Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

John looked angrily, supposing that the words conveyed some reproach; but seeing that none was intended he calmed himself, smoothed his ruffled brow, and answered —

“By my faith, Neville, it is too late to speak in such a strain now, when everything, almost even hope, is lost. Beshrew me if I feel not strongly at times that I would rather be laid to-morrow by the side of my father and mother in the abbey of Fontevraud than endure the humiliation of submitting to the triumph of my foes.”

“Sire,” replied Neville, “in this life we must take the thorn with the rose, the sweet with the bitter. But life is life after all; and a live dog is better than a dead lion.”

“And yet,” said John, sorrowfully, “you know full well that if Fitzwalter and his confederates are henceforth to have their own way, and to do what they list in England, I am like to lead a life compared to which that of a dog is comfort and dignity. By St. Wulstan! I am like to be no better than a slave in mine own realm; and no being on earth is so contemptible as a despised king.”

Hugh Neville was silent.

“Why speak you not?” asked John, sternly. “I want to hear what you would counsel me to do.”

“Sire,” replied Neville, frankly, “I was thinking that, if any quality would stand you in good stead in the present situation of affairs, it would be that which the Arabs say is the price of all felicity – I mean patience.”

John’s brow darkened, and his lip curled. It was not the advice which he wished his minister to give, and, being against the grain, was not well taken.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE DAY OF RUNNYMEDE

IT was Friday, the 15th of June, 1215, a week before Midsummer Eve, or the vigil of John the Baptist, and the sun shone fair on Runnymede – a large green meadow on the margin of the Thames, midway between Windsor and Staines – when thither came King John and the Anglo-Norman barons (the King from Windsor, and the barons from Staines) to bring their fierce dispute to a close, and give peace and security to England, by putting their signatures and the great seal of the realm to that important document since known as Magna Charta, and regarded with veneration as the foundation of England’s laws and liberties.

Runnymede was not unworthy of being the scene of a ceremony so memorable in the annals of a nation which clung tenaciously to its old history and traditions, and which forced even the iron-handed, iron-clad, and strong-willed heirs of the Norman conquerors – the grandsons of the men who had fought under the banner of Duke William at Hastings – to treat the history and traditions with respect, and demand a restoration of the laws of Edward the Confessor, the last of the old royal line. In earlier days, when the Saxon kings had a palace at Old Windsor, Runnymede had been celebrated as a place where the people assembled to discuss public questions of great moment; and where now cattle graze and wild flowers spring, grew a gigantic oak, under the shade of which Alfred or Athelstane, perhaps, had occupied a throne of stone, and sat in royal state, when rallying their subjects to their standard to resist the inroads of the Danes.

It was around this oak, which the English regarded with a superstitious veneration, the origin of which might have been traced back to the time when the Druids performed their mysterious rites, and sacrificed and feasted under the shelter of its spreading branches, that the king and the barons met – John, who was attired in a gorgeous style, being attended by the Earl of Pembroke, Hugh Neville, Keeper of the Great Seal, the papal legate and eight bishops, and seventy knights – Fitzwalter and his confederates, who were in chain-mail, with long swords at their sides, having an array of fighting men which fully proved the mighty feudal power they possessed, and one sight of which must have convinced their sovereign that, on that day at least, they were masters, and that he was there simply to do their bidding.

Nor, to judge from John’s countenance and demeanour, would it have been possible for a spectator, however acute or intelligent, to entertain any doubt that he was a willing actor in the solemn scene that was being enacted in presence of the legate and the bishops. When the charter, of which he well knew and understood the contents, was handed to him, he received it with alacrity, and signed it without a murmur expressive of reluctance, and looked on calmly, almost cheerfully, while the barons – each in his turn – set their signatures to it, and Hugh Neville, in his official capacity, appended the great seal of the realm. But now a circumstance occurred which brought the blood to John’s cheek. In fact, it appeared that, after all this signing and sealing, the ceremony was not yet at an end, but that the barons had more demands to make.

“Now,” said they, “we require security for the charter being faithfully observed.

“It is necessary, in the first place, that you should engage to send all foreign knights and fighting men out of the kingdom.

“It is necessary, in the second place, that we should be allowed to remain undisturbed for two months in possession of London, and the archbishop in possession of the Tower.

“It is necessary, in the third place, that a committee of twenty-five barons should be appointed as conservators of this charter of liberties, and to decide all claims in conformity with its provisions.”

On hearing so many fresh demands John flushed and started with surprise, and his brow darkened. But he cast a glance over the formidable body of knights, and squires, and men-at-arms whom the barons had brought to overawe him, and, feeling the necessity of being calm, he checked his rising indignation, and answered calmly,

“My lords, I do not deny that I am taken by surprise; as, in truth, I well may be when I think of your demands. Nevertheless, I object not to accede so far as consists with my honour. I will send the foreign knights and soldiers out of the kingdom; I will leave the city of London in your hands, and the Tower in the hands of the archbishop, for the space of two months; and I consent to the appointment of a committee of twenty-five barons as conservators of the charter.”

It was clear – so thought the confederates – that the king would yield anything; and the names of the twenty-five conservators were read. They were Robert Fitzwalter, Robert de Roos, William Albini, Eustace de Vesci, Humphrey Bohun, Roger and Hugh Bigod, William de Fortibus, Richard and Gilbert de Clare, Gilbert Delaval, John Fitzrobert, Geoffrey Mandeville, William de Huntingfield, John de Lacy, William de Lumvallei or Lanvally, Richard de Montpellier, William Malet, Roger and William de Moubray, William Marshal the younger, Richard Percy, Sayer de Guency, Geoffrey de Say, and Robert de Vere – all either earls or barons of great power, and maintaining great feudal state, but not by any means men who had ever had a generous thought for the welfare of the English race, till they found themselves at issue with the king as to the scutages, and found also that they could not make head against him without getting the nation on their side.

But for the time being they were playing the part of patriots and having it all their own way. So they deemed it not unsafe to go a step farther and make another demand.

“It is, moreover, necessary,” said they, addressing the king, “that you should give a promise in writing never to apply to the Pope for a dispensation to relieve you from the engagements into which you have now entered.”

“My lords,” said John, with undisguised astonishment in his face, “I have consented to your keeping the city and Tower of London, and to the committee of conservators, and I will send without delay all foreign knights out of the kingdom; but,” added he, resolutely, “I will pledge myself no further, be the consequences what they may. Nay,” added he, interrupting Langton, who was beginning to speak, “I cannot and will not listen further;” and, rising from his seat, John walked deliberately to where his knights were stationed, mounted his horse, and rode slowly away to Windsor.

But his departure was by no means triumphant. Not more than seventy knights accompanied him – a mere handful of armed men compared to the host of enemies whom he left behind; and even of the seventy knights very few were zealous in his cause. Dismal as had frequently been his prospects, they had never before been at so low an ebb. But he did not yet despair. Time and patience might still enable him to prevail over all the difficulties that beset him; and he rode up the steep that leads to Windsor revolving plans for emancipating himself and his crown from the feudal and ecclesiastical trammels in which both were bound.

Arrived at Windsor, John dismounted and entered the castle, and gave way to the wrath he had been hoarding up. Neither food nor drink did he take. He beat his breast, tore his hoary hair, rolled on the floor, rose up all the more violent for the exertion, cursed the day he was born, swore like a trooper and raved like a maniac, and all day stamped so furiously about that his attendants feared that his reason was going. As evening fell, however, he recovered his equanimity, and instantly took measures for disconcerting the plans of his enemies. As night deepened he summoned two of his knights and despatched them to the Continent. One was commissioned to repair to Rome for the purpose of invoking the aid of the Pope; the other to Guienne and Flanders to secure the swords of as many mercenaries as could be tempted to England by the promise of pay and the prospect of plunder. This done, John at length sat down to supper, and made up for lost time by eating ravenously and drinking copiously, and as the red wine sparkled in his golden cup his imagination conjured up visions of beheaded barons and burned castles.

“By God’s teeth!” said he to William de Hartarad, his cup-bearer, “it shall be done.”

“Sire,” replied the cup-bearer, soothingly, “be calm and chafe not over much. It were best to sleep over your project; a man’s pillow is often his safest counsellor in times of difficulty. May you find it such!”

Having supped, John sought his chamber, which was fragrant with the Eastern spices then burned in the sleeping apartments of kings and princes, and threw himself on his bed of red velvet, richly embroidered with gold and silver. But such was the excitement through which he had passed during the day that he invoked sleep in vain. Restless and feverish, he rose about midnight and looked out on the park which reposed peacefully under the light of the moon. Suddenly a new idea took possession of his mind, and for awhile he pondered deeply.

“I seem,” said he to himself, “to see a hand beckoning me away, and to hear in mine ear a voice saying, ‘Arise, king, and go hence; it is not good for you to be here.’ By the light of Our Lady’s brow! I will be gone. Rather let me herd with the beasts of the forest than be further humbled by these barons, on whose trunkless heads the sun shall ere long shine.”

He then awoke the squire who slept at the door of his chamber, and ordered horses to be saddled and men to be mounted; and, just as morning began to dawn and the song of the nightingale ceased, and the antlers of the deer stirred above the fern, and the red in the east heralded the rise of the sun, the king, having mounted, left the castle and rode away through the park of Windsor, to which he was never to return.

“Now,” soliloquised he, “let mine enemies tremble, for I will oppose guile to guile and force to force. Revenge is sweet, and revenge, at least, I may enjoy; and even if Fate do her worst I am prepared. Rather than be their slave I will commit my soul to God and my body to St. Wulstan.”

CHAPTER XIX

CHAS-CHATEIL

ON the summit of a hill looking over the vale of the Kennet stood the castle of Chas-Chateil, surrounded by a park well wooded, and stocked with deer and beasts of game. It had been built in the reign of Stephen by Henry de Moreville, a great baron who flourished in the twelfth century and bore an eagle on his shield, after his return from the Holy Land; and as the Morevilles were favourites with the second Henry, it escaped destruction during the time when the politic king razed so many feudal fortresses to the ground. Originally it was an ordinary Norman castle, consisting of a basecourt, the sides of the walls being fortified with angles, towers, buttresses, battlements, and hornworks. But it was now a far prouder and more magnificent edifice – a place which, if well garrisoned and provisioned, might, before the invention of cannon, have held out long against a besieging army.

In fact, few men in England had a more thorough perception of the utter insecurity of national affairs at that time than Hugh de Moreville. Having long foreseen the crisis, he had not neglected to set his house in order; and Chas-Chateil had, consequently, been much enlarged and strengthened, and much improved both as regarded the appearance which it presented in its exterior and as regarded the comfort which it afforded to the inmates. At morning, indeed, when seen at sunrise it had quite a gay and laughing aspect; and in the interior everything was arranged with a view of rendering feudal life as tolerable and pleasant as possible. The outer galleries glittered with the armour of the sentinels, and the towers were all bright with their new gratings, and the roofs bordered with machicolations, parapets, guard-walks, and sentry-boxes; and on passing the chapel, dedicated to St. Moden – the patron saint of the Morevilles – and entering the court, with its fountain and its cisterns, you found the kitchens, with their mighty fireplaces on one side, and stables and hen-houses and pigeons on the other side, and in the middle, strongly defended, the donjon, where were kept the archives and the treasure of the house. Below were the cellars, the vaults, and, what were sometimes as well filled as either, the prisons, in which unhappy captives pined and groaned; and above, and only to be reached by one spacious stone stair, the apartments occupied by the family and dependants of the lord of the castle – the great hall, the lady’s bower, the guest-room, the bed-chambers, and the numerous cribs necessary for the accommodation of the multitudinous domestics, who, arrayed in the picturesque costume and speaking the quaint language of the period, and wearing the Moreville eagle, under the names of demoiselles, waiting-women, squires, pages, grooms, yeomen, henchmen, minstrels, and jesters, formed the household of a feudal magnate.

But when Oliver Icingla entered the castle of his maternal ancestors, the hour was so late that everything was quiet, most of the household having betaken themselves to repose. Nor, in truth, had he any opportunity of making observations. With very little ceremony he was told to dismount from his horse; and having, not without a sigh, parted from Ayoub, he was conducted, manacled as he was, up the great stone stair, and into the interior of the castle, and that with such haste that he had scarcely time to take breath, far less to collect his thoughts, till, after passing through several galleries, he found himself in a somewhat dimly lighted room. There, covered with a mantle of minever, Hugh de Moreville was stretched on a couch, his favourite hound by his side.

The Norman baron was occupied with his last meal for the day – that cold collation, generally taken at nine o’clock, and known as “liverie.” But it was evident he was merely going through a form, and that he could not taste the viands. In fact, De Moreville was suffering severely from gout – the result of indulgence in good cheer during his brief stay in the capital – and his temper, never celestial, was so severely tried by pain and twitches, that, at times, he was inclined to mutter imprecations the reverse of complimentary on king, barons, citizens, the laws of Edward the Confessor, even the Great Charter itself.

“What ho, young kinsman!” said he, recovering himself after a moment, and speaking in a bantering tone; “I hardly deemed myself such a favourite of Fortune as that she should send you under the roof of Chas-Chateil; but I rejoice to see you. Our last meeting was unlucky in this, that we parted without your fully understanding me. By St. Moden, you shall now comprehend my meaning!”

“My lord,” replied Oliver, speaking calmly, though his blood boiled with indignation at the tone in which he was addressed, “I thank you for welcoming me to the castle which is the inheritance of my mother; albeit I cannot help confessing that it would have been more pleasing to come under different circumstances. However, of that anon. Meantime, vouchsafe to inform me for what reason I have been hunted like a robber by your men-at-arms, and dragged here forcibly against my will. I demand to know.”

De Moreville laughed mockingly, and raised his eyes to the roof of the chamber, whereupon were carved some grotesque figures, each of which might be intended to represent that important bird the Moreville eagle.

“On my faith!” answered he at length, “I marvel much that any youth with the Moreville blood in his veins can be such a dullard as to ask such a question. But an answer you shall have. You were seized and brought hither because you were engaged in attempts at variance with the laws of the land and the authority of the barons, the conservators of the charter signed at Runnymede.”

“Answer me two questions,” said Oliver, sternly. “Am I a prisoner? and if so, is my life aimed at?”

“Everything depends on yourself. Meanwhile, you have letters from Queen Isabel to King John. Hand them to me.”

“You do me great injustice,” said Oliver, “in supposing it possible that, if intrusted with letters, I should render them to any but the person for whose hand they were intended.”

“Is that your answer?” fiercely demanded De Moreville.

“It is my answer,” retorted Oliver, with equal heat; “and it is an answer more courteous than you deserve.”

“By the bones of St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, with a frowning brow, “I can no longer brook such obstinacy! May I become an Englishman if I bend or break not your proud spirit ere the year is much nearer midsummer!” and he blew a silver whistle that lay at his side, the sound of which instantly brought Ralph Hornmouth and another man-at-arms into the chamber.

“Ho, there! Ralph Hornmouth,” said De Moreville, fiercely, “give me the letters which this varlet has about him. Methinks, from the direction his eye took when I mentioned them, he has them in his boots.”

Hornmouth and his comrade obeyed; and Oliver, notwithstanding a brave struggle, had the bitter mortification, while prostrated on his back and held down, of seeing the queen’s letter taken from his boot and handed to the Norman baron; but no second letter could be found, for the very excellent reason that no such letter had ever been in existence.