dinner.

“To this place, if they are so disposed, they resort, and there they regale themselves, every man according to his abilities. Those who have a mind to indulge need not hanker after sturgeon, or a game fowl, or a gelinotte-de-bois—a particularly delicate bird—for there are delicacies enough to gratify their palates. It is a public eating-house, and it is both highly convenient and useful to the city, and is a clear proof of its civilisation.”

At one of the tables of this celebrated eating-house, on the last day of July, the day for Lammas, a young warrior, strong and handsome, rather brilliantly attired as a squire of noble Norman birth, was seated with a companion somewhat his junior, whom he called Rufus. They had finished their meal, which had been of the most costly description, and were indulging, though moderately, in the most expensive Bordeaux wine which the establishment boasted, the squire justifying his extravagance by quoting—

when Constantine Fitzarnulph entered, and cordially saluted them.

“Welcome back to England and to London, fair sir,” said the citizen, seating himself, and addressing the elder of the two, while he helped himself to a cup of wine. “You have come in the very moment of time to serve your country; but, as my trusty messenger doubtless informed you, I have much to say of a private nature; and this place being somewhat public, and the drawers, moreover, being parlous spies, I would fain conduct you to my own house that we may converse more freely.”

“Faint heart never won fair lady,” said Fitzarnulph, “and men must run some risks in regenerating a nation. Besides, there will not be wanting such a leader as you picture, if once it is known that there exists a ladder by which such a man may climb to a splendid eminence.”

“In the days of my youth,” said the other, almost sadly, “I had great faith in the Lord Hugh de Moreville. By St. John of Beverley! he was a great man, and of high lineage, but he made a false step and fell; and I could almost weep when I think how the feathers drooped from that day, one by one, from the De Moreville eagle.”

“Wherefore not recall Louis of France, a prince who has both the will and the power to aid us?” asked Fitzarnulph, cautiously.

“By the Holy Cross!” replied the other, striking the table in his enthusiasm; “as soon would I consent to invoke the aid of the Sultan of Egypt, or the King of the Tartars. No foreign prince for me, least of all a Frank, and of all Franks, least of all a Capet.”

“The Lord Robert Fitzwalter yet lives,” suggested Fitzarnulph, in a significant tone.

“He lives, indeed,” said the other, half scornfully; “but he lives with a reputation much the worse for the wear. The man who played towards England the part which Count Julian played towards Spain is not the man to head Englishmen when hazarding everything to regenerate their country. Therefore let us speak no more of Robert Fitzwalter.”

The young warrior smiled complacently, cast his eyes up to the roof, and then around him, with the air of a person contemplating his own perfections, and then looked Fitzarnulph in the face.

“Good Constantine,” said he, with his colour slightly heightened, “I know not whether you speak in jest or earnest, and, in good sooth, it matters little. But this I do know, and say fearlessly, that I have not fought for the Venetian Republic and for the Emperor of Constantinople without making my name, in some degree at least, known to fame; and that had I castles, and baronies, and manors, and retainers, I should little fear to occupy an eminence even more perilous than that to which you allude. But a younger son, without land and without followers, I feel strongly that Fortune beckons me to other lands than that of my birth, and that there are many countries in Christendom where my sword would be welcome. All over Christendom are wars and rumours of wars. Not to mention what the Venetians and the Emperor of Constantinople are doing against the Greeks, I know that in France war is going on against the Albigenses; in Spain against the Moors; in Germany, Otho and young Frederick, a prince of rare promise, are contending for the imperial crown; in Sweden, King Eric, surnamed the Lisper, is at war with the Tole Kungers; Waldemar, King of Denmark, is contending with Albert of Lauenburg, who is essaying to make himself master of Holstein; Lescus, the King of Poland, is valiantly resisting the Tartars; John de Brienne, King of Jerusalem, is defending himself desperately against the Turks. Mayhap I have some difficulty in choosing, under such circumstances, whither to direct my course; but no fear have I of finding a welcome wherever swords are drawing and blows being exchanged. It is only in mine own country that I am without honour; and, by the mass! I see not wherefore I should sacrifice the prospects of carving out a principality with my sword in order to risk my head in an enterprise into which, as it seems to me, you are being hurried rather by the promptings of despair than the beckoning of hope.”

“Accompany me to my house,” said he, “and I will there show such reasons for venturing upon this enterprise that you will not only agree to take part in it, but consent to do so in the character of its leader.”

Walter Merley smiled as if gratified, so far as his vanity was concerned, with the prospect of heading an enterprise for the regeneration of England, and, rising with his companion, they attended Fitzarnulph to his house. When, three hours later, Walter Merley left Fitzarnulph’s house, and walked through the narrow streets, he was the wily citizen’s dupe.

ON Lammas day the Londoners flocked towards Westminster to witness the great wrestling match which was to decide the comparative superiority of the athletes of the city and the suburbs. Long ere noon the level turf which had been railed off for the encounter was surrounded by a crowd impatient for the commencement of the combat—so impatient, indeed, that they would not deign to be diverted by the gleemen, and jongleurs, and mountebanks, and merry-andrews, and tymberteres, who nevertheless made every effort to attract attention. Curiosity as to the champion who was to encounter Martin Girder had reached a high pitch, and was all the keener that even his name had not transpired.

At length, just before noon, Constantine Fitzarnulph, coming from London, and the abbot’s steward, coming from Westminster, reached the ground, where tents had been erected for the champions; and while the men of Westminster loudly cheered the steward, the Londoners raised their voices not less loudly in praise of Fitzarnulph, some of them adding, “Hail, Constantine, King of the People!”

“Cog’s wounds!” exclaimed mine host, “I know the younker well. It is Wolf, the son of Styr, my wife’s kinsman; and, albeit he does not inherit the height or bulk of his father, yet he has enough of old Styr’s pluck and devilry to make the London loons laugh on the wrong side of their mouths ere he is done with their champion. As the Scots say, ‘muckleness is no’ manliness, or a cow could catch a hare.’”

“Right, mine host,” said a tall archer who stood by, and who was one of the heroes of the camp of refuge; “the son of Styr is game to the backbone like his father before him, and the Icingla spoiled a stout soldier when he made Wolf the forester he is.”

In truth, Wolf, though now a man and a handsome one, was neither tall nor largely proportioned, and in both respects his adversary had an overwhelming advantage. Nevertheless he was a model of manly strength and beauty—his body compactly formed, his limbs well knit and hardened by constant exercise, and his sunburnt face comely and calm in its expression of fearless courage and resolute will.

After a brief interval the champions came forth for the second encounter, and this time the struggle was not prolonged. Scarcely had they closed when Wolf made himself master of his adversary’s legs, and a fall was the immediate consequence. The Londoners this time had not a word to say. Fitzarnulph looked very black, and the archer remarked with a knowing glance—

“All right, mine host; the son of Styr is too much accustomed to brutes not to understand the nature of the animal he has to deal with. St. Hubert! but it was well and resolutely done.”

Between the second and the third trial of strength and skill there was a considerable interval, that the champions might rest and refresh themselves ere engaging in the struggle which was to decide the victory; and the interest of the crowd in the result being as intense as ever was felt when two knights rode into the lists to combat with lance and battle-axe for life and death, they awaited their reappearance with impatience, and shouted repeatedly for them to come forth. A loud murmur ere long announced that the combat was about to be renewed, and all eyes were fixed on the wrestlers, each party praying for the triumph of their favourite. And fierce indeed was the struggle which ensued, as, after facing each other for a few moments, Wolf and Martin Girder sprang forward and closed to prove decisively which was the better man. For a time neither seemed to gain any advantage over his adversary, and the crowd looked on in breathless silence. At length Wolf, by a skilful effort, threw his antagonist to the ground. But Martin Girder, remembering even at that moment that his own fame and the credit of the city were at stake, drew down his adversary with him, and the contest was continued on the ground, the combatants tumbling and twining with each other in a hundred different ways. But who can resist his fate? Martin’s breath was gone, his hopes of success with it; and the Anglo-Saxon, getting uppermost, forced the Londoner to confess himself vanquished, and rose to his feet a conqueror.

Fitzarnulph was among the fugitives, and, having rallied them within Ludgate, and led them up to St. Paul’s Churchyard, he did all he could to exasperate them to fury by his violent speeches; and the commotion was such that the mayor and several influential citizens came hastily to prevent mischief, and commanded them to go to their homes. The crowd slowly and sullenly dispersed, only, however, to meet again, and Fitzarnulph did not conceal his determination to have a speedy revenge.

“Master Fitzarnulph,” said the mayor, solemnly, “I grieve to see a citizen such as you egging on the commonalty to do what is not lawful and right, and I warn you that you will rue it. Remember William Fitzosbert, who, in Richard’s time, was called King of the Poor, and for leading the commonalty into lawless courses was hanged at the Nine Elms. Think of him, I say, and let his fate be your warning.”

But the mayor might as well have talked to the waves of the sea. Fitzarnulph treated his admonition with lofty scorn.

A FEW minutes before sunset on the evening of the day on which the wrestling match had taken place at Westminster, a body of horsemen, about a dozen in number, were seen passing through the little town of Barnet, and riding in the direction of London. Both men and horses looked as if their journey had been long, and as if they were weary of the road.

At the head of this small cavalcade rode two horsemen. One was a young knight, so juvenile-looking, indeed, that but for the gold spurs unworn by squires, he would have been thought too lately out of his teens to be girded with the belt of knighthood. The other was a squire, tall and strong, over whose head many a winter had passed, and on whose face and rough-hewn features the conflicts in which he had taken part had left their marks in the form of scars. One was Oliver Icingla, the other Ralph Hornmouth; and as Oliver now and then made remarks to Hornmouth, and now talked caressingly to a tall greyhound that trotted by his horse’s side, he did so with the tone of one who held no vague pretensions, but possessed very substantial realities in the way of rank and wealth, and whose presence even in the palace which was his ultimate destination that night could not be treated as a matter of indifference. In fact, his position had very much changed in a worldly point of view. Now the heir of the Icinglas was not only a belted knight, who had rendered important services to England during the great Pembroke’s Protectorate, but Lord of Chas-Chateil and Mount Moreville, with ample manors, and the power, in the event of any civil war, of bringing into the field a formidable band of feudal warriors. At this time especially his importance was fully recognised, for both the Bishop of Winchester and Hubert de Burgh were naturally eager to secure him as an ally, and all the more so that the young king was understood to listen with a ready ear to the Icingla’s counsels.

A few words will suffice to explain how this came to pass.

De Moreville’s habits, indeed, became most eccentric; and when he sauntered broodingly from the castle from which in other days he had been wont to ride forth with the air of a man who claimed an immense superiority over his kind, he made a point of saluting any children whom he met, “to the end,” as he humbly expressed it, “that he might have a return of the benediction of the Innocents.” Gradually the inclination he had expressed to seek consolation in the cloister became stronger, and at length the world, in which he had played so conspicuous a part, learned that De Moreville, the haughty and iron-handed, was a monk in the abbey of Dryburgh. But it ought to be mentioned that in a feudal age, when life presented such violent contrasts, this created no surprise, for many warriors as haughty and stern as De Moreville took the cowl, and endeavoured to make their peace with Heaven by ending their days in penance and prayer.

When, therefore, Oliver Icingla reached years of legal discretion, he did homage for his mother’s inheritance, and took possession of Chas-Chateil without an obstacle being interposed; and he was even now returning from the court of the King of Scots, at the castle of Roxburgh, whither he had repaired to go through the feudal ceremony which was to constitute him lord of Mount Moreville.

And De Moreville’s daughter no longer inhabited the great mansion in Ludgate, from the balcony of which she looked forth on the cavalcade that escorted the boy-king through the city of London, but a much humbler dwelling on the banks of the Thames, near Scotland-yard, where stood the palace with which, in an earlier age, Edgar had gifted Kenneth, and in which the King of Scots still resided when he came to Westminster to enact his part at a coronation. Dame Waledger was still her guardian and companion, an arrangement most convenient to both; for Beatrix had no kinswoman to whom she could cling for protection, and Sir Anthony, living at his manor in Berkshire, was in the habit of carousing so freely in the day and contending with so many imaginary antagonists at night, that the dame, not indifferent to her own safety in life and limb, dreaded nothing so much as living under the same roof with a husband who might any night slay her, under the delusion that he was engaged in mortal combat with the wild boar which he had encountered under the oak at Donnington.

It was ten o’clock, however, and the night had fallen, but the rising moon afforded a pale light, when Oliver, having skirted London, reached the village of Charing, from which then, and for centuries afterwards, cross roads branched out in various directions away to rural regions; and on reaching Charing he directed his course towards Westminster, at the palace of which King Henry was keeping his court and watching over architectural additions to the abbey. Oliver, however, was bound, in the first place, to visit the fair Beatrix, and with a lover’s ardour he spurred on Ayoub, to shorten by half a minute the time that must elapse ere he could be in her presence.

But at that instant a sight met the eye of Oliver Icingla which made him start with alarm and vague terror. Before him gleamed hundreds of torches in the moonlight, and enabled him dimly to descry a countless mob, swaying and surging in masses, and uttering shouts of triumph as they rushed on to havoc and spoliation. It was a terrible spectacle, and as Oliver checked his steed he uttered an exclamation of horror.

“By the Holy Cross!” exclaimed he, on finding breath to speak, “I would fain hope my eyes deceive me; but, certes, nothing less than the agency of the devil and a rising of the Londoners can have brought about such a tumult as this.”

“And, credit me, Fitzarnulph the citizen is at the bottom of it,” said Hornmouth, quickly, “and the Lady Beatrix may be in danger. By salt and bread!” added the rough squire, “we must look forthwith to the demoiselle’s safety.”

THE crowd driven so unceremoniously from Westminster did not separate before agreeing to assemble again at a given signal; and no sooner did Bow bell toll the hour of curfew, than, like bees swarming from their hives, all the desperadoes and riff-raff of London assembled from lanes, and alleys, and slums, and the purlieus of the Thames, and, joined by many hundreds who were neither desperadoes nor riff-raff, but honest men led away by the excitement of the hour, filled the narrow streets, and, jostling each other as they went, made for St. Paul’s Churchyard. Here Constantine Fitzarnulph, accompanied by two or three other persons whom he had allured into his enterprise, was ready to receive them and place himself at their head.

The desperadoes loudly applauded the proposal to recall the French prince, just as they would have applauded if Fitzarnulph had proposed to invoke the aid of the prince of darkness. But some of the crowd murmured, and the oration, especially towards its close, seemed to give great offence to a young warrior who stood by Fitzarnulph’s side. Several times while the harangue was drawing to a close he started as if to interrupt, but on each occasion checked the impulse. But no sooner did Fitzarnulph, waving his hat, shout “Montjoie, St. Denis!” than he raised a very noble countenance towards the demagogue, and eyed him with a glance of fiery scorn. It was Walter Merley.

“Citizen,” said he, after forcing himself to be calm, “your speech to this multitude has belied all your professions to me, and I despise you as one whom the truth is not in. You have basely deceived me, and shame upon me that I have been fooled by such as you are! and, but that I deem you all unworthy of my steel, you should have three inches of my dagger to punish your presumptuous perfidy, and silence your lying tongue. Come, Rufus, let us begone!”

A shout of indignation arose from the mob on hearing their hero thus bearded, and several of the desperadoes moved as if to lay hands on the bold speaker, but he paid no attention to their cries and gestures. Calling one of his companions to follow, he strode right through the midst, and that with an air so fearless and fierce, that they opened their ranks and made way for him to pass, and carried their hostility no further than uttering a yell and indulging in a little banter as he disappeared.

“Now,” said he, as he took a boat and was rowed towards the Surrey side, “farewell to home and country; and, since fortune so wills, let my lot be among strangers and in a strange land. All over Europe and in Syria swords are flashing bravely, and it will go hard with me if I carve not out a principality with my sword, which has never failed me. Shame upon me that I allowed myself to be fooled by that citizen! and a malison on his presumption in fancying that, after deceiving me, he could use me for his purposes!”

“Our first duty,” said he, “is to avenge ourselves on the abbot and his steward; and the best way to avenge ourselves on them is to pull down their houses, whereby they will be made sensible that the citizens of London are not to be affronted with impunity. So let us on. Montjoie, St. Denis! God for us and Lord Louis!”

“To Westminster!” shouted the desperadoes; and, led by Fitzarnulph, the mob descended Ludgate-hill, and pushed through the gates like so many furies.

It was already sunset when Fitzarnulph led the mob from St. Paul’s Churchyard, and darkness was descending ere they reached Westminster. Many of the desperadoes, however, had furnished themselves with torches, and what with the glare of the torches, and the fierce faces of the desperadoes, and the brandishing of weapons and bludgeons, and the shouts, the screeches, the bellowing, and the confusion, the inhabitants might, even had they been less superstitious than they were, have imagined that a host of fiends was upon them.

Great was the alarm, loud the shouts for aid, each man calling on his neighbour, as the startled indwellers suddenly found their houses and hearths exposed to such danger, and at the mercy of such a multitude. But it soon appeared that the mob were, in the first place, intent on vengeance, and went direct to destroy the houses of the abbot and his steward. Warned in time, the abbot fled, trembling for his life, and, getting into his barge, escaped to Lambeth. Determined to defend himself and his property, the steward drew bolt and bar, and armed his household. But a few minutes’ experience told him that resistance was vain, and, escaping with his household by the rear, he left his home to its fate. The riot and uproar then became more terrible every moment; house after house was torn down or given to the flames; and the mob, whooping, and yelling, and braying, as their appetite for destruction was whetted, rushed into outrage after outrage, and enacted such a scene as Westminster had seldom or never witnessed.

And what was Constantine Fitzarnulph doing all this time?

It was a large chamber, furnished after the fashion of the period, brilliantly lighted, and occupied by four women, who, alarmed at the riot and the uproar, and the breaking in of the gate and door, were giving themselves up for lost. One was Beatrix de Moreville, another Dame Waledger, and the other two were Beatrix’s waiting-women. As Fitzarnulph entered, a simultaneous cry of horror and despair burst from their lips, and three of them fell on their knees. De Moreville’s daughter, however, rose to her feet, and stood facing the intruder with an air of haughty defiance which showed that, gentle as was her usual manner she inherited some portion of her sire’s spirit.

“What seek you here, sir citizen?” asked she, with a gesture and in a tone before which most men, under the circumstances, would have quailed.

Scorn, amazement, terror, succeeded each other rapidly in the face of Beatrix de Moreville as Fitzarnulph spoke, and she was nerving herself to reply when he advanced and seized her arm, as if to bear her off as his prey; but she clung so tenaciously to Dame Waledger, who was literally speechless with affright, that he found all his efforts to separate them in vain. Suddenly he relaxed his grasp.

“Maiden,” said he, looking earnestly into her face, “you are fighting against fate, and against a destiny you can no more avoid than you can the death which comes to all flesh. You struggle in vain. It is not my wont to be baffled, as the world well knows, and will yet know better. Loath am I to use force, but, since you make it necessary, I needs must. Below are twenty men, who, if I said the word, would bring me the head of the pope or the caliph. One sound of this, and they come to my aid;” and he pointed to a silver whistle that hung at his belt.

De Moreville’s daughter, retreating behind Dame Waledger, gazed with alarm at the citizen, but did not venture to speak. It seemed that her stock of courage was exhausted. Fitzarnulph appeared to hesitate. After a moment’s pause, however, he took the whistle and sounded it loudly. As he did so, voices were heard as if in altercation below; steps as of persons ascending, and the ring of steel on the stone stairs, succeeded; and then there entered, not the twenty desperadoes, but Oliver Icingla, with his spurs of gold on his heels and his trusty sword in his hand, just as he had jumped from his good steed Ayoub.