Runnymede and Lincoln Fair: A Story of the Great Charter

Sir Anthony did not reply, but turned away to avoid doing so; and a broad grin was on the Norman squire’s aquiline face.

Meanwhile Pedro, unable to make the grooms comprehend his meaning, advanced to the head of the stubborn charger, looked in his face, muttered in his ear, led him a few paces by the rein, then turned his head from the sun, jabbering to the grooms as he did so what to them was unintelligible. Then he made a sign that he would mount, and as they lifted the boy to the charger’s back, Ayoub not only stood still and quiet, but immediately obeyed the touch of his heel, and walked quietly down among the trees that grew on the slope that led from the castle, and then returned at a gentle canter. All present stood amazed, but none more than Sir Anthony and Richard de Moreville.

“By the saints!” cried the knight, forgetting in his wonder to mention his patron in particular, “this is marvellous to behold. I have ever deemed that boy more than mortal since he came so opportunely to my rescue.”

“On my faith,” said the squire, “I believe that never has the like been seen since Alexander of Macedon mounted Bucephalus in spite of his heels and horns.”

“It is magic,” exclaimed Hubert the Huntsman, in terror.

“Nay, nay, Hubert lad,” said old Martin; “bearest thou not in mind that I said the fierce steed took kindly to the simple child from the first?”

No sooner had Pedro alighted from Ayoub than he commenced jabbering and inviting Clem the Bold Rider to mount, and Clem, having done so, rode quietly down the acclivity. But it did not suit the Bold Rider to occupy the seat which he did “on sufferance,” and on reaching the level ground he took measures to convince Ayoub that the rider and not the horse was master. The experiment was not successful, and the result was not flattering to his vanity. A brief struggle took place. When it was over, the Bold Rider lay prostrate on the grassy sward, and Ayoub, the refractory steed, with his head reared aloft and his bridle-rein flying hither and thither, was snorting and rushing with the speed of the wind towards the banks of the Kennet.

Sir Anthony uttered a fierce oath as he saw Ayoub disappear among the trees, and watched Clem the Bold Rider rise from the ground.

“My curse on the braggart churl’s clumsiness!” said he. “The steed is gone beyond hope of recovery. Would that the fall had smashed every bone in his body!”

And the knight, having thus given vent to his disappointment, went with Richard de Moreville to see his dame and De Moreville’s daughter mount their palfreys and ride forth to fly their falcons, escorted by a body of horsemen, and attended by their maidens, and their spaniels, and Pedro the page.

“Sir Anthony,” said Richard de Moreville as they went, “you have excited my curiosity as to these Icinglas. I crave your permission to visit this captive squire, and hear the adventures in love and war which he had in Castile and Flanders.”

“Nay, nay,” replied the knight sternly; “ask anything in reason, but not that. By St. Anthony’s head! even the chaplain should not have gone near him, but that he pressed me hard. Let him pine in solitude; would that it were in chains and darkness!”

“But men say that he is fair, and brave, and high of spirit!”

“He is his father’s son,” replied Sir Anthony in a conclusive tone, “and the calf of a vicious bull is ever vicious. Besides,” continued the knight, his anger rising as he proceeded, “he is English by birth, and the eggs of the serpent hatch only serpents; and,” added he, staying his step to stamp on the ground, while he ground his teeth with vindictive rage, “it is ever safest for us when we have our armed heel on the viper’s brood.”

CHAPTER XXXI

PEDRO THE PAGE

THE position of Pedro the page at Chas-Chateil was much endangered by the feat of horsemanship which he had performed. A general impression prevailed in the castle that he was an emissary of the powers of darkness, and that the wild boar, the black steed, the outlandish boy, and the Devil were all in league to bring some misfortune on the inmates. Moreover, the lady, who was already tiring of the page, was inclined to take this view of the case; but Father Peter, having again subjected the suspected person to examination, gave it as his deliberate opinion that he was in reality what he professed to be – one of a band of musicians from Burgos.

The good chaplain had considered the matter gravely, and made use of the intelligence he drew from Oliver Icingla to test the youngster’s veracity. He asked Pedro the name of the King of Castile, and Pedro answered, King Alphonso. He asked who was Alphonso’s chief enemy, and Pedro answered, the Moorish King of Granada. He asked what great event had happened before he left his own country, and Pedro told him about the battle of Muradel, and how the king, in gratitude to the saints for his victory, was about to convert his palace in the gardens of La Huelgas into a convent. He asked what was the sin on King Alphonso’s part which had brought such dangers on the kingdom, and Pedro very innocently related the well-known story of the beautiful Jewess whom the royal Castilian loved too well. The holy man was satisfied. How could he be otherwise? And Sir Anthony was satisfied also, for he had taken a notion into his head that the page’s songs and musical instrument were necessary to his existence.

In fact, the nerves of the knight required music to soothe them. Since his encounter with the wild boar in the wood at Donnington, Sir Anthony Waledger had never been quite himself, and, as he continued his daily potations, and ran into excess oftener than of yore by day, his condition did not improve during the winter; and ere spring came strange stories were abroad as to his habits by night. Still matters went on about the castle as of old, and no particular notice was taken of the governor’s eccentricities till about Easter, when Richard de Moreville became so alarmed that he made some excuse for leaving, and embarked for Paris to intimate to his uncle that the knight who had the custody of Chas-Chateil was beside himself.

“My lord,” said the Norman squire when he presented himself to his astonished kinsman about a month before that May-day when Hugh de Moreville had persuaded Prince Louis to vow on the heron, “Sir Anthony is crazy – in truth, he is mad. He has got into a custom of rising in the night-time when he is asleep; of arming himself, drawing his sword, and beginning to fight as if he were in battle!”

“By St. Moden,” said De Moreville with a sneer, “I never knew the good knight so fond of fighting when blows were going. But, nephew, proceed, for this touches me nearly.”

“Well,” continued the squire, “the servants who sleep in his chamber to watch him on hearing him rise go to him, and next morning tell him what he has been doing, but he forgets all about it, and cries out that they lie. Sometimes they leave neither sword nor arms in his chamber, but when he rises and finds them gone he makes such a noise as if all the fiends were there. They therefore think it best to leave his sword and arms, and sometimes he remains quietly in his bed, but only sometimes. Seldom a night passes without a scene.”

“Ha!” exclaimed De Moreville, thoughtfully, “I little expected such tidings, and it behoves me to hasten my return to England and put matters on a better footing at Chas-Chateil. It is no time for a man who has lost his senses to be in command of a fortress.”

However, in the thirteenth century the time required to pass from the banks of the Seine to the banks of the Kennet was considerable, and April was speeding on without De Moreville having appeared at the castle or giving any intimation that he was likely to come; and Sir Anthony became worse rather than better, declaring that nothing soothed him but the music of Pedro the page, and insisting more strongly than ever that Pedro had been sent to him by St. Anthony and St. Hubert at the very instant he had cried out to them for protection.

By this time Pedro’s equestrian feat was all but forgotten. It had been a nine days’ wonder and nothing more. Yet one person had neither forgotten nor forgiven – namely, Clem the Bold Rider. In fact, Clem, feeling certain that there was some mystery in the business, and blaming Pedro for his mishap, had, under the influence of mortified vanity, vowed revenge, and continued to watch Pedro wherever he went when outside the castle as a cat watches a mouse it has destined as a victim. No matter at what hour he went forth or in what direction he turned, he was sure to meet Clem hanging about the courtyard, or the stable-yard, or the drawbridge talking the slang of the age to one person or another, but never without a sharp eye on Pedro’s movements. This was, doubtless, annoying. Pedro certainly looked much too innocent to have any evil intention. Still, one likes not to be watched every time he moves out to take the air.

Now Pedro, since his reception into Chas-Chateil, had been quite free to go about wherever he liked. But there was one place from which he was strictly excluded, and that place was “the ladies’ walk,” which was strictly guarded by a sentinel. It was wonderful, by-the-bye, how this fact used to slip out of Pedro’s memory, and how many efforts he made by hook or by crook to reach that battlement. But his efforts were unavailing.

At length he seemed to think that a view from a distance was better than no view at all, and after singing a Spanish song he clambered up a parapet, and strained his eyes towards the prohibited region. As he descended Clem stood before him, seized him by the collar, and administered a hearty buffet on the cheek. But he little calculated the consequences. Pedro’s frame shook with rage, his eyes flashed fire, and he turned savagely on his assailant.

“Son of a theorve!” said he in very good English, “hadst thou known how I can return that blow, thou hadst never had the courage to deal it. This is the way I requite such courtesy, as chevaliers phrase it.”

As the page spoke, his clenched fist avenged the wrong he had suffered, and the Bold Rider lay sprawling by the parapet. But he rose instantly from the ground, not, indeed, to renew the attack – of that he had had enough, and more than enough. But he retreated several paces, and then looked his adversary in the face.

“Master page,” said he, glowering with malice, “thy speech has betrayed thee. Ere half an hour passes the governor shall know that a spy is within the castle, and the dule tree is your sure doom;” and Clem ran off to take measures for insuring his revenge.

Pedro did not seem quite easy under the influence of this threat. But perhaps he had heard that to pause at the crisis of one’s fate is to lose all, and he did not hesitate. It was the hour when he was in the habit of singing to Sir Anthony Waledger in the chamber so vigilantly guarded against intrusion that the inmates of the castle believed it contained De Moreville’s treasury. Pedro entered, and found Sir Anthony seated at a table with his wine-cup before him. Pedro having purposely left the door half-open, sat down on a low footstool, and prepared to sing. Sir Anthony rose and moved slowly to close the door, and Pedro, quick as thought, drew forth a little bag, and shook some powder into the wine. Sir Anthony resumed his seat and drained the wine-cup, and Pedro began to sing. Sir Anthony gradually fell sound asleep, and Pedro, rising from the footstool, went to the panel on which the battle of Hastings was depicted, examined it minutely, and pressed his finger on a knob that caught his eye. As he did so it flew open with a spring, and Pedro, entering, closed it as gently as he could, and, descending a stair that lay before him, found himself in a dark but broad and high passage, along which he walked with what speed he could, not without stumbling as he went.

It was not, however, until he had travelled full half a mile and taken several turns that he at last began to descry something like daylight. It was, indeed, only a glimmer. But he proceeded, pushed through a cleft of a rock, and going head-foremost through some brushwood, found himself to his great joy in a thicket close by the Kennet. Pedro, indeed, leapt for joy as he reflected on the discovery he had made, but did not in his excitement forget to leave such marks as to insure his being able to find the place on his return, for to return he intended. Cunningly he set marks on the trees around, measured the distance to the margin of the river, impressed on his memory the various objects around, and then, turning his face southward, made for the neighbourhood of London as fast as he could, to obviate the chance of being recaptured in case of pursuit.

But he was in no danger in that respect. At Chas-Chateil his disappearance was heard of with superstitious awe, and the inmates told each other that the goblin who had been figuring as a lady’s page, and whose spells and devices had driven the governor half-crazy and caused him to walk while asleep, had been suddenly carried off by his master who sent him. Only one person dissented – it was Clem the Bold Rider, who gave his reasons for believing the page to have been a spy. But Clem’s character for veracity did not rank high, and he did not improve it by the story which he told on this occasion.

As for Sir Anthony Waledger, he woke up before sunset, much refreshed with his sleep. It was the first sound sleep the knight had enjoyed for months. Of course he could give no account as to how and where the mysterious page had gone, only he very much missed the music and the song.

Meanwhile, Hugh de Moreville was leaving Paris, resolved on placing Chas-Chateil in safer custody. The Norman baron was destined to reach the castle five hours too late for his purpose.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE

IT was about ten o’clock on the night of the 17th of May, 1216, that a man and a boy – the one mounted on a strong Flemish charger, the other on one of those common riding horses then known as a “haquenée” – made their way up the banks of the Kennet, and halted by the spot from which so recently Pedro the page had emerged from subterranean darkness into the light of day.

There need be no mystery, so far as the reader is concerned, as to who the riders were. One was William de Collingham, the other was Wolf, the son of Styr, and it was clear from the caution with which they moved, that they were bent on some enterprise to the success of which secrecy was essential.

“Sir knight,” said the boy, in a low tone, “this is the spot.”

“Art thou certain?” asked the knight, looking round.

“As certain as that I serve the Icinglas, and that I played the part of a goblin page in Chas-Chateil.”

“Good,” said the knight, pulling up his steed, and taking his bugle-horn from his belt as to sound a blast. However, he did not blow the round notes, but gave a low, peculiar whistle, which brought a man from among the trees. It was one of those obscure nights common in the month of May, and the moon affording but a dim light, the knight could not make out the figure of the person who approached.

“Friend or foe?” cried Collingham.

“The Black Raven,” was the reply; and as the man drew near the knight and Wolf recognised Styr the Saxon.

“All right?” said Collingham.

“All is right,” replied the Saxon. “We have nothing to do but commend ourselves to the saints and proceed to the work before us.”

“In God’s name, then, let it so be,” said the knight. “Summon the men who are assembled, and let us to the business. By this hour, I doubt not,” added he, “that the drunken governor is going through his nocturnal exercises.”

Collingham, as he spoke, dismounted, gave his horse into the care of Wolf, and getting under the shadow of the trees, kept humming the song of “I go to the Greenwood, for Love invites me,” till Styr returned with a hundred men at his back, all armed, and prepared to attack or resist foes just as occasion should arise. Some of them were simply peasants, others fighting men in the knight’s pay; but most of them were neither more nor less than forest outlaws. Each of them was dressed in a short green kirtle, hose of the same colour, a leathern cap or head-piece, and armed with a short sword, a horn slung over his shoulder, a long bow in his hand, and a bunch of arrows in his belt. A formidable band it was, though not numerous, and destined ere long, when increased tenfold, to be celebrated by minstrels as holding out bravely against the invader, when all others fled before his sword or crouched at his feet. At the time of which I write the existence of Collingham’s band was not even known to the French. Ere twelve months passed over, the cry of the Black Raven was more terrible to Louis and his captains than an army with banners.

“All is ready,” was the reply.